Rome's royal Julia as usual took great pleasure in holding court. The Celtic queen, Cartimandua, chose not to join us. But Tanaquil, never lacking in confidence in her own being listened patiently, if not raptly, to Julia. When at last Julia was done with her performance (for you could call it nothing less), Tanaquil spoke. "I don't take pleasure in thinking about or discussing old age. What is the point? The old already know what is to be known. The young find it boresome. But I note that getting old myself I recall watching people I loved grow old."
   "What have I spawned? Julia's eyes widened; her nostrils flared. Every inch of her body showed disdain. "I was not the one who started this 'getting old' business."
   "Perhaps not," Tanaquil's half smile reminiscent of the stereotype of an Etruscan lingered. "But you took your turn. Now I shall take mine. Would you deny me?"
   "Ye Gods no", Julia said "Pray continue."
   "I begin my story when my grandsons were ready for proper schooling in Etruscan Discipline. I made it my task to check out schooling in Tarquinia for the boys. On the pretext of visiting my aging parents lest they die without seeing my success, I went to Tarquinia. The city was as I remembered. The wide Cardo running its length north and south was traversed by equally wide streets. Covered drain culverts ran along the sides of the streets carrying away sewage from the houses. The shop was still there-- the shop where I paid far too much for a scarf when my mother sent me there with the hope that shopping would relieve my ache for the unacceptable  Greek boy.
   My re-union with my parents, Urnilla and Metius, was stiff and unrewarding. Time had taken a great toll on their eyesight, hearing  and memory of a daughter they had not seen for so many years. Had the reunion with my parents been my only reason for returning to Tarquinia I might have left with swollen eyes and deflated spirit. But I had come, not to seek a reunion with my aged parents but  instruction for my grandsons.
   I stood before Tarquitius's door, not sure if was still his door, not even sure he was yet alive. A torrent of memories flooded my mind. The times he had tolerated me only because of his affection to my father. The times he had tried to save me from the mistakes of my petulant nature. The efforts he had made to prevent me from making the mistake of marrying a Greek who would never be accepted by  upper class Etruscans. He had been right about the refusal of society to accept my Lucumo, but he was wrong that I had made a mistake. Just as I hesitatingly reached to knock the door swung open. I gasped at the bent frail old man squinting at me. "Tarquitius?" I asked haltingly.
   His toothless smile softened the hardness of his leathery wrinkled face. "Can it be? Can it really be? Or do these poor tired eyes and my feeble wits fail me?"
   "It is I, Tarquitius. It is I, Tanaquil. Come to pester you again."
   His bony fingers tightened around my arm. "You seek yet more signs? And again you need my expertise? I have heard of your successes. To what new heights have you now  set your sights?"
    I met his warm smile with loving eyes. As a child I had considered him one in a string of adults who would thwart my desires. As an adult I looked on him as a loving protector. "I come, not as a child seeking to side step the rules, but as a grandmother wishing to guide my grandchildren.." His eyes twinkled. "Yes I am a grandmother. And I come about my grandsons. They are in need of instruction. The kind the cannot receive in Rome. The kind they get only here. You will find them intelligent, polite, astute and dedicated. I assure you they will meet your expectations."
   Tarquitius sighed heavily. "I rarely take on students myself anymore. As must be obvious I neither see well not have much stamina. But there are several priests who do''
                                                   *                  *                    *
    Tanaquil tilted her head to one side and stared into space. Three people whom I had loved had become old-- old enough to remind me as I left that none of us will escape old age." Julia impatient as always with anyone who spoke at length, although she could cold court for endless time said. "Unless we are relieved of the process by an early death."
    Tanaquil's eyes met mine. Before either of us could conger up an appropriate comment Julia said, "What is the point?"
     Both Tanaquil and I burst into laughter. "There may ne no point at all", I said.
    "Or there may," Tanaquil added.
    "Ye Gods, how did we get onto old age? Nothing could be more depressing. Please the next time we meet let us pursue some topic with more -- with more anything that we have had the last  three times."

Old Is Not So Bad

      Julia gave me little time before she insinuated herself into my every thought. "You have had your time for what you call your little project. I must say I am not that impressed. You seem to think that because one is not old one does not see and appreciate old. Let me share something with you about old"
   "You are telling just me, or are Cartimandua and Tanaquil invited?" I could not imagine she did not want Tanaquil and Cartimandua. They have always been a part of our meetings.
   "of course they can listen. I must do it story form just as you did. First person accounts of what one has done can get so boresome."

   Thus began Julia's long winded story.

   A heated argument with her father had left her unhinged. As so often she had done she went to see Maecenas. A long time friend/foe/ally of her father, the Emperor, Maecenas understood both Julia and her father better than anyone. She arrived at Maecenas' lavish house on the Esquiline Hill. She had not sent word of her coming. Such was their relationship. A slave ushered her into the small library. The room was cluttered with excessive furniture and memorabilia collected over the years. A bust of Bathyllus stood on the large desk in direct sight of the chair obviously from its wear and disarrayed cushions was used often. The wall paintings were political and military scenes. She was inspecting his collections when he entered. She was taken aback. His color was so grey it was nearly blue. His skin stretched over his bones seemingly devoid of flesh. Despite her efforts to control her reaction she gasped.
   "Pretty sight, am I not? I have little time left." As he took her had in his his smile was reminiscent of other days. He lowered his head and kissed her hand. "Don't be alarmed. I'm not as uncomfortable as you. I don't have to look at me."
   She tried to laugh but could not. He sat in the large heavily pillowed chair. "Sit, my dear. I have ordered wine. And don't wince. I saw that you should not get --sweet gunk I believe you once called it."
   Julia managed a laugh. "Oh Maecenas, I have missed you."
   "And I you. How long has it been since I rescued you from your father's wrath after our all night therapy session? I don't get out much anymore. The comfort of this place offers help for my infernal restlessness. But I do not, as you might think, sit here stolidly awaiting death which is near now."
   Julia grimaced. "Now let's not start that. I know all about your astrologer. I also know that are wrong as often as they are right. How do you fill your time?"
   "With my books and friends. Horace is ever faithful. He comes when he can be coaxed off his Sabine farm. And dear Bathyllus has been a rock." He sighed heavily as a slave entered with a flagon of wine and two cups. Waving the slave away Maecenas filled two cups and handed one to Julia. Taking the other for himself he sipped cautiously. "The gods preserve us, how can you like this vinegar? How do I occupy myself. Besides seeing friends, I read and go to the theater. And I have been working on my poetry. I shall never be as erudite as Horace not as witty as young Ovid. But I have fun." From a cedar box on the table next to his chair he took a sheet of parchment. "Here. You can see I do not sit morbidly waiting for my death. Here read this." He leaned back abd with a grimace sipped his wine. A sudden cough sent wine dribbling down his cheek. Julia looked at him with concern as he swabbed his chin. "Don't mind this. Just read. Read it aloud. I should like to hear it.

   She read
Make me feeble of hand
Ma me feeble of foot and leg
Saddle me with a hump back
Knock out my loosened teeth
Life, as long it clings, is good
If I should sit, prop me up on my crutch

  Her eyes met his. His smile had a touch of impiousness. "So Julia, you can see I am at peace with my fate. I owe much to Horace who urges me to live each day as it comes with no faith in what tomorrow holds. If you're here to comfort a dying man, I assure you there is no need".
   
                                                      *                  *                      *

   Julia's  story was over. She addressed us --Carti, Tanaquil and me. Especially me.  "I suggest  we stop this wallowing in our own problems and take a page out of Maecenas' book. Let us live  today and  let tomorrow take care of itself. And Jewellee, your Carlie is doing all right. She has been propped up." 

GETTING OLD

   Julia, the impulsive spoiled daughter of the Emperor Augustus, has a way of annoying me until I give in to her demands on my time. I told her when she insisted on pushing herself into my consciousness that I had other things to do. "But you have kept me away for so long. How many things can you have?"
   "I am working on n essay or story or something, and I need time."
   "Tell you what, Jewellee, take a few days and get done with it. We have things to attend to. We're not getting any younger."
   "And just what in Hades do you know about getting old? How old were you when you died? Now me. I am old."
   She agreed to give me a few days to deal with whatever I had to deal with, but she did not do it with grace.  It's a bitch getting old. "The Golden Years", to my way of thinking, occur long before seventy. And the asininity of 'Come grow old along with me; the best is yet to be.' This was surely written by some young person and it assaults the sensibilities of the'old'.  Addressing this topic is my project shared below..
                                            
                                                     *                   *                     *

   “Focus!  Focus! You can remember if you just focus,” the pert young woman standing at the foot of the bed said. “Carlie, you can remember if you just focus.”

   The audacity! How dare she call me Carlie? My kin, of whom there were few and my friends of whom there are even fewer could call me Carlie.  But not some ‘just out of diapers’ chubby child.

   Unfair, deranged, out of touch you think?

   Bull shit, I say.

   As to remembering.  Oh I do remember. I remember. Maybe not always accurately, for time and subsequent events keep gnawing at the edges of memories.  But I remember!

   Not where I am, not why I am here. But I do remember.

   This girl was chubby—an extra twenty five pounds I guessed—but to be fair she was not just ‘out of diapers’.  Somewhere in her twenties. “Now Carlie,” she oozed sincerity. “try to think.”

   “I am Carlie to few people. You are not among  the few.”

   She scurried to secure a small notebook from the pocket of her tie dyed tunic. “Mrs. Campelo.”

   “Ms, if you please.”

   “Ms Campelo, can you remember why you’re here?”

   “Remember why I’m here? I don’t even know where I am.  At this point why seems relatively unimportant, don’t you think?”

   Her downturned lips, her stifled sigh, her rolling eyes assaulted my senses. “Tell me , dear,’ I stressed the ‘dear’. “exactly where am I? When I know that we’ll investigate the ‘why’.”

   “In hospital emergency.  Dr. Thompson is attending you.”

   “And  who is Dr. Thompson?”  
   “Your Doctor, Carlie.” She drew in her breath, held it, and breathed out with what approached spitting. “Your Doctor, Ms Campelo.”

   “And just why am I here?”

   “That’s what I need you to remember.”

   Focus! Focus! I can remember if I focus. I can remember if I have a hint. “ Exactly who is Dr. Thompson?”

                                         *                          *                           *

  Growing old is a misrepresented process—either bemoaned or glorified. Too few of us see it for what it is.  Like an August day in southeastern Virginia.  Morning arrives cool and fuzzy. Events of the morning, met with eagerness and determination, slow down for the ‘same ole lunch’ and the ‘same ole self- imposed quiet time’.  Farther south, among old and young and those with much more humanity, it’s called ‘siesta’.  Afternoons, taken on with less resolve, yield to the day’s mounting heat and humidity. Darkness restores the cool; sleep refreshes body and spirit weary of the day’s struggles. Morning arrives cool and fuzzy.

                                                 *                           *                 *

    I study the face of my inquisitor whose patience is clearly struggling to remain intact. Was I ever that young? My attention to the sharply defined edges of her lipstick was interrupted. A new inquisitor was there.  ROSELEA her name tag said. I wanted to protest for she had none of the features of either a Rose or a Lea. Fifty if a day, round at the middle.   Lips thankfully unpainted, avoiding jagged edges which elicit pity from the empathetic, scorn from those of us who daily face this assault to our media imposed identity.

   “Ms Campelo,” she said stressing the Ms. “You are fine. We can find nothing wrong.”

   “We who?”

    “Oh, I am sorry. I am Roselea Thompson.”

   “Dr. Thompson,” I said remembering hearing the name from my baby-faced nurse.

   Her smile oozed tolerance. “Nurse Practitioner.  As I said, you seem fine. You did take a nasty fall. Nothing seems broken, I’m happy to report. But you were unconscious for some time. We’d like to keep you here overnight to evaluate.”

   “Evaluate what?”

   “Any possible problems our tests couldn’t reveal.”           

                                                            *                    *                *                                             

     Overnight can be a life time, when you have nothing to do but think about ----.  Focus, focus I told myself as my thoughts flittered from the day I kissed Marvin Goss out behind the barn, then my first job in Charlie’s Bean Barn, the fluttering of my heart on my wedding day, the Saturday dinner parties never over before midnight, sometimes nearer dawn.

   Focus! Focus! I rang the call bell. “Can I help you?”

   “What day is this?”

   “I beg your pardon.”

   “What is so hard about that? What day is this?”

   “Tuesday.”

   “Tuesday the what?”

   “The fifteenth. What can I do for you?

                                   *             *             *            *

Tuesday the 15^th.  I have a lunch date. Every mid month Tuesday since ‘forever ago’ my group had met for lunch.  My group.  If I were fifteen or thirty or maybe even fifty, they might be called my gang. At seventy-five ‘my group’ seemed more fitting.  We went back a long way, long before Tuesday lunches. Late night meetings gave way to early night meetings.  Then after retirements freed up our days, except for the medical appointments, which at our ages are  common occurrences, came the Tuesday lunches. This Tuesday, it seemed, was shot.

   Unless! I rang the call bell.   “Can I help you?”

   “ Can I get out of here before noon?”

   “I can’t see how. The paper work alone takes a while, and we can’t start it until your doctor releases you.”

   A while! And how long was a while?

   I sat up with minimum effort.  A few steps from my bed was a sink, next to the door into a bathroom. Above the mirror over the sink was a placard.  DON’T RISK A FALL. GIVE US A CALL.

   I pressed the call button. “Can I help you?”

   “I need to pee.”

   “You have a bathroom just steps from your bed.”

   “And a sign that says Don’t go without calling for help.”

   “Someone will be right with you.”

   Lucky for me I did not really have to pee for no one came. Not by the time I stood in my own clothing outside the emergency ward door awaiting the cab I had called.  Again lucky for me.  I had not forgotten to bring my cell phone. Else how could I get a cab?  In my whole life the times I had hailed a cab I could count on one hand. And to be fair most were with my husband. Once in Athens when we were going to the airport. Once in Tunis for the same reason. Once in Paris to go to the Rodin museum. Once in Florence to get back to my hotel after a tiring day of sightseeing. Once in San Francisco.

   Buses, trains, my own car, usually with my husband driving, was my way. “Where to?” the driver asked.

  ‘Focus, focus,’ I told myself. ’Where are you going?’

  “Is this Tuesday the 15^th?”

   “Yes ma’am. Where to?”

   Focus, focus. It’s Jeff and Nancy’s time for lunch. “1080 Cedar Drive,” I said. “I have a luncheon date.”

   He took his time, fumbling with the meter setting, studying the map on his GPS screen, talking on his radio about “some possible problem” with an address. “Exactly what do I do?”

     A terse response sputtered from the radio. “Address checks out. Take her to that address.”

   A buxom young woman took my arm as I stepped out of the cab. “Carlie, where have you been? We’ve been worried sick about you. The hospital called and said you left without being released.  What have—“

   I did not have time for her foolish questions. “Who all is coming today?”

   “Come now, Carlie.  Let’s get you back to your room. You should have waited to make sure you were all right.”

   “I’m here for the Tuesday luncheon. Jeff and Nancy are expecting me.”

   “Come along, Carlie.” And then to the driver to whom she handed two bills, “Thank you,.”

   Focus, focus. This was the right day wasn’t it?  Or had I gotten my dates mixed up?

    The double doors to the RIVERSIDE ALTZIMERS CARE CENTER opened. Carlie  was escorted in again.