Leroy's Art Blog

I've been swimming regularly again at the Broad Street YMCA. I often run into the same black guy who was swimming there years ago. For some reason, the pool does not seem as heavily chlorinated at it was before, which is good. I always ended up smelling like a chemical plant before, with itchy skin and a runny nose.

Anyway, I've been slowly increasing the distance I swim, working at a pace that does not tire me. Yesterday I got back to the 40 lengths that had been my standard distance. It felt good, a real accomplishment. Before, it would take me 21-22 minutes, without stopping. This time, 37:25 including my rest stops. Besides the pleasure of how I feel after swimming, I want to use the exercise as a way of guaging my physical condition and stamina. Time for 40 Lengths will serve as my baseline.

The Broad Street Y is a real gem. They have a beautiful pool, well maintained, and friendly personnel. But it serves a black area, whose culture is such that the gym and the weight room get heavy use preferentially. Few people bother to go to the pool. There are often a group of women there doing water aerobics, but never more than one or occasionally two people using the three lap lanes. Other times it is just the lifeguare and me. They do keep the water too warm to please real swimmers out of deference to the aerobics ladies, but right now that suits me just fine, too.

One of my insecurities since my return has been how to answer the frequent question: What are you doing back here in Philadelphia?” That question combines the queries “Why did you come back?” and “What kind of work are you doing?”

I’ve been uncomfortable dealing with these issues, because I don’t want to inject a medical discussion into every casual encounter, and right now I am not able to define a “job,” per the usual discussion opener, and I can’t even really claim to be “job hunting.” We so much tend to define ourselves by the job we do. So I waffle about “settling in” and “re-establishing myself here.”

But I’ve been reading a number of books by Paulo Coelho this past week, and out of that I think I’ve come up with a workable answer. I will use: “I’m waiting to discover what adventure is next for me.” I think that comes about as close as anything could.

Two nights ago I attended a Community Event, sponsored by the local public radio station, WHYY. It was a distinguished panel discussion aimed at baby boomers, on the topic of Bringing Creativity Into Aging. Despite the august credentials of the speakers, I was rather underwhelmed by their comments and conclusions. Basically, their advice was to stay active and be creative in your activities, not bound by society’s expectations of your role as a “senior.” Well, bully.

However, an offhand comment made an impact on me. One of the panelists in an offhand comment asked the group “How old do you FEEL.” Most people seemed to take that as a reasonable question for consideration. For me, the answer was immediate: I feel as old as the people I am looking at and associating with. I remember that so clearly, from my time in Tanzania where I was working with colleagues and volunteers roughly in the late-20 to mid-40 range. Catching a glimpse of my reflection in a mirror or a window was always a shock, to recognize that this older guy with white hair (and surprisingly white skin, but that is a separate cultural matter) was in fact, me. That was at such conflict with the way I felt, acted, and was accepted.

Now, here in Philadelphia, I seem to be looking at and associating with people in the age range of 50-60 in my sketching classes and church, or 70-85 in the Temple University programs for retired people. And I think it really does make a difference. Except I think I am learning that the mental attitude of the people I’m with is as important as their physical characteristics. Some of these 70-85 retirees are still very agile and sharp, regardless of their wrinkles and aching knees.

So, as I bounce off of the walls of my life here in Philadelphia and define my roles, I want to be sure to stay active with people younger than their, or my, chronological age. People who are alert, active, and adventurous – open to new experiences and ideas. That, I think, is the way to bring Creativity Into Aging.

This afternoon there was a meeting of people with Waldenstrom's M at the Bryn Mawr Hospital and I went. There were about 20 people including spouses. All of us seemed to be experiencing different sets of symptoms, and there was quite a variety of treatments among us. The most common complaint seemed to be numbness in the hands and feet - but that is related to high IgM values, which is not something I have to deal with. Several of the people had been diagnosed 15-20 years ago and are still going strong. That was nice to see, and hear, although anybody who kicked the bucket early wasn't there to tell us about it, obviously. Still...

I did have my third round of chemotherapy on Friday. As before, it gave me the hiccups on Saturday, but otherwise uneventful. Of course they did the blood tests again, and the good news is that the values have begun to trend back up, toward normal ranges. Gotta hope that continues.

I went to church this morning, but since then have been hanging around in my apartment, doing very little. And that feels great. I have my things with me now even if most of them are still in boxes, and right now Matt is out in Glenside visiting a friend. So I have the apartment all to myself. At long last. It feels good to be alone in my place.

The trip to Guatemala went quite well, so now I have my files, photo albums, books and CDs and stuff with me again. Glitches came up, but got handled rather easily. Traveling with Bob to use his baggage allotment worked quite well.

We stayed at a BnB where I've stayed many times before, and they found a pickup for me to move my stuff from Mi Bodega, my Self Storage Unit, to the airport even though it was the first day of the All Saint's Day/Day of the Dead Holiday. It was a rattletrap pickup, but it did the job and they only wanted Q75 for the job. That works out to $10!

I'd forgotten what was in the box I wanted to call Carry-On. At security x-ray it clearly contained a complete set of kitchen carving knives, cleavers, meat forks and similar contraband. That rang ALL the security bells. So did the roll of packing tape I had in case customs in Miami wanted to open my boxes, and the twine I'd used to hold the box together and make a handle. They let me go back to put all that stuff in checked baggage and American Airlines allowed it, even though I'd already used up our entire excess baggage allotment.

In Miami, the customs guys in their sinister black uniforms were rather dumbfounded by our ten heavy boxes plus carry-ons plus backpacks. But they accepted my explanation of returning with household stuff after working with the Peace Corps in Guatemala and the fact that I had a super-detailed list of everything in the boxes. They didn't even look at any of the boxes, just waved us through to the x-ray scanner where they confiscated the rest of my packing tape and wished us well.

The flight from Miami to Phila was an hour and a half late in leaving, so we didn't get to Phila until 1:30am. Still, with Bob's car and an SUV I'd rented for the occasion from PhilaCarShare, we got it all moved to 412 Spruce Street where it is now about 1/3 unpacked. My Art Deco lamp, Puerto Rico mask, China figurines,the family clock and some African items are already on display, and it is good to see them again. The furnishings in this apartment will certainly be eclectic!

Bob was a great companion for the trip. A good conversationalist, opinionated on whatever topic comes up, glad for the opportunity to see Guatemala, and OK with staying in inexpensive - read: cheap - facilities. We shared a lot about our experiences in Tanzania, and it was fun to remember all that and compare our two sites and experiences there.

So here were these two old guys traveling around and staying together. Could have looked a little odd, depending on how you looked at it, I guess. On the morning we left Antigua we were in the market together, dickering with vendors over some bead necklaces and souvenirs, and the vendor suggested I buy some additional things for my wife. The way he said it, it wasn't clear if he was referring to my hypothetical wife in the States, or to Bob. Bob picked up on it too, and seemed a little shaken by the comment.

I was a little surprised to find that the groups I most enjoyed being around were the indigenous people who were traveling in the chicken buses with us or at the local market in Solola. Hard to get my hands around why, but these people wearing their traditional dress are just so down to earth and their children are so beautiful....

Guatemala has its Presidential Election this coming week. Looks like Molina has the upper hand, with his promise of creating a Strong Hand administration. That scares me a bit. Despite my trepidation, I wish Guatemala well.

The Inquirer printed two letters from other readers, objecting to Santorum as a columnist. But they didn't print my submission. Both of them were better written and less provocative than mine.

In any case, I hope that indicates that the paper got lots of flack from their decision.