My hands are rough, my nails are short and the skin is often dry. My hands were not always like that. Many years ago my hands were soft and supple and didn’t hurt from scrubbing floors.

My husband Brian’s hands too are often sore and tired but I recall when we first met how I loved to hold his hands. They were long and lean and they wrapped nicely around my little fingers. When he touched my hands I felt an electric shock go through my body. Now we can’t hold hands for too long as both of us feel the pain of hands that are overworked. So we hold pinky’s together as we walk. Age is a mystifying and horrible thing. It’s nice to have the memories of just how your body worked thirty years ago.

My mother has no memories; Alzheimer’s has pretty much taken away any kind of fond memory of hand holding for my mom. Because she is in a wheelchair it is very difficult to hug my mom and so I sit with her and hold her hand. It’s a hand that fits nicely into mine, and it’s often cool to the touch. My mom’s hands are very well kept by a woman who helps to look after her. Her nails are always painted in a lovely pink nail polish and they are filed and neat looking. I think back to when I was a child and can’t really recall if my mother ever held my hand. Probably not, I probably would have thought it was babyish to hold my mother’s hand.

Unlike my daughter who still at seventeen grabs my hand when we are out together and holds on to it. She’s not shy; it’s natural. Holding her hand in the mall makes me proud that she isn’t embarrassed or thinks it’s babyish to show some connection, or affection toward her mom.

Years ago when I was shopping with my older sister who is eleven years older than I am she grabbed my hand and I pulled away quickly not wanting anyone to see. I was so embarrassed. I may have been twelve or thirteen at the time. I was so sure people would think we were lesbians. Where I got such a notion I have no idea. But when I think back on it I laugh.

When I was a youngster I would go to a camp in the Laurentions and there we celebrated mass in a small chapel on the lake. It was here that I learned about a thing called fellowship. We would join hands and say the Our Father, and I felt happy that I was a part of the community in that chapel in the woods where God and nature really did seem to co exist. And later when I fell away from the church it was only a matter of time before I was back again.

My husband’s recovery from alcoholism brought me back to the fellowship of man. At AA meetings again I found myself holding hands and reciting the Our Father. Again I felt happy that I was with people who cared and understood. I felt part of a community!

I often hold the hands of children at the school where I work. I don’t hold their hand unless they initiate the hand holding. When a child does grab my hand unexpectedly it stuns me to realize how tiny those little hands are. I also think about where those tiny little hands have been during a long day at school. Even though we try to make sure the children wash their hands we can be pretty sure that accuracy is not going to be high on their priority list. So I wash my hands as often as possible to keep those nasty germs at bay.

Holding those little hands at school takes me back to when my children were small and tiny. When my son, Ryan, our first born came into the world I recall spending many an hour counting his fingers and toes, just looking at them, the perfect little toes and fingers, the perfectly shaped fingernails. How small and delicate they were.

When my daughter was born five years later I did the same thing, counted the fingers and toes holding them tightly in my hand, never wanting to let go.

Holding my children close to me feeling their breath on my lips, holding their hands from infancy into toddlerhood, making sure they were safe on streets, in shops or in parks. Holding their hands as children, walking them to school till we arrive at the gate where it wasn’t cool to hold their hand anymore. I held on to their hands to feel again one last time their breath on my lips. Is it over so soon, their baby hood, their toddlerhood … now they are in their adulthood. And yet I still hold their hands and feel their breath on my lips. They are my children, my greatest love, and my cherished gifts from God, from earth and moon and sky. Their hands will always be stretched out to me, invisible to the human eye, but always that link will be there, they are my children and their breath is on my lips and their hands are always holding mine.

Photo Credits

Microsoft Office Clip Art Collection

Guest Author Bio

Martha Farley
My name is Martha Farley and I am a Daycare Technician at the Lester B Pearson school board.

I have been writing for many years and have had several of my articles published in the Montreal Gazette, the West Island Gazette and the Quebec Home and School Newspaper.

I also have a story published in an anthology entitled ” The City We Share ” edited by Mark Abley of the Gazette. It is a book celebrating the 100th Anniversary of Pointe Claire.

Follow Martha: Facebook

Take My Hand is a post from: Life As A Human

When I was 18, I had the opportunity to work overseas in a private boarding school in England. My job was to be one of three people responsible for a house filled with 25 children under 12. After getting over the initial shock of the added responsibilities, I wondered if this was what being a grown up was all about.

It wasn’t.

While in University, I learned how to juggle finances, putting off one bill to pay another, or to buy food. I also had the freedom to decide whether or not I would go to class, after all, it was my money. I wondered, am I grown up now?

I wasn’t.

When I met the person I would soon marry and we moved in together, merging our belongings and adjusting to each other’s quirks, it was hard work. As a kid, I knew that hard work was what grown ups did so I figured I had finally arrived in the grown up world.

I hadn’t.

In our thirties, we brought a kid into the world. Life got real because it’s a whole lot harder to duck out on the responsibilities a baby comes with. I rechristened myself truly a grown-up; I figured child-rearing earned me an automatic level-up.

It didn’t.

Ten years later and I still flip-flop between thinking I am grown-up and thinking I am not there yet. What I have come to realize is that there is a big difference between being an adult and being a grown-up. By the tender age of 18 I was, by law, an adult but I struggle with some of the things that grown-ups are supposed to do now that I am in my forties.

Being an adult means the world thinks you are capable of handling things. As an adult, you can drive a car, you can vote, you can eat ice cream for dinner without asking for permission — though knowing you can do it isn’t the same as doing it. As an adult, you are also expected to do things. Sometimes tough things like discussing bullying with your child’s principal, or making the decision to have the family pet euthanized after the vet diagnosed inoperable cancer.

There are plenty of times when I don’t want to do any of these things but I suck it up and do them. Like The Pursuit of Happiness sang, “I can sleep in til noon any day I want, but there’s not many days that I do.”

As an adult you get to make decisions; as a grown-up you understand the consequences of those decisions.

Photo Credit

“This Way to Grown Up” by Cheryl DeWolfe, adapted from “Footpath” by Paul Horner.

Guest Author Bio

Cheryl DeWolfe
Cheryl DeWolfe is a West Coast girl through and through, born and raised in Victoria BC. She has a habit of composing haiku about everything from traditional captured moments in nature to coffee, zombies and even movie reviews. Cheryl works in an academic library but in her spare time pursues many different creative interests from arts and crafts to gardening to photography and writing. Cheryl lives with her equally creative husband, daughter and two cats.

Blog / Website: Flotsam and Jetsam

On Growing Up is a post from: Life As A Human

As our minds grow wiser and our life experiences multiply, our bodies age. It is important we maintain physical activity into our senior years in order to aid this process. Staying fit means not only looking good, but feeling good as well. Exercise has many health benefits including an immune system boost and the development of stronger muscles to support brittle bones, as well as cardiovascular and respiratory strengthening. While it is certain that getting the proper dose of exercise can assist us in our senior years, it is equally true there are some dangers associated with keeping fit. Just glancing at the free weight section has our back in knots, and the treadmill threatens injury to our knees and ankles with its heavy-impact requirement. Our aging bodies prohibit us from pushing ourselves in the gym the same way were able to as youngsters, so we’ve got to get a little more creative in our exercise methods.

Walking

One great method of safely exercising that is perhaps most commonly employed by seniors, is walking. Walking allows for the exertion of the leg muscles and encourages joint flexibility by repeated use and motion. Taking a daily walk not only aids in maintaining ones physical condition, it also stimulates sensory activity, supporting sustained emotional and mental heath. Many seniors find social benefits in walking as well, choosing to walk in pairs or teams to promote social activity.

Swimming

Even less impact driven, swimming is another great way for seniors to stay in shape. Considered by some to be the single best method of exercise, swimming involves muscle exertion against the resistance of the water, respiratory strengthening by holding the breath during strokes, and complete cardiovascular workout as laps are completed, all without bringing harm to the joints. Swimming allows you to pace your workout to match your needs on a day-to-day basis; if on a particular day you are experiencing lower levels of energy or heightened pain, you have the freedom to adjust your workout accordingly. For a lighter workout try simply wading across the pool, or as deep as you can travel still keeping your head above water. The resistance created by the water against your body is enough to work your muscles a little and help release any tightness in your joints. On stronger days graduate to lap-work, beginning with single laps and moving up to multiple consecutive laps once your endurance allows for it.

Tai Chi

Another exercise method that has gained ample attention over the past few years is Tai Chi. Perfect for senior citizens, Tai Chi involves the repetition of slow, connected motions in a balletic and controlled manner. Originating in China, Tai Chi aims to create a sense of internal centering and balance while reducing stress. Its meditative quality allows for the calming of worrisome or intrusive thoughts associated with the busy world that surrounds us, and allows us to enjoy a moment of calm, focusing on our breathing and inner peace.

Many organizations offer outdoor Tai Chi classes creating an opportunity to celebrate nature and build core strength simultaneously. Another exercise method often practiced in groups, Tai Chi offers an opportunity to connect not only internally but with other human beings as well, promoting the sense of community that keeps us emotionally sound.

The three exercise methods discussed above are by no means the only ways for seniors to safely stay fit, rather suggestions for those in need of beginning direction. When exploring other approaches be sure that gradual strengthening and conditioning are the focus, not overexertion. Exercise doesn’t have to be extreme, only consistent, in order to be effective.

And remember, be sure to check with your doctor before starting any new exercise program!

Photo Credits

Walking and Swimming From The Microsoft Office Clip Art Collection

Tai Chi – Some rights reserved by gigiscò

Guest Author Bio

Megan DeFilippo
Megan writes for Assisted Living Today, a leading source of information on senior care providing an Assisted Living Missouri guide.

Blog / Website: http://assistedlivingtoday.com/

Stay Fit Safely – 3 Great Outdoor Activities For Senior Citizens is a post from: Life As A Human

Jenny Joseph tells us that aging is about wearing purple and giving ourselves permission to express ourselves without fear of consequences.

Poet Jenny Joseph wrote this poem in 1961, later including it in her 1974 collection Rose In the Afternoon.  A 1966 BBC poll identified “Warning” as the “most popular post-war poem.”   While written from an undeniably western perspective, I am left wondering if it isn’t in fact a universal experience that as we women age, we gain a kind of self-confidence that permits us to step out of the mold, to truly embrace who we are damn the consequences and in an I-don’t-care-what-others-think kind of way.  I discovered this poem in about 1994 when I was deep into my women’s studies degree and already loving and believing that all women look fabulous in the colour purple.  

Warning
Jenny Joseph

1961 

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

And run my stick along the public railings

And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens

And learn to spit

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

And eat three pounds of sausages at a go

Or only bread and pickle for a week

And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

And pay our rent and not swear in the street

And set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

 Photo Credit
Microsoft Office Clip Art Collection 

When I am an old woman I Shall Wear Purple is a post from: Life As A Human

There are certain turning points most women never forget. One of these is the first time someone calls you Ma’am.

It all started with a simple expression: Ma’am.

I was sitting in a restaurant.

“More coffee, Ma’am?” the waiter asked. It was downhill from there.

I was 29 years old and had just been called Ma’am. I was mortified. I didn’t believe it could get any worse.

But it has. (And I’m not counting the time I was called ‘Sir’ a few years later when I boarded a bus in Vancouver’s legendary West End. Ironically, it was one of the rare occasions that I was actually wearing a dress and heels.)

It rankled, for instance, when I was 36 and expecting my first child and the doctors pronounced me to be of Advanced Maternal Age. When our second child came along two years later I was prepared: Yes, yes, I know — I’m an even older, Older Mother.

Every year or so our family dentist finds himself a new business partner, another up and coming (wet behind the ears, my father would say) young doc who, as luck would have it, is assigned to me. Inevitably, he x-rays my teeth, gives me a lecture about my ancient dental work and apprises me of the fact that my molars are crammed with huge mercury fillings that predate Christ himself. He then points out that there’s a ‘Crown Watch’ on just about every damn tooth in my head — as if I need reminding.

I’ve grown accustomed to being called Ma’am (happily, I haven’t been called ‘Sir’ again). It’s just a greeting, a salutation, a sign of respect. Besides, it doesn’t matter how I’m perceived, as long as I am content within. Yeah, right.

In spite of my attempts to remain optimistic, and young at heart, however, recent events have convinced me that I am now rapidly approaching my golden years. You can’t stop a train, my husband says.

I was shopping for shoes the other day and had just tried on some snazzy red leather sandals and was seriously mulling them over when I mentioned to the Twenty-Something guy helping me that I also needed a pair of shoes for work.

I told him that I walk and stand a lot when I’m at work and gestured hopefully at a shelf of crossover hikers with nifty toggles and those bungee laces that look like garter snakes. So what does he do? He bypasses all of them, and all of the cool looking, outback shoes that have reinforced toes and sexy names like Ridge Rider, Sienna Climber and Durango. He goes down a different aisle altogether and hoists up a pair of… what fresh hell is this… White leather, sensible, crepe bottom shoes… you know the kind.

Now, I had just tried on a pair of jazzy, au courant sandals. My toes were nicely polished with hot pink nail enamel. I was wearing my usual weekend clothes, a pair of Levis and t-shirt. I was carrying a shopping bag from the Gap. My hair isn’t grey, not yet, anyway. It isn’t permed, or dyed, or coiffed, for that matter. In fact, it has a life of its own: some good days, some bad. That day it was… let’s say, tousled. And even though in certain social circles my hair might be considered dated, I like to think it’s more Charlie’s Angels than Golden Girls.

So what was it? What on earth made him show me that particular shoe?

This was a shoe that not even a nurse would be caught dead in, a shoe so ugly that it was a travesty. It was a shoe so bereft of style, that if it could talk it would be crying, begging to be put out of its misery; a shoe so pitiful that if it had hands it would reach around and strangle itself with its own laces.

I couldn’t help it. Instead of just saying no thanks, and moving on, I had to gently tell him that he was out of line. If the time ever came that I would even remotely consider shoving my pedicure, my cornless — thankyouverymuch — toes, into those over structured, arch buttressing clodhoppers, it would be Game Over.

“Ha, ha,” he laughed, “Ha, ha,” like he was kidding.

Now I was confused. Was I being punked?

“Ha, ha.”

I just couldn’t read the guy.

What was he thinking? Was he thinking? What would give him the idea that a woman like me: a Gap bag toting, midlife crisis, trapped in amber, stretch Levis and shag hair, ‘Fuchsia Pop’ by Revlon, kind of woman, would even be remotely interested in wearing a shoe like that? Was he on commission? What, exactly, was he on?

I left the store without buying the red sandals. My next stop was the Food Court. I went straight to A&W and ordered a Teen Burger.

I was in the bank a few days later and the teller, another Twenty-Something guy, had seen me clutching a government cheque (our monthly Child Benefit cheque) while I waited in the line up.

He was already talking to me as I approached the counter. If that’s a pension cheque (pension cheque!!), he was saying, I was out of luck if I wanted to cash it, because they were mailed out too early this month… and if I look at the date…. blah, blah, blah.

But I had stopped listening at “Pension Cheque.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” I said to him.

He was obviously embarrassed.

I put the cheque on the counter in front of him.

“Um, Child Benefit…”

He squirmed a little.

Uncomfortable silence…

“You don’t really think I look 65, do you?” I pressed.

He refused to look up.

Evidently, he’d been getting the gears from Old Age Pensioners all day. He looked like he was about to burst into tears, poor guy. Customer service ain’t no picnic, that’s for sure. My sense of fair play prevailed and I quickly turned the subject back to business.

Ahh, it’s tough to be young… I remember it well.

Illustration Credit

“Copenhague” m-c @ Flickr.com. Creative Commons. Some Rights Reserved.

Don’t Call Me Ma’am is a post from: Life As A Human

My 98-year-old Dad fell and broke his neck last week. He fractured two bones, and the first miracle is that he survived.

He’s one tough old bird, and is now out of ICU and in a regular hospital room in Pittsburgh. The hospital wants to discharge him asap, so that means my brother, sister-in-law and I are in a mad dash to find a Nursing Home/Rehab unit that is the best choice for dear old Dad.

While this is a very personal and urgent decision, I’m pretty sure I’m not the first person in my generation to face this dilemma, and I won’t be the last. So, how to choose?

We visited two Skilled Nursing Homes with Rehab yesterday, both highly rated. We liked them both, but each had pluses and minuses. The first one was elegant and tasteful and spotless, but we didn’t see much patient-staff interaction and in fact most people seemed to be in their rooms when we visited at 9 a.m. The second place was more careworn and institutional, but we saw lots of staff-client interaction and the patients seemed more engaged in activity, including lounging around the attractive front entrance.

The place we’ll visit today is not rated as highly. Dad’s already been there short term and we weren’t overwhelmed with his treatment plan, BUT it has the huge advantage of being very close to my brother’s home here, and “accessibility” is a big factor.

Complicating our decision is the fact that Dad’s doctor at the hospital last night told us that as we choose, we should keep in mind that this may well become Dad’s permanent home, not just a rehab stay for a few weeks. We’re still hoping of course that Dad can go back to his apartment in Assisted Living, and knowing Dad, he just might do that. I call him the Energizer Bunny and he’s bounced back before.

But realistically, we have to choose carefully…and make that choice today. Somehow I bet there are other Baby Boomers/Sandwich Generation members making this same choice, under pressure, as I write this. Would sure love to pool our knowledge and learn from you too. I feel like I need the wisdom of Solomon, and the importance of our choice seems critical.

So, if you’ve got any advice to send my way, please do. If you’re in the same situation yourself, good luck and God bless.

Photo Credit

“18:30@home” alternakive@Flickr.com. Creative Commons. Some Rights Reserved.

Day of Reckoning is a post from: Life As A Human

What do you fear the most? Being forgotten? Being alone? Getting older? Phyllis Wilson explores how our fears can connect us.

A group of friends and I (all over age 40) get together every month for a dinner party at one of our homes. The evening is really fun. We catch up on the last month and engage in stimulating conversation. The dinner parties can get rowdy as we debate the sexes, religion, politics, or our children. The topics run the full gamut.

On this one particular evening as I was hosting the party, I passed around a deck of circular cards I had created called “Conversation Cards”. On the cards, I wrote such questions as: What one word would your best friend use to describe you? or What are the four things you are most afraid of?

For the latter question, the card was pulled by Renee. She pondered the question and then said, “I am most afraid of growing old and being alone.” The room took on a sudden quietness and I knew I needed to interject something to keep the conversation going so I said “I fear that also.” Then, as if there were a great sigh of relief in the room, others began to chime in, agreeing that they too were afraid of growing old and being alone.

I then began to ponder about what that says abut our society, and what it says for other people in their 40s and 50s. Are we willing to open ourselves up and share our deepest fears? Are we willing to be vulnerable? Are we willing to admit that we are all the same in some sort of way?

I would venture deeper into the topic by talking to others I met to gauge their thoughts on this REAL fear.

Fear is said to mean “False Evidence that Appears Real.” My argument is that “Growing old is not false evidence as we will all grow old, and yet the appearance of age is REAL!”

Bbeing alone at an old age is a real fear felt by numerous people, regardless of gender. Can you imagine how lonely it must be to be in a nursing home with no family or visitors?  No wonder the residents’ eyes light up when children come to sing or people come bearing gifts.  It is this connectedness for which we all yearn.

Mitch Albom, author of The Five People You Meet in Heaven, wrote “We are all connected… You can no more separate one life from another than you can separate a breeze from the wind.” Have you reflected on your life and the impact you have on the lives of others? Have you considered your life and fears?  We should try to live each day so that we can connect with someone and make a difference in their life, if only through a smile.

Photo Credit

“old with the young” DougAK @ Flickr.com. Creative Commons. Some Rights Reserved.

Our Greatest Fear is a post from: Life As A Human

Advice on turning 50 from a woman who has been there, done that.

Three and a half years ago, I turned 50, and so I think it is only proper with that many years under my belt that I share with you what to expect.

First, you may notice that the doctor keeps reminding you to exercise. Yes, it is true that it is harder to lose weight as you get older. Your metabolism, I’m told, slows down — or is it that you start to say “What the heck!” and eat of the forbidden foods…desserts! or that you just like sitting in front of the television while you eat your meals. Things got so drastic that my doctor asked me to walk just one day a week to keep my blood flowing until I am at least 60.

Second, the funny lines, wrinkles, sagging skin and age spots start to appear. Sleeveless shirts do not look cute. So I came up with my secret weapon: turtlenecks. They do wonders to hide the sagging neck and draw attention to my regal look. You may also find yourself loitering in the skin care aisle to find the perfect cream to diminish and firm the skin.

You will also notice new pains and aches in your body; they have been given the name “arthritis.” The knees ache when it rains, the shoulders stiffen at will. The doctor matter-of-a-factly claims, “It’s a part of getting older.” I prefer to say it is in my genes; therefore I have no control over it.

But enough about outwardly appearances because inwardly comes the feeling of a new-found peace. You will begin to let go and let someone else worry about it. You will come to find a new love in your life — your grandchildren. And you will take time to smell the coffee AND the roses as your sense of adventure takes over. This can lead to hooking up the RV for a road trip and heading anywhere that takes an AARP card.

For me, the greatest change has been that my children have now had a taste of parenthood and can now appreciate the challenges and joys I experienced as they tested many waters with me.

So go ahead embrace the 50s, for they are a prelude to the 60s!

Photo Credit

“50″ courtesy of Etsy.com

After the Big “Five-0” – What’s Next? is a post from: Life As A Human

As we head into the New Year, many of us will be making those familiar New Years resolutions. Why not make one about engaging a passion, like learning to play the guitar?

A while back I wrote an article suggesting that it’s never too late to embrace our passions. In it, I mentioned how when I used to teach guitar, some of the students’ parents would tell me how they had always wanted to play the guitar but felt they were too old to start now. Fortunately, some of them changed their minds and came to me for advice. Over the years, many of my friends have asked me for similar guidance.

So, if you have always wanted to play guitar, here are some tips to get you going in the right direction.

Please note that there are quite a few guitar players who read Life As A Human and some of them are teachers. If you have questions, please leave them in a comment and check back for answers. I am sure they will all be eager to provide answers.

Don’t Let Physical Attributes Stop You

Something I hear a lot is, “I have short stubby fingers”. Well, many great guitar players have short stubby fingers. Some are even missing one or two! This is not a barrier to playing. Sure, if you have short fingers, you may not be able to play chords that span four or five frets but there are tons of other chords you can play. On the other end of the spectrum, I once spoke to someone who had been told that her fingers were far too long and that she should play piano. She became a student and did very well.

So whether it’s your hand size or anything else, don’t let anyone (including yourself) tell you that its a barrier to entry.

Define Your Goals

What do you want? Do you want to play and sing folk songs? Classical? Jazz? Rock? All of the above? Pick the one that is most important to you and start there. This will also dictate if you require an acoustic or an electric guitar.

Find a Good Teacher

Find a good teacher that will teach you what YOU want to learn. Having taught guitar myself for a number of years, I have to say that I am not a fan of method books that usually come in the form of a series. In my opinion, many of these are designed to keep students coming back for more and more lessons. Find a teacher who will craft lessons for you and most importantly, empower you to teach yourself.

Buy a Good Instrument

You don’t need to break the bank to buy a good guitar. There are many excellent guitars on the market that will provide you with years of service. If you have a friend who plays the guitar, I suggest that you bring them with you when you go shopping. Their experience will be beneficial to you when selecting your guitar.

A poorly built guitar can make your learning process difficult and often, stop you altogether. Apart from the style and looks of the guitar, the most important things to look for are:

Tone – does it have the kind of sound you like? Does it have lots of sustain? Have the friend you brought along play it for you so you can hear for yourself.

Intonation – this has to do with how well the instrument is tuned in lower and upper registers.

Action – action meaning how much pressure is required to fret a note. A guitar with high action is harder to play and can be frustrating for beginners. My suggestion is a guitar with low or easy action and lighter gauge strings to start. As you become more proficient, you can always replace the strings with a heavier gauge and raise the action of the instrument to suit your needs.

Good Machine Heads – the machine heads are the tuning pegs that you use to tune your instrument. Good quality machine heads make tuning your instrument much easier and ensure that it stays in tune much longer.

A Case – protect your investment. Buy a good case. I prefer the hard shell variety though there are some very good bag style cases out there.

Service – you should ask the store you purchase your instrument from if they will provide you with a free setup of the instrument and if you can bring it back a month later for adjustment including truing the neck to get rid of any annoying buzzes that may have developed as the guitar breaks in.

Guitar Tuner

Buy yourself a digital guitar tuner. They are inexpensive and will ensure that you are hearing things in tune. That said, learn how to tune your instrument without the tuner. This will develop your ear. You can always check your tuning with the help of the digital guitar tuner after you have done it by ear.

Practice … Don’t Just Play!

Have you heard the expression, “practice makes perfect”? You are far better to think “perfect practice makes perfect”. How you practice is how you will perform. Focus on tone, meter and accuracy. Speed can come later. If you reverse this, you will develop habits that are very hard to break. Whenever you pickup your instrument, be sure it is well tuned then spend some time practicing whatever it is you are learning always looking to strengthen the weakest parts of your playing. After you have ‘practiced’, reward your self with as much ‘playing’ time as you like.

Listen

Learn how to listen. Begin to recognize chords and scales. Are they major, minor, pentatonic? Learn to recognize chord progressions as well. Doing these things will go a long way to developing your ear and you will get to a point where you listen to a song and say, “Hey, I know that progression!” Bingo, now you can play another song!

Stretch Out Your Ears

Start listening to new musicians and broaden your ear. If all you listen to is rock, your hearing will be limited to the tones and phrasings found in that genre. Listening to other forms of music will broaden your musical vocabulary and will also develop your ears to a greater extent.

With very few exceptions, anyone can learn to play the guitar at any age. Follow these tips and do some more research on your own. Practice consistently, have fun and you’ll be singing James Taylor songs sooner than you would have thought possible.

Good luck and good playing!

As I mentioned above, please feel free to ask questions by leaving a comment. If you are a guitar player and want to add to what I have offered, please, do so!

Photo Credits

All image from the Microsoft Clip Art Collection

It’s Never Too Late to Learn the Guitar is a post from: Life As A Human

A family economy that doesn’t outsource care — at either end of life.

By Kristy Leissle

Walkin’ and chalkin’, that was what we did. Roaming the streets of Brooklyn, a couple of chalk sticks in my hand, I made primitive sketches on sidewalks, fire hydrants, and the occasional garage door, while Grandpa ambled nearby. Aloft on his shoulders, I felt as tall as the telephone poles we passed on our way home, where we played grocery store and toll bridge and ate chocolate. Grandpa was my baby­sitter, and he was my first friend.

Grandpa watched me because he was retired from his job as maintenance worker at Betsy Head Pool. My mom was a secretary for a small importing company, my dad a helicopter mechanic. That we were poor was simply accepted as fact. No one dreamed of paying for childcare: The cash economy was a parallel but distant realm we seldom visited. We had no money—but we did have relatives.

In my family, the decision to leave home is seldom permanent. We can, and do, come back any time we need to. When I was six, my parents divorced. Mom got custody of my brother and me, and we all moved in with her parents. Her two sisters were already there; one had left briefly to live in Florida, the other not at all. My grandparents had moved to the suburbs by then, and my brother and I grew up in their small house, surrounded by elders and aunts.

Mom continued to work as a secretary, so Grandma and Grandpa watched us after school. Grandpa was a natural teacher, and we sat together at the dining room table learning mathematics, geography, and history. I remember being astonished, then pitying, to discover that my classmates in the fourth grade could not measure the radius of a circle; Grandpa had taught me that years ago.

Later, when Grandpa began to suffer from poor circulation and Grandma to exhibit signs of dementia, “nursing home” sounded to me like a dirty word. To consign Grandma or Grandpa—warm, living family—to a cold institution simply wasn’t an option.

So the care of Grandpa’s ailing body and Grandma’s deteriorating mind fell largely to their daughters — my mother and her sisters — and to a lesser extent my brother and me. Grandma quickly descended into an impenetrable fog, reliving her past through mumbled arguments with ghosts and hearty laughter with unseen friends. She could communicate nothing concrete. Grandpa could, but was often too embarrassed by his frailty to ask for help.

Though the care of elder bodies brings with it moments of macabre levity, the truth is that life at home became a sodden, endless routine of helping with bathroom trips, cleaning bedsores, and emptying chamber pots. We lived, as ever, in the “love economy” — doing all those unpleasant tasks that involve blood, pus, urine, feces, and knowing the profound sadness of watching the bodies of loved ones decay.

My brother speaks of it in the language of today’s fractured corporate world: “I could never imagine outsourcing that tough work,” he said to me at breakfast. “I mean, it’s family. It’s not like they outsourced your upbringing.” Indeed. My family has often felt to me like a closed circuit of care, an island economy unto itself. As in the larger one, our economy involves costs, risks, successes. But there are no profits, no gains to be distributed. Our returns are integrity, compassion, laughter, suffering, and, above all, the knowledge that we have lived fully — beginning to end — with those who have always loved us.

Kristy Leissle wrote this article for What Happy Families Know, the Winter 2011 issue of YES! Magazine. Kristy is a writer and professor of Global Studies at the University of Washington, Bothell, where she researches the cocoa-chocolate trade.

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Leissle, K. (2010, November 18). Returning Grandpa’s Love. Retrieved December 15, 2010, from YES! Magazine Web site: http://www.yesmagazine.org/issues/what-happy-families-know/returning-grandpas-love. This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License

Returning Grandpa’s Love is a post from: Life As A Human