Mount Evans and Ethics

A few days ago we drove up Mount Evans (14,264), which is one of Colorado's fourteeners (fifty plus peaks in the state above fourteen thousand feet). It's one of two peaks you can actually drive up to. The other is Pikes Peak in Colorado Springs, but that's another matter: it not only hosts a well-known car race each year but also sports a very popular narrow-gauge train to the top. Mount Evans retains a little more mystery--you must drive about fourteen miles from I-70 to the entrance station and then fourteen miles after that on a oh-my-god road.

Sid's climbed about thirty of the fourteeners in the state and, when we first met, wanted me to attempt some with him. I did two but it wasn't pretty. It took me three separate tries to get up Gray's Peak (14,270). I'd get to the last pitch, where the mountain goats were, and then some part of me would give out. Finally, I did it. Then I did Mount Bierstadt (14, 060) in one try. After that, it was literally down hill. We tried the highest peak in Colorado--Mount Elbert (14,433 ) twice. Each time, I got to the final pitch. The first time it snowed and the peak disappeared. The second time a thunderstorm drove us back. But by that point in the trail I'd had it anyway. My back hurt and I was panting for oxygen like a malamute in hundred degree weather. I knew the descent would throw out my knees and blacken my toe nails, so I was not a happy camper.

To encourage me, Sid gave me a statuette of Winged Victory with two gold plates on the base showing two mountain names and the date I got up them. There was room for two more plates. But I wasn't to be moved. I could live with a half-filled base.

Now, Mount Evans seemed to be another matter. You could drive up as far as you wanted and walk to the top. I had visions of an easy plate for my trophy. Of course it was craven and Sid wasn't encouraging when I suggested it. "It's cheating," he said. "You need to climb a couple of thousand feet to claim it." I suspected he just wanted to see me earn my plate the hard way. So matters stayed, but then for some reason he relented and said we'd go up. As we drove up the narrow road with its sharp drop-offs and eroded asphalt, Sid told me he’d never taken anyone else up there. It turned out that he used to climb up from Crater Lake, across a sawtooth ridge and on to Mount Bierstadt the back way. I looked at the ridges and secretly thought he was crazy, but he looked so wistful I couldn't say anything. He rwas remembering the Mount Evans area from long before it became a stop for visitors on their way into the mountains from Denver.

They’re powerful, these memories linked to places as we remember them as they no longer are. I remember seeing Waikiki when the pink lady, the Royal Hawaiian Hotel, was the tallest building along the shore line. Now she is dwarfed by towering high rises that almost seem to be one piece. Not all change is progress, as Sid likes to say—and that applies just as much to the Colorado Rockies, which are being loved to death. Some trails are so popular that it’s possible never to be alone. We certainly weren’t alone at the end of the Mount Evans road, which has a sign saying that it is the highest in North America. Above us was a rock pile several hundred feet high marking the real top of the mountain. I was struck by summit fever and was prepared to climb over the boulders, but it turned out that there is a sedate set of mild switchbacks leading up to the top. The summit was packed with people from Oklahoma and Texas savoring the view of Denver and the Front Range of mountains. It was, as Sid said, a destination stop.

I suppose some of Sid’s ethics must have rubbed off on me because I have decided that I won’t claim Mount Evans on my statuette. I guess I have to live with myself. The first two plates represent mountains where I struggled and pushed myself on, plodding one foot down after the other. I can’t claim what was really just a walk in the park. I'd secretly like to bag Elbert and maybe Blanca in Alamosa, but I know they're beyond me now. I will, though, smile whenever I see Mount Evans looming above the Denver skyline and will definitely take visitors there the senior way--in my sure-footed all-wheel-drive Subaru as long as they don’t mind getting scared out of their wits on the undulating and crumbling road.

The Midnight Click

Well, with the midnight click less than one month away, I've decided might as well get on with it (collective sight of relief is OK, everyone). The midnight click is what I call the day I reach the dread sixty-five. Those of you patient enough to put up with my angst over this will recall that one minute before midnight I am (supposedly) competent--or as much as I have ever been--and one minute after I am on the slippery slope to final ash.

I've been thrashing about because I didn't feel any less competent as I approached the witching hour. I felt that this great threshhold was being forced on me by other people's perceptions. To that extent, it's still true. But now I've accepted that what's more important is what I think about myself. I've never felt more in control of my writing and my decisions and my life as I do now, even though I concede that may be relative. Someone told me once that people can't fall off the floor. Don't know about that. I think I may have started in the basement. But still, I don't have to buy into media perceptions of older people and I am now in a position to correct them rather than just resenting them. Laughter, I have decided, is the best remedy.

I have a t-shirt that says "In order to be old and wise, you must first be young and stupid." Young people look blank when they read it; the older folk just laugh. We've all been there. I imagine the Generation X are going to relate once their extreme sport injuries turn arthritic. Ah youth. I've certainly been my share of young and stupid, but I don't really feel I can claim to be old and wise. Old, maybe. But wise? Hell no--I still make mistakes worthy of me in my thirties. I still say awkward things at inappropriate moments. I still jump to conclusions and make assumptions. I still have an optimistic squint that says I have forever ahead of me. I am still surprised when I am asked if I want a senior discount. I want to look around at the someone they must be talking to behind me. It can't be me. I dye my hair and hide the wattle on my neck--I can't look a day over 50.

But in honor of this birthday, I am going to cut myself some slack. All those clothes in my closet that I have been saying I will diet and get into again?--we all have them--they are now heading out of the door. At 65, I am no longer prepared to starve myself back into a size 10. All the mindless extra housecleaning that someone told me was my job? I no longer need to polish the silver--it can tarnish. We don't entertain as we did in our forties so I can send on the serving pieces to the younger members of the family who have appearances and expectations to maintain. All my friendships date back forty years and more (remember Varney Circle, Kimi?) and my friends will overlook the dust. I am not going to avoid things because someone thinks they are inappropriate for my age: I will wear shorts, I will eat candy floss, I will slide down a water tunnel, I will bash my grandson's bumper car, I will go to Disneyland. And even more important to me, I will no longer be defensive about being into New Age stuff--one of these blogs I'll write about the childhood experience with the supernatural that led me to write Every Purpose Under Heaven. I am going to allow myself to be.

I don't think I will wear a t-shirt that says "old and still stupid sometimes," but that's how I feel. I am still learning, still growing, and still making mistakes. Now--about all those assumptions about people in the seventies.

God, Country, and Little Antibiotics

We’ve just come back from a foray into Oregon to see my family in Eugene. This is the second time we’ve made this trip except that this time we weren’t pulling an RV. In fact, neither was anyone else. Where last time, the RVs formed a long continuous line, this time the roads were empty except for local traffic and the usual trucks. Since gas on the coast hovered just beneath $4.50 a gallon, we figured that everyone was staying home to be able to afford the things the trucks were carrying. The welcome center as we entered Oregon confirmed our observation: last year nearly 500 people dropped in for information on July 4; this year there were barely over 200 on the busiest travel day of the year. No wonder people were glad to see us.

Welcome though we were, however, we have learned to be wary in Oregon because that’s where some of our better learning experiences have taken place. Last time, for example, we blew a tire on the RV on July 4 while somewhere outside Pendleton, Oregon. That’s when we learned that the AAA guarantee of 24/7 help has some maybes and only ifs. No one was (or wanted to be anyway) available to come help us. We might have spent a lonely (and dangerous) night parked beside the road if a Samaritan had not come by and helped Sid change the tire. Now we carry a four-ton hydraulic jack in the truck, which probably means that we won’t get stuck with a scissors jack again while parked on a slanted shoulder.

This year the learning continued. Just outside Pendleton, Oregon (again) Sid’s car showed a low tire warning light. It turned out that a rather large screw had worked itself into one of the rear tires. Fortunately, Sid was able to get the car safely to a service center that also sold gasoline. The proprietor was a cheerful man named Carlos whose English was clearly a later acquisition. Since Oregon does not permit self-service gasoline sales, he had to jump up each time someone drove up to a pump. He was already working on replacing a tire on one of the very few RVs we saw so we stood by to watch. The owner turned out to be a police officer from Carson City, Nevada. I was fascinated by the tattoos on the back of his leg. He showed them to me. One was a large St Michael, the patron saint of cops, along with the memorial flag for fallen officers and his own police shield and badge number. They were very artistic and very detailed. “Didn’t that hurt?” I asked him. He nodded and told me that it had taken 6 hours and had needed two sessions. “Were you drunk?” I asked. “No,” he replied, “but a valium helped.” I felt rather old and certainly out of step with the world.

My feeling of dislocation continued after Carlos got us back on the road and we drove into Pendleton. There we visited the Woollen Mills. These are justly famous for fine wool blankets and clothing—an American tradition since 1900, the billboard says—except that most of the garments were made in Thailand, China, and Mexico. The blankets at least said they were made in the US so that’s what I chose.

By then I was starting to think Pendleton to be something of a jinx. It’s just a quiet town with some railroad history, but you can’t tell that by me. The local café was recommended to us for lunch so we drove into Pendleton’s downtown and parked next to the donut shop in the parking area. The café had a certain charm, particularly all the message signs: “”Blessings” carved in a wood as we walked in, with “ASAP: Always Say a Prayer” and “Why Wish When You Can Pray” right next to the cash register. I must admit they went well with the local Travelodge sign which was not flashing vacancy messages but instead “President Bush for Strong Leadership.” That prepared me well for the sign we later saw in Montpelier, Oregon,” which said “Get Us Out of the UN.” I think it must be isolation and the rain.

The best one, though, was our hotel in Bend, Oregon. It’s a beautiful city renowned for outdoor activities and a lot like Boulder, Colorado. It also apparently attracts people born idiots who have worked on their talent. At 3:30 a.m., the fire alarm rang in every room and common area of the hotel. Despite clear warnings about smoking in the rooms, someone lit up. Consequently, we all got up. The offender was quickly identified by the Fire Department and was fined $250.

As we left Oregon this morning, Sid decided to try the radio. All we could find were stations promoting God, country music, and programming in Spanish. Somehow, after listening to a couple in the booth next to us at the cafe discussing the need to cut (castrate) pygmy goats to prevent them from being mean, and after hearing a radio commentator discussing white blood cells as being God’s little antibiotics, I thought that just about summed it up.

Red Rocks rocks

Last night we went to a Colorado Symphony concert at Red Rocks amphitheater. It was a lovely night and we sat high up so we could enjoy the famous sound clarity and the nighttime view of Denver lights once it got dark. The earlier thundershowers had passed on and all we got was a slight sprinkle that brought out an impressive array of rain gear all around us. It was soon taken down as the evening proved itself warm and gentle.

Such perfect nights are things to be remembered and they inevitably recall other magical nights and times. Sid was the only one of us whose memories had been at Red Rocks. He recalled seeing Sammy Davis Jr., Bette Midler and Leonard Bernstein in concert there. We listened raptly to his accounts. Nowadays, Bette Midler costs well over $200 for the nosebleed tickets in Las Vegas and the others, sadly, live on only in our memories.

Sitting on the tiered seats at Red Rocks made me realize that my memories of special places and people, the ones that made me feel that I was participating in history, have been like pearls strung on a necklace. I can count them and I can say of them that at that moment, I felt alive in ways I may not have appreciated at the time but do now. Perhaps because of who I am, those moments have invariably centered around a performing or creative artist.

Van Cliburn comes to mind immediately. I heard him play at the Shell in Hawaii shortly after he had won in Russia for his Tchaikovsky piano concerto. He played it for us. I remember watching this young man with the shock of red hair and hoping that he was not condemned forever to play this one piece—wonderful though it was—for the rest of his life because those of us in the audience needed to share it with him.

Then there was the conductor, Sir Malcom Sargent. My mother took me up to London to hear the Last Night of the Proms (promenades) in the Royal Albert Hall just before we emigrated to Canada. I remember what he played (Elgar and Rimsky-Korsakov) and what he said when he addressed the audience. Years later I met him at the Hawaii British Consulate celebration of the Queen’s Birthday. I told him what he had said and he didn’t remember it. It had been my moment, not his.

The music of Prokoviev invokes the memory of watching Rudoloh Nuyerev dance Romeo in Romeo and Juliet. My mother was alive then. She had joined the Royal Ballet association to get first shot at the tickets. We were center stalls, about eight rows back. Just to hear that music makes me cry now for the beauty of the performace and the memories of both him and her.

Then there was my first real mentor at the University of Hawaii—Leon Edel, whose masterful biography of Henry James won the Pulitzer Prize. He signed my copy of his book as “sensei”—teacher—and told me that I had a major academic career ahead of me. That day I walked on air. Then, there was George Wald, who shared the Nobel Prize in science for his work on the chemistry of vision. He came to speak at a conference I was organizing. I had no idea what to expect of a scientist who had become so celebrated. But it turned out that he had become a mystic as well as a scientist and, later, a friend. All I remember of his speech is that I and the audience were mesmerized by his talk of a knowing universe that wishes to be known.

I suppose what makes these moments memorable is my interpretation of them. I went to them like George Wald's universe: a knowing member of the audience who wished to be transported. But I think there is a common thread. Those performances--and we can all point to things we have been privileged to participate in--represent the best we are capable of as human beings. For a moment, the beauty of music and dance and writing--among other things--overshadows what is merely acceptable, transporting us as observers and enabling us to see far beyond ourselves.

It wasn't the symphony that transported me, though. Wonderful as the 1812 Overture is, it would not have worked without the setting. I know that Red Rocks itself affected me last night because it tied together the rocks, the sky, the music, and distant lights of Denver as no other place. As I count my pearls, I shall include Red Rocks among them.

Whitewater with Vince and Diana

Of Common Denominators

The other day, I learned that when I renew my driver’s license in Colorado (mercifully not until 2012), I can do it only for five years instead of the ten before that magic 65th birthday and that a letter from a licensed optometrist or opthamologist certifying that I have had an eye examination in the previous six months must accompany me. I guess that the Motor Vehicle Division no longer trusts their own tests to determine that I can see. Now they want corroboration.

This doesn’t really bother me—after all, it could be worse--I could have reached the age where I have to submit a doctor’s report that I am physically able and mentally alert enough to be trusted on the road—but it does make me reflect on how one day I am competent and to be trusted and then, come the magic 65th, next day everything has changed. It makes me understand the angst of the airline pilots who are suddenly grounded in their fifties. It also makes me understand what my late husband used to call the lowest common denominator, in this case the clear worse-case scenario that EVERYONE over a certain age is in the early stages of Alzheimers or about to stroke out and thus is a potential hazard on the road that must be removed before the damage can be done.

Now, I don’t deny the inevitable effects of aging. No one—least of all me—denies it or the physical problems it brings. I’ve blogged about some of them. Nor do I oppose extra requirements for older drivers any more than I oppose them for very young ones. What bothers me is the arbitrary line beyond which competence has to be proved based on the assumption that an aging population necessarily means an increasingly incompetent one. It’s a matter of pride and perhaps a little fear. If I can’t drive, given the way that American suburbs are dependent on the automobile, I would be a prisoner in my own home. Fortunately, I can’t see any reason that would happen, but the idea has been planted.

While I will follow whatever requirements I must to renew my license when the time comes, I hope I can do it with a slight smile and shake of the head as some bureaucrat reads the letter on my eye exam to see if it meets her standard. I hope my optometrist has the grace to smile and shake her head when she signs the letter for me. I want to believe that these requirements are silly when it comes to me, even if society is doing everything possible to make me part of a group of people aged in a spread between 65 and 100 all of whom have been classified as pretty much over the hill.

Over the hill? Last week I took my grandson white-water rafting. We signed a release about the inherent dangers of the activity—these included banging into rocks and falling out of the boat and drowning. Thank God, they didn’t have anything about the additional dangers of white-water rafting while being over 65. I was just another thrill-seeker with the upfront bucks to pay for it. I got the same instructions as everyone else. There were no special precautions, and everything was fine. It was a lovely day in the mountains, the river was running high, and while paddling madly, I was able to forget my age and everything else and just have fun.

Marketing 101

My book, Every Purpose Under Heaven, is nearing the point when my agent will be presenting it to a publisher. Beyond the fact that I am ecstatic that I won’t have to do that, my illusions about agents have been sorely put to the test.

I thought all I had to do was write an excellent book, get an agent interested, and then sit back. Wrong. Even though my first book, Extraordinary Things, was selected as a finalist for an award, I still can’t rest on my laurels. My agent requested that I work seriously on developing a marketing plan for Every Purpose.

At first, I convinced myself that I had no idea of how to develop a plan. I thought of marketing as a catchy slogan and massively repeating ads on TV—sort of like snake oil selling from the back of wagons (the kind that got you tarred and feathered), convincing the gullible that they couldn’t live without whatever you were selling.

It took me a while to understand that wasn’t quite going to work with selling a book unless the author is famous and tantalizes the reader with promises of secrets—usually sexual although massive fraud can also work—to be revealed only within the pages of the book. My book, needless to say, had neither of those, so I was left wondering what marvel of Madison Avenue mumbo-jumbo (remember the book title: “From Those Wonderful Folks Who Brought You Pearl Harbor”?) would convince someone to part with the money to buy my book.

I had and have no doubt that Every Purpose Under Heaven is a good book—maybe even a great book. But when it came to convincing people to read it, I was out to sea.

Then it came to me that it wasn’t a problem of marketing that I was stuck on—it was a problem of how I thought about what marketing is. When I took a course from the Small Business Association some years ago, one of the things that the instructor impressed on us was the need to shout our services from the nearest rooftop. Having a great product was very nice, but not as nice as having people know about it. When I thought about that, I could see that I needed to redefine marketing—or more practically—refine how I thought about it. This necessitated my going back to basics of Marketing 101. Marketing, it turns out, is matching product with audience need. Of course, that need sometimes has to be created. It was only then that I adopted an entirely new definition of the field.

I now understand that marketing is when people apply makeup to appear years younger when applying for a job. Marketing is writing a solid and engaging resume to beat out others applying for the same position. Marketing is scenting a house with the smell of baking cookies when it is being shown to prospective buyers. Marketing is dressing in one’s best clothes when going to shop at the mall. Marketing, in other words, is putting one's best foot forward, understanding that the competition is vast and organized, and resolving to offer something that no one else can.

Once I saw this, I was able to write the marketing plan for my book. I rather wished I could use the words “searing,” “passionate,” “unforgettable,” and “seductive.” It’s a little hard to do that when you are writing about learning compassion at the point of death. I suppose I can try: “Every Purpose Under Heaven is a searing expose of what happens at the point of death. Experience the seductive passion of passing on with the help of morphine into the unforgettable experience of life after death.”

For those not quite convinced by my purple rhetoric: you might check out my website at http://www.dmdeluca.com/ in the weeks ahead and see what I did.