Every time it gets to the last days of writing for the year, I visualize a cartoon of myself wiping my brow and saying “Whew! Made it! So here we are again. I’m scrolling back over the posts for this year and will sum up what I wrote, or maybe some things that happened that I didn’t write about. Of course there is all that was never written or never will be. Internal and external struggles. Stories untold. We all have them.

January started out with the annual New Years Day gathering of the same group of people that I only see once a year (except for the hosting couple, who are the connection to everybody else), so it’s been an interesting flash book of seeing the changes. I mentioned it here a good while back (Same Time Next Year – 1/4/12) and in a subsequent annual posting. That’s still happening – if all goes well, on January 1st we will all be enjoying a fantastic brunch and catching up on twelve months worth of stories, debates, and updated pictures of grandkids that are saved on our phones. And then I won’t see or speak to these other people again for probably for another year. I think it’s been going on for about twenty-seven years now, at least where I began to be invited, but don’t check my math on that. The one thing this tends to highlight for me always is how time is flying by.

A necessary trip to the emergency room happened following the new year, which is just another chapter of “The Christmas Curse”, also known as “The Holiday Curse,” which starts around Thanksgiving and lasts until a week or two after New Years. It’s a family thing. That issue sort of resolved, but it has left me feeling vulnerable and older. It’s like there is enough stuff to navigate already, I don’t need any new health stuff. None of us do, right?

First month entries included a discussion of the fact that my children don’t read my blog. That has continued to be the case throughout the entire year. When I saw my oldest daughter last week, I asked her about it and she said WordPress continues to not send her notification no matter how many times she has signed up for alerts, and so she kind of forgets that it’s there. The fact is that she is a very busy woman, so it’s not on her front burner anyway. My other child is not as busy, but she doesn’t read it either. I didn’t ask her about it. In my head, I put on my best sitcom mother-guilt face and play a tiny violin as I say “Someday she’ll inherit the printed book and read it after I’m dead.” I’m laughing as I think this. Yes, she probably will, and yes, it’s really okay.

In January I also shared some photos of my “Socks of the Day,” which had been an early pandemic diversion and a lighthearted documentation that highlighted an odd, unintentional collection of socks which have amassed in my drawers. I can report that I have made an effort to not buy any more socks and have requested that I not be gifted any. However, I did receive one pair for Christmas, a custom design drawn by my granddaughter, who has informed me they are “Dead Monsters.”

This past year there was the heart-hurting discovery of a senior handicapped dog found as a stray and being housed at our local shelter, whose imploring little face called to me from their website. I might have adopted him – and who knows what other drama – had he not at the last minute ended up going to a more suitable family.

There were a whole lot of nature posts this year. Animals played a part throughout. Hawks and turkey buzzards, the Cedar Waxwing, the battle between the Cardinal and the Blue Jay.

There has been the ongoing nightly meanderings of an opossum in the back yard, which always makes me smile. Multiple raccoons at any given time. One night there was a crazy, scary racoon fight! Skunks waddling through the driveway, displaying different patterns. The upsetting story of a little mouse I found in the hospital parking lot – which did not survive, despite heroic efforts.

The weather this past year went through an array of changes. Drought. Rain. Steaminess. Hail storms. High winds and tornado warnings. One very late night I stood out in the middle of the street in my underwear like some wacko old lady and watched crazy wild lightning happening. At the beginning of June, the smoke from wildfires burning out of control in Canada eerily darkened our skies, driving us indoors to breathe, the sun glowing like a red rubber ball, ominous and upsetting.

The Loud Obnoxious Drunken Toad of a neighbor two houses away was finally, blessedly, evicted after the entire street had to suffer him and his ever-revolving hoard of mostly creepy sub-letters over the last ten years. It was quite the event, with police attending and multiple dumpsters filled beyond the brim with the garbage they left behind. The house was finally sold and someone decent moved in. That might have been one of the best things to happen around here this year. As if a tremendous weight has been lifted, the entire neighborhood is so much more relaxed and quiet, and feels so much safer since they are gone. Other neighbors who were good ones also happened to move away. New ones who seem nice have arrived in their places, although they tend to keep to themselves.

March included a family visit and an encounter with the mesmerizing power of the beautiful Organ Mountains of New Mexico.

Spring in the northeast arrived early, with Scenes From the Urban Porch beginning in earnest. Days on end were spent taking in small details of daily life from my wicker chair, faithful dog Rudi in attendance. Birds building nests and raising their young, plants blooming, people walking by, a visitor here and there. This remained a regular event until the mosquitos got so fierce in the evening and the yellow jackets so aggressive during the daytime that I had to give it a break until the weather cooled off a bit.

There were shifts and surprises in the garden, the ever-changing blossoming marking time.

The blue flag of the earth that ended up on the front of the house eventually faded. I’m not much into house flags, but that one was okay and I would have just left it hanging there, sun-bleached and all. But one day I came home to find it was gone and there was a different earth flag fluttering from the porch in its place. The new one has doves and flowers on it in addition to the earth. Initially I found it a little bit too country kitsch for my taste, but it’s not terrible. I’m actually getting used to it now – maybe it’s growing on me. I guess it’s kind of hopeful. And really, I can’t dictate my taste on everything that happens around here…..

Summertime was once again spent with three generations together by the ocean. It was a special time. We seem to be getting better at navigating this every year.

One of the most exciting things to occur happened while exploring a number of genealogy venues in an attempt to find my paternal great grandmother, known only as “Bessie.” This became an ancestral jigsaw puzzle that ended with the discovery of my dad’s ninety-one-year-old first cousin, who up until now we did not know existed. My siblings and I took a road trip to meet him, where he showed us photo albums filled with our grandparents, great grandparents and other extended family, shared some familial history, took us to their graves and showed us the former family homes. It was a heart-warming and very important connection for all of us.

I checked off another bucket-list item and finally got to spend a lengthy and wonderful day at Longwood Botanical Gardens.

There were plenty of Earworms happening in 2023. Something would catch my attention and a song would pop into my head and suddenly burst forth. Or I would be typing a few words and those words would bring on a song. Over and over again. I’m not sure what that is about, but it is becoming more and more frequent. Is this a senior thing or just my own brain providing entertainment?

Food – an ongoing topic. It was a year of much eggroll consumption. Many a variety of Dutch Baby was made and enjoyed for breakfast. Caprese Salads began happening in summer and have continued to be a regular on the menu. Dark Chocolate Mousse made with rum occurred numerous times, a decadent event. Repeat menu items included Gnocchi with asparagus or brussel sprouts, or broccoli. Szechuan peanut stir fry. Margherita Zucchinis. Burnt Leeks with Cannolini beans. One pot farro and tomatoes. Different varieties of quiche. Pasta with hot chili flakes and parmesan. Pasta and pesto. Pasta and wild mushrooms. Pasta, pasta, pasta.

Mulberries were gathered from a neighborhood tree to make mulberry crisps, mulberries on yogurt, mulberry pie. Buckets of blueberries were picked and enjoyed in a variety of ways. Shiso syrup was made from the perilla plants in the yard, and plenty of pesto was blended. Wild mushrooms, nettles and ramps were gifted or foraged and turned into all sorts of yumminess. Fresh duck and chicken eggs were shared from neighbors and incorporated into many meals. I ate some crawfish from the river that were offered to me by a stranger who was cooking them up over a small fire and got wicked sick from them (that was a low point)! Herbal sun tea and coffee with cardamom was brewed, to be enjoyed on the Urban Porch. Every week a new batch of granola and yogurt was made to be had with fresh fruit and honey from my brother’s bees.

There were passages – I finally decided to let go of my Gibson SG-200 guitar. It was bittersweet, but long past due. The act of selling it brought up a whole lot of memories and some regrets, which incorporated much more than just letting the physical item go. There were reflections about who I was, who I am now, and what I am not. But I think it was a healthy move.

During the year a number of Very Big Expenses popped up, which included needing very costly new hearing aids, car repairs and unexpected vet bills for the dog. Selling the guitar didn’t offset too much of it, but at least it was something.

This year when I tried to revisit basket making, I realized I dislike it now as much as I did decades ago. This acknowledgement extended to other areas where I have dabbled. I have conceded those things were just not my things, and that it is okay.

I think overall one of the biggest themes of this year was really feeling the true weight of “Being a Senior.” That even though in my mind – or at least in heart – I’m still feeling young, the truth is I am often tired, that my body is not wanting to do a lot of the things it used to do. My back and neck often hurt, as do my hands. But this is not all manifested in the physical either. There is so much I don’t really want to bother with any more. Sometimes I will read something or begin to watch something, or hear some sort of an argument or debate, and feel it’s just not worth getting too deeply into, or worth expending energy on. Some things I used to think were vastly important suddenly don’t seem to hold as much water. Some adventures that I was once eager to experience or used to jump into suddenly don’t seem as enticing as they used to. As I age, I feel benevolent about many things I might not have in the past, and yet dismissive of some things I once tolerated.

I still find it rather startling to see the aged faces of famous actors and musicians we grew up with. How is that possible that, despite the light that still burns within them, all those gorgeous, wild, sexy people have turned into wrinkled, heavy, balding and faded people on the outside? Or the so many who have already died? Then I look in the mirror and see that is me too, even though in my head I am still the same me. Or sort of the same me. I also notice that my friends, despite their age, still always remain looking like their younger selves to me. I see them as they were, as I always knew them. I don’t know how that works or why that is.

I have thought about the sad realization that people my age just become more invisible every year, where what we have to say or think no longer seems to hold as much value or gravity as it used to when we were younger. We spent decades accruing all this knowledge by trial and error, only to find nobody wants any of it from us. It’s sort of like all the cool house furnishings and heirlooms that our children don’t want. They don’t want our knowledge either.

Back in my younger hippie days (now that’s a “senior” phrase right there), there used to be a saying “Don’t trust anyone over thirty,” a phrase coined by activist Jack Weinberg during the Free Speech Movement at UC Berkeley back in the 1960’s. What a surprise that despite our feelings of immortality, it didn’t take long to age past thirty and realize how quickly a mindset can change. What a surprise, huh? I am feeling more than ever the weight of mortality pressing down. Many of my friends have expressed the same.

The Holiday Curse did once again strike the family, although everyone seemed to survive it okay. My brother had an accident while working with a band saw and almost lost his thumb. Of course he let none of us know about it for weeks, but over our pre-holiday lunch you couldn’t avoid seeing the giant bandage. So he offered,“Want to see the pictures?” and of course me being who I am, I said “Sure” – which might have not been a good idea, given I was eating enchiladas at the time; but that’s kind of how we roll. He later got Covid for his birthday, as did a number of his in-laws who gathered together on Christmas.

The Curse continued when The Significant Other threw out his back the day before we were hitting the road. He hates to travel anywhere and isn’t big on group participation, so I think he was probably glad not to have to make the holiday trip. I left him drooling on muscle relaxers in his bed and ended up having to drive out of state to the ongoing family holiday alone – well, me and the dog – spending four very tense hours through three states in my rattly old car, in fog so thick you couldn’t see more than one car ahead of you. It was equally as difficult on the way home, navigating hours of insanely torrential rain, giant trucks going at aggressive speeds, and heavy traffic. I came home and crashed in bed for an entire day after that. Which I think might be another Senior Thing. I remember when my mother was even younger than me, driving hours in traffic to come see her children and young grandkids and then being incredibly stressed and exhausted when she arrived. We used to roll our eyes, but now I totally understand how she felt. I’m there now. Once again, the things you finally understand, a bit too late.

In any case, everyone ended up surviving it for the most part. Things could have been worse, and in the past sometimes they have been. Although there are a couple of weeks to go, so far it has been a light year as far as The Holiday Curse is concerned.

Since October 2023, the world has been plunged into a moral morass concerning the war that erupted in Gaza between Hamas and Israel. It is too heavy to bear, the constant, horrific information in the media. More than once it has caused me to burst into tears. During this season I have tread carefully with friends and relatives around this issue and have kept it out of my blog. We wonder, “How will this ever be able to be resolved?” There is a feeling of hopelessness surrounding it all. I look at the country-kitschy peace flag flying from my front porch and feel inadequate and so very tired, and yet, I want to enter into this new year with hope.

Overall, for me the year of 2023 has been one of laying low. You won’t see me going anywhere for New Year’s Eve either. The only place I want to be is cozy and in my bed.

In a much, much lighter moment, this week I once again attempted to create a holiday pastry dessert for the family. If you have seen my post from Thanksgiving (And Then This Happened – 11/23/23), I attempted to make a puff pastry snowflake, which turned into an Epic Fail. Just looking at this photo again sends me into odd spasms of barely contained laughter.

So for Christmas I decided to try once again, mostly because I just couldn’t believe I am really that bad at baking. Daughter #1 purchased the correct ingredients. She also sent me a recipe, this time to make a Puff Pastry Christmas Tree, which threw me for a second because I was anticipating the snowflake again. Then she said,”Make it with the kids” and left me with all five grandkids while she took off with Daughter #2 to pick up some items at the store, and probably also to escape in order to spend a little alone time with her sister. I admit for a brief few seconds I felt a wave of unreasonable panic. My oldest grandson sort of helped, although mostly he (and soon the rest of them) were just eating the raw dough (which is a family trait).

This is what it was supposed to look like in the recipe she gave me:

And this is how it came out:

So okay, although it turned out to be a rather wonky pastry tree that looks like it was made by a kindergartener, it is still very much a vast improvement over the previous Epic Snowflake Fail. The other positive was that this one tasted good. And lastly, the kids ate it so fast that it wasn’t around long enough for anyone to really notice and make fun of it. So I would chalk up this year-end attempt as a neutral win. I will also concede that I am just not that good at baking. And that is okay.

And so, this year’s edition of Daeja’s View comes to a close. I think it is appropriate to sum up the year with the illustration that my granddaughter drew to put on my new socks. I will consider 2023 as one of “Dead Monsters” and move on to the next chapter. Happy New Year to all!

~*~