Lighten Up and Live Longer

At every musical event in Forest Park, she is there, an odd woman of 50+ outrageously attired in pink and white tutu, tights, and numerous changing accessories. We watch her perform her own routines, quite separate from the beat of the music itself, an inner conductor, apparently. When I speak to her about her enthusiasm, she hastily pulls out a flier and says: “I do parties.”

I am accustomed to seeing her at the free outdoor concerts in front of the History Museum, where people of all ages and abilities are encouraged to get up and express themselves to the music. Last week, we attended an esoteric concert in one of the galleries in the art museum, the Ensemble Lipzodes, music of Muslim and Jewish Spain, played on shawms, txicoten, vielle, rebab, harmonium, harp, and the like. An unlikely venue for a ballerina. But there she was seated front row center, in her tutu with beribboned armlets, dancing in her seat, her festooned wrists reflecting her joy at the music—any music.

Last night, at the outdoor concert, she danced relentlessly, stopping to form stork poses, or spin around like a dervish. No one approached her, but everyone watched. For certain numbers, a parasol would appear; for others, fans or feathers were required. The children seemed to accept her most readily. Their dancing was just as spontaneous and removed from the rhythm. Miz Susan Stone bills herself as the Dance of Life performer, and describes what she does as the “dance of life’ and urges all of us to really see and celebrate life in all its beauty and wonders by dancing.

She has a point. Rather than watch the news and worry about what might happen, isn’t it infinitely better to concentrate on the joys of simply breathing and experiencing being us? This slightly warped ray of sunshine who is Susan Stone just adds to the multifaceted fabric of my fascinating life in the city, and yes, it makes me want to dance.

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Recently, we helped our son move his worldly possessions from Salt Lake City to Minneapolis-St. Paul, MN. Lest you think it was our college son and his worldly possessions would fit into a smallish trailer behind the family sedan, let me correct that misunderstanding. These are the worldly possessions of a family of four: husband, wife, two small children, and two large aging dogs. Times are tight, so moving by U-Haul seemed the best option, especially with muscle at both ends to load and unload. 

We were tapped as being the natural choice for this endeavor: my sweetie for his carpentry and technical expertise; me for my grandmotherly inclinations. After two last days of packing, Mom and the two little girls took off for Denver for her mother’s. I was assigned to take the dogs to the groomer for the day on Thursday, so the trucks could be packed without big barking bodies underfoot. After coming close to being drawn and quartered on the five-block walk to the groomers (big dog on leash pulling backwards, big dog on leash trying to run), we got to loading the truck.

In our best we-told-you-so faces (but not voices), we listened to the son declare that he needed a second truck. So the plan for my sweetie and me to drive Mom’s car with one dog in it, while son drove the 26-ft truck with the other dog, was out the window. My sweetie had acquired a 14-foot truck and I got the car (with the big dog).

Friday morning arrives. The plan: rise at 5 am, load the mattresses and the last of the food into the trucks, stow the dogs and their gear, and start off on the trek at 6 am. The reality: Up at 5:30 am, take mattresses out, sweetie falls down deck steps and cracks head on pavement. When the dizziness clears and the ice pack is firmly attached to the big goose egg on his skull, we start off, closer to 7 am. No cruise control on trucks, so I, dogging behind my sweetie keeping an eye peeled for erratic behavior that might indicate increased intracranial pressure, couldn’t use mine either. Did I mention the dog in the small car with me had gas that rivaled the sulfur pots at Yellowstone?

End of day came 16 hours later when we pulled into the hotel in Omaha, crammed the three of us and both dogs into a little room for five frantic hours of sleep before hitting the road for the last six hours to the new house in Minneapolis. In all, the dogs were troopers. Our muscle at the other end showed up to help unload, and the trucks were empty by nightfall. Bottle of wine and some mindless TV helped us off to bed. Easter Sunday was spent unpacking and trying to find a food store open. Did you know Walgreen’s has sandwiches? We do now.

By Tuesday when Mom and the girls flew in to their new home for the first look, the kitchen and the bedrooms were operational, as were the washer and dryer. More unpacking and lots of kid time to keep the little girls occupied so Mom could find somewhere to put her clothes and make decisions on things to go into storage. By Sunday, we were more than ready to come back to the tranquility of our city home and reflect on that momentous trip.

Would I ever want to do this again? Probably not. Am I glad I did it? Absolutely. This is the stuff memories are made of. We got to spend more time alone with our son than we have in the last five years. Our granddogs really appreciated the TLC. We could really help our daughter-in-law. Seeing all the changes in the little girls was fascinating. They change so fast, that living far away, they seem suddenly older, almost overnight.  

Life goes by so fast, and picks up speed as we age. We must cram as many memories and experiences in each day as we can. They are part and parcel of our lives; not what we have, but what we do and what we experience. Our children and grandchildren grow up and away. We have to create those lifelines to attach to them, like strings on kites, so we can reel them back in and marvel at their uniqueness—up close.

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