A gift horse should not be looked in the mouth

Ursula Feist

June is bursting out all over… How clever of my parents to have let me enter this world in June, the month of roses, strawberries and romance.

As a little girl I loved my birthdays, couldn’t wait for them, and counted the days. My unwrapped gifts, carefully displayed on a white damask tablecloth, with a big bunch of sweet-smelling garden roses in the middle – the special gift from my father – are an unforgettable memory. I would have birthday parties for my friends in the afternoon with hot chocolate and fancy little cakes, and quite often my father would come home from work early to celebrate. After everybody had left I’d preserve some of the soft cool rose petals in one of the books I had received. It was all about fun and gifts then. Now I know I am celebrating the gift of another year of life.

It’s gifts I want to talk about. So often it’s hard to find the right one, even for one’s best friends. My mother habitually exchanged every gift she ever received – it was a family joke. Her presents were handed over with a grin and the comment, “You can exchange it.”

I have given the wrong gifts from time to time and one instance stands out with some discomfort. I thought that a friend who collects shells and loves them would enjoy Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s book Gift from the Sea. I was wrong. She obviously didn’t like it. “That’s not my kind of book at all,” she commented. It upset me because it happens to be one of my favorite books. I had ordered it well in advance and it took weeks to come. She couldn’t know that, of course, but the experience taught me to give book gift certificates instead. One Christmas, I put a selection of fancy teas together for someone else. It didn’t hit the spot either. “You should know we do not drink tea” – I probably should have. In England hostesses are supposed to know who among their friends take milk and even remember how many teaspoons of sugar are required, if any.

Chocolates are a reasonable choice but the recipient had better not be on Weight Watchers. It’s tricky to give Eau de Toilette to anyone – too personal. Scarves and belts are neutral – that is, if you know the belt size. Gift certificates for movies or a spa may be a good choice but could cost you more than you planned to spend. A new gadget perhaps? I hate gadgets I have to study unintelligible manuals for. A colourful umbrella makes a nice present but not for a superstitious recipient, as they might with opal stones if not presented in October. What about vases, cushions, or photo frames? Perhaps boring but fairly safe. Of course there are always flowers or lunch or dinner out, or an invitation to a concert or a well-reviewed play.

The nicest present I ever received was from my children for my retirement: a shiny tiny Scottish terrier wrapped in a Scottish blanket with a large silk bow on top, resting in a cardboard box. I loved that dog on sight but he was a biter. He followed me around wherever I went and at news time we watched together. Sadly one day he bit a child… I still miss him! Hopefully, when I can no longer travel, I’ll make myself a present of another dog for unconditional and reciprocal love. In the meantime, I enjoy other people’s dogs.

From all the staff at The Senior Times, Happy Birthday to our dear Ursula.

Ageism makes bad situation worse

Ursula Feist

Flipping through channels one evening to find something pleasant to look at, I caught a panel discussion on a German channel on the subject of smoking. A new law in Germany had been tabled to forbid smoking in public places, and was causing considerable controversy.

One panelist mentioned an 88-year-old woman dying of heart disease as a result of smoking, prompting another to remark, “Well, how long should she have li—” before cutting herself off on account of some raised eyebrows.

I was incensed and unashamedly wished that she would find herself in an unwelcome position one day. She must have been about fifty and her green Dirndl dress certainly did not distract from her wrinkles in spite of heavy make-up.

It brought home to me the reality of being a senior once more: the impatience, disrespect and tactlessness too often thrust upon this segment of the population. Not so long ago, some youngster actually asked me whether I had thought about my own death!

This attitude was reflected in a recent accident I experienced: a young woman in a Cadillac Escalade rammed into the driver’s side of my brand new Honda Civic while turning a corner.

The damage to my car was significant, but the state I was in was worse. I had watched in horror as my windshield crunched and crumbled, and it hit me that I had just been about five inches away from being severely hurt or killed. My anger and fright showed — I reacted furiously.

A cheerful young man came running out of the house opposite and, pointing at me, said, “I saw it, I was on my roof, she ran a red light.”

The young woman asked him to be a witness and he enthusiastically complied. That settled it. The police were called, and upon arrival ignored me and the horrendous damage to my vehicle.

When they finally addressed me they were arrogant and condescending. I was old and in shock, and when you are old you are guilty! You shouldn’t be driving! Nobody asked me whether I needed anything or whether I was alright until my son arrived.

To add insult to injury I was handed a $150 ticket for running a red light, based on nothing but the word of the witness on the roof and the young woman. I have never had an accident in my driving life of over 50 years and no one even checked the view from the roof to confirm what the young man could have actually witnessed.

When the young constable who handed me the ticket finally looked at the damage that the elegant truck had inflicted, he commented, “She must have hit you hard” — a diagnosis confirmed by what it cost to repair.

I often think of that moment, and still have that uncomfortable feeling in my stomach — of having been treated like someone who doesn’t matter.

If you have been treated unfairly because of your age, we would like to know. Please send your story to editor@theseniortimes.com.

Winter past and winter present

Ursula Feist

It's April and by now spring should have sprung. Even devoted snow lovers must feel enough is enough! I believe that Mother Nature keeps sending the world strong messages to stop destroying our planet. It's hard to blame the government for the winter wonderland that outstayed its welcome this year. We can't even let off too much steam at the city administration for the slow snow removal. However, their outrageous idea to impose an additional tax for this essential service is unacceptable. Last year we had practically no snow and it should all balance out!

Returning from my winter break I could hardly find my front door.

Mountains of snow had hidden it from view. I quickly recognized that I must plan my agenda according to the weather report and prepare myself to be a prisoner in my house once again. This will cause me cabin fever and severe snow rage!

I kept thinking about Hans Christian Andersen's sad fairy tale about the poor little matchgirl trying to sell matches in the bitter cold, dressed in rags, with no shoes, no gloves, hungry, frightened and watching a fat family behind a lit window, carving a roasted goose stuffed with prunes and apples. The next morning she was found frozen to death, but with a smile on her face. I did not have a smile on my face listening to the howling winds around my house. It sounded like the orgasmic outbursts of a bunch of unruly cats and I quickly put on Mendelssohn's Midsummer Night's Dream to drown it out.

When we came to Canada from England in 1951 the winters here were more severe than they have been over the last few years. I remember watching our little boy playing in deep snow, and pulling him on a sled on Mount Royal. A rich relative pointed out that I did not have a proper winter coat and presented me with her old skunk fur. It weighed a ton but kept me warm. However, whenever it got wet it stank and this has taught me to identify an uninvited skunk hiding underneath my porch. On a walk with my little dog during "skunk time" I carried a tin of tomato juice just in case we should get caught in the spray!

There was a heavy storm in 1971 when we couldn't get home from work but managed to find a room in the lovely old Windsor Hotel. We had a lot of fun together with other good-natured storm victims. The same happened during the ice storm of 1998. Why does it all seem so much worse now and no fun at all?

For the elderly the winter months present serious problems. Inadequate public transportation, long line-ups in the ERs, and the frustration, isolation, and general lack of courtesy and respect doesn't contribute to a feeling of well-being.

I fervently hope that by the end of May the snow will have melted, that there will be no floods, that we shall see a green blade of grass and perhaps a confused snowdrop or crocus showing its face.

I can't wait for some soft, short and sweet April showers to get caught in. I shall enjoy every raindrop with a smile and sing.