TIME
Exposed by clocks, calendars, tree rings, rock layers, and carbon-dating, objective time not only exists; to a frightening degree, it controls me. Thus, I had by no means finished being 75, when the calendar insisted I was 76. And my life now feels like an exam with a proctor poised to say, “Time’s up.” So what if I can’t see this individual? His presence is palpable.
I’m not even sure I get to say much about how I fill whatever time is left to me. So much of what I do is automatic, and depends on the season. In spring, I habitually move myself, along with my plants, outdoors. This provokes some cleaning, but I’m compelled to do my more serious housework in the fall, when I ready the space that will contain me and mine for months. At least that used to be my built-in schedule. But now I’ve left winter up North. Florida days never darken before six. Temperatures rarely sink below forty. Plants thrive inside and out. Yet even in a banished winter, Christmas, New Year’s, my birthday, the Super Bowl, and Valentine’s Day keep popping up. Facing this anomaly, along with frequent restaurant meals, I am not impelled to clean, organize, or write.
I’m stuck in a summer camp, playing tennis, bridge, and cello, and I may never get to go home. My neighbors claim this is paradise. For me, it is confusion. And despite all the markers, I’m caught in subjective time. And that is allied to fear.
Something is going to get me. How many hours do I have left? Already I am older than my late husband ever got to be, and he was always “considerably,” --i.e., seven years--older than I. During her 76th year, my mother suffered the stroke that depressingly affected her final 18 years. Is a stroke in store this year for me? And if not now, ever?
The issue isn’t limited to how much, or what quality, time I have still to go; it also includes the velocity of that time. I spent my first 14 years living in a Manhattan apartment, each day all but eternal. And I still feel as if my childhood lasted far longer than the 14 years I spent between 1960 and 1974 on Middlefield Drive in West Hartford, Connecticut.
There, inhabiting a house that looked very much like those I drew in first grade, I raised four children, the oldest not yet four years old when we moved in, the youngest born 2 years later. When we moved out, seemingly a short while afterwards, all my kids were adolescents, and I felt more dislocated by time than geography. Who had shortened 14 years?
Witnessing some deaths by old age, I was struck by the similarity between the first and last two years of a natural life cycle. In the beginning, a toothless baby can’t so much as raise its head, spends hours sleeping, and pees and poops uncontrollably. Amazingly, only two years later, this same kid can walk, talk, flash its pearlies, and, with luck, use a toilet. During her or his last two years, an old person turns into someone who loses teeth, sleeps more and more, pees and poops uncontrollably, walks little or not at all, talks less and less. The human life process that starts with a fast wind-up, may well end with an equally fast wind-down.
Which still leaves the question of when? For many, 90 seems a game-changer. For others, not. I play tennis with a 92–year-old who does not run much, but retains some winning shots. And an 83-year-old friend covers more court faster than I could as a teenager, let alone now. And many over 90’s of my acquaintance are more than competent mentally; they are brilliant.
The people who interest me most, though, are exactly my age. Born the same day and year as I, Alan Alda seems to be bearing up well. But is that a tribute to his plastic surgeon? I haven’t gotten close enough to make a determination. On the other hand, born the same year as I, Frosty the parrot at the Sarasota Jungle Gardens, is still squawkily riding his bike across a tight rope. Only a little fading color in his feathers suggests his age. But born on my birthday a full eight years after me, on December 5, 2001, Johanna Murphy suffered a cerebral accident and died.
Given this data, and with no current diagnosis, drawing any conclusion about my own situation is tricky. I do have some theories, however.
To “Time is money,” I say, “Bunk!” Rarely have I been paid for my hours. Plus money is quantifiable; when you spend it, you can ascertain exactly how much is left. More accurate to say, “Time costs money.” I pay doctors to help me stay alive. Money allows for the vacations and restorations that also keep me going. But most significantly, I can use money to buy my own time, and to write, at best for a pittance, not be forced to sell my minutes to an employer.
However, with or without money, I don’t know if I will live long enough to attend a grandchild’s wedding, become a great grandmother, achieve the literary renown I continue to crave (a possibility that seems, like a moving goal post, ever more remote). And will I still be around next spring so I can get back to the Big Apple apartment we finally readied right before we decamped for perpetual camp? Those tempted to assure me that I will survive until then are probably the same folks who promised that David and I would celebrate our 50th anniversary. In the event, he died a year and a half before what would have been that joyous occasion.
So my one certainty is that though I have yet to reach my 81.3-year life expectancy, I’ve outlived many people I’ve loved. This means I’ve already had more than my share of days. Still, making the most of whatever hours are left to me remains a challenge. Should I be writing more? Socializing less? Contributing my hours to others’ wellbeing?
Whatever I do, I am excruciatingly aware that my remaining subjective time will pass faster than the same quantity of objective time passed in my past. Is this what Einstein meant by relativity? Go figure.
RESTAURANT RECOMMENDATIONS
In order to drive from the up to the down that this review promises, or, for that matter, from the down to the up, you must traverse the in-between. So where to eat? Of course, there is always the usual Ruby Tuesday, Outback Steakhouse, and the like. But tucked away, there are more interesting choices.
If you travel the westerly, super-scenic highways between either Hartford or New York and Sarasota, you may want to aim to be in Staunton Virginia at dinnertime. There, in the gussied up downtown, at 115 E Beverly St, you will find “ZYNODOA,” named after the Indian Chief more familiarly known as Shenandoah. Heavily dependent on produce, meats, and cheeses from local farms and dairies, the food in this chic establishment is worth what it will cost, i.e., about $35 a person with booze.
That booze can be extraordinary. Just as in Scotland, there are special bars that serve multiple kinds of scotch, here you are also offered the wine of the country, namely a number of bourbons from nearby Kentucky. Not shipped around the country, each is quite different from the other, and every one I’ve sampled has been seriously delicious. Great spirits. Great Ambiance. Attractive and tasty Food. A first class pit stop.
Should you choose, however, to shoot straight down I-95, you may want to aim for Fayetteville North Carolina. Set, like Zynadoa, in a gentrified downtown, “CIRCA 1800" bills itself as a place, “Where Upscale Casual Dining Meets History and Tradition.” The attractive and airy room, and the updated version of dishes like shrimp with grits, compensate for all those Capital Letters.
Prices in Virginia and North Carolina are comparable. But the crowds differ. In Staunton, well-off bohemians mixed with the business types, while in Fayetteville execs join serviceman from the nearby Fort Bragg/Pope Airfield. Though not essential at either place, a reservation will ensure you a great table. The numbers are: ZYNODOA, (540) 885-7775, CIRCA 1800 (910) 568-4725.
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The Up and Down Review
7741 Whitebridge Glen
University Park, FL 34201
Editor and Publisher
Ann Z. Leventhal
Art DirectorSidney Sisk
The Up and Down Review
7741 Whitebridge Glen
University Park, FL 34201
