E  S  S  A  Y   Or not.

Boomers are not sleeping like we used to and people who study this kind of thing can prove it. No less an authority on health than the National Institutes of Health is telling us that older adults typically have more trouble falling asleep.

No kidding. In their study of adults over 65, 13 percent of men and 36 percent of women take more than 30 minutes to fall asleep. On top of that, we sleep less deeply and wake up more frequently during the night. This change in our sleep patterns is mostly due to a lowered secretion of melatonin, the hormone that promotes sleep.

How about the fact that we have a lot on our minds? Yes. Experts agree that boomers have cares that are both upstream and downstream. They worry about their children and grandchildren as well as their elderly parents. Then there are the financial issues. Did we save enough for retirement? Will we be living in a van?

So this is not the new normal. If we’re not sleeping well, we need to do something about it. The mattress companies would have you believe that the solution is a new mattress and foundation (that’s what they’re calling boxsprings these days). And that could help, but experts think that getting more exercise is effective along with meditation and getting outdoors more often. So start doing something more aerobic such as brisk walking or swimming and get out and commune with nature before you run down to the mattress store where you will be tortured to find 107 kinds of mattress choices that totally baffle you. Consistency when it comes to your bedtime schedule is also supposed to help according to insomnia experts. Your bed should be in cool, dark and quiet space and it helps even more if you can create some kind of ritual that puts your mind in a restful state. To which I say, easier said than done when it comes to achieving a restful state of mind these days, but worth the effort to try.

If none of these suggestions help, it may be time to talk to your doctor or head to the sleep clinic to see if there’s a medical issue that’s affecting your sleep. There are effective treatments out there and seeking them out is a lot healthier than ignoring the problem.

So if you’re experiencing a lack of sleep that should be a wake-up call. I bet the experts never use that one.

Jay Harrison is a graphic designer and writer whose work can be seen at DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle. You can also visit his author page here.

E  S  S  A  Y   I’m riding with Jim, my new sales rep in upstate New York. We’re going over to meet with Larry, the senior purchasing agent at the Bausch and Lomb Company in Rochester.

“We have to take him out to lunch,” Jim says. “I always take him out to lunch. He gives me valuable information on pricing and new product launches. He tells me what the competitors are up to.”

“OK,” I shrug. But I’m not much in the mood for entertaining today. Over the years, I’ve found that wining and dining purchasing agents is a particularly big waste of time. I’ve found them to be, as a group, either lugubriously boring and tediously lackluster people, or all smiles and chatteringly chipper like a pack of demented squirrels.

Larry is no exception. He’s short, slow-moving, and stocky with close-cropped hair and thick-lensed glasses. Over lunch he swills down, without a whole lot of ceremony, two vodkas-on-the-rocks and three red wines, which is a lot when you’ve got to go back to work.

But what really gets my goat is his habit of repeating himself over and over again. I probably wouldn’t mind it so much if he had anything useful or interesting to say, but he doesn’t. Everything he says is just so damned boring, a continuous rambling stream of useless, nonsensical blathering.

To make matters worse, to add to the unbearableness of it all, I can hardly hear him. He speaks in a soft, inaudible monotone. He’s practically whispering. It’s maddening, him droning on and drinking, drinking and droning on, and on and on.

What is this guy talking about? Why am I here? And what the hell is he doing in a job like this, a job of decision-making and dealing with vendors and customers? I’m annoyed with Jim, too, for getting us into this stupid situation. I want to get it over with and get back to work. I’m glaring at Jim. Jesus, this is like being at the dentist.

Then Larry, for no particular reason I can determine, blurts out that his birthday is Saturday; he’s turning 44. I notice his college ring, 1970, the same year I graduated college. But I’m only 42. Where did those extra two years of his go? Suddenly, a light goes on in my thick, foolish, insensitive head. I understand his mindless meanderings.

“So Larry,” I say, “You’ve been to Vietnam.”

Jim’s mouth drops open. “How could you possibly know that?”

But Larry peers quietly over his thick glasses at me for a long time. Then he smiles a soft, easy smile, rubs his wrinkled forehead hard and says, “I was in the Iron Triangle the winter of ‘66.”

I order another drink for him, and one for myself, too.

Michael Estabrook lives in Acton, MA.

 

E S S A Y  This is my little grandson’s favorite game. The song goes Ring around the rosy, Pocket full of posey, Ashes, ashes, All fall down. But he prefers to start with the word ashes. Then he can get to the all fall down quickly and require those holding his hands – me and whoever else he might round up – to jump down to the floor and laugh. Getting up is no laughing matter for us old folks, but he just pops up and is ready to start again. The first thing he says when we’re finally all up and holding hands again is “ready?”

And off we go.

But to me, ashes ashes feels like my life at the moment. And all fall down is what everyone around me is doing. Gary is on death’s door. His mother is halfway through the door. Francis is better than he wants to admit and just wants someone to fuss over him. Dagmar had a stroke and can’t see. Jim died and Cynthia is not too sure what happened to him. Francis can’t remember who Jim and Cynthia are. Marge fell and wasn’t found for two days and is now in a Beehive home. Bob needs a heart procedure of some sort. Diane died of MS and Jane of a brain tumor, both in the same week. It seems like you either die or you watch everyone fall down around you. I don’t think I like the choice.

But – ha ha – it doesn’t matter if I like it or not. I wasn’t consulted. And why should I be? We are among the luckiest, the richest, the healthiest people who have ever lived on this planet. We have nothing to complain about. If you made it to seventy or so in reasonably good health you did great. You’re ahead of the game; all the rest is gravy.

My high school reunion committee decided to start having reunions every five years instead of every ten. It’s getting too hard to keep track of the dearly departed page. Well, that’s the spirit, I guess. We can sit around in ever smaller circles and tell each other how lucky we are and shed a few tears for the less lucky ones. And look around at the group and wonder whose luck will hold out and make it to the next reunion. But that’s good stuff at this point. I’ll mention another cliché to add to the ones I’ve already used: No one gets out of here alive.

So enjoy what you’ve got. Don’t bemoan what you’ve lost; just be glad you had it for a while. We’ve all had a lot more than most people could dream of having. And think about little Miles who laughs when he says “All fall down.” Cheers!

Norma Libman is a journalist and lecturer who has been collecting women’s stories for more than twenty years. You can read the first chapter of her award-winning book, Lonely River Village, at NormaLibman.com.

E S S A Y  We bought a camper

After my mother, aunt and uncle died last winter, my partner and I bought a camper. In death’s midst, feeling our own galloping years, we envisioned a lifeline to better times. Simple travel. Pretty vistas. Minimalist living.

Snow was falling when my partner scrolled through Craigslist posts. “Look at this,” he said, spying a sleek A-frame pop-up. “Isn’t this the cutest? Wouldn’t it be perfect for us?”

“Fun!” I murmured, expecting nothing. After all, we were lapsed tenters who’d talked for years about upgrading to a camper with real walls, a raised bed and a kitchenette.

But two days later, we rocketed ninety miles along the highway to the seller’s home. He was an engineer who got the vehicle used but didn’t use it. The wife wanted it gone.

We trudged through their icy yard. This really was the cutest camper. Though two decades old, it had good bones; the perfect fixer-upper.

The engineer had us at “Come inside; the heater works great.”

Two weeks later, we parked the pop-up on our front lawn beneath a giant maple, and Partner promptly got to work on it.

He painted and scrubbed. Made curtains. Refitted a cabinet and fixed floorboards. Every last screw, bolt, thread and pipe was soon in pristine order.

He worked while his 100-year-old dad was dying, finding solace in in the shade of the giant maple, where ferns grew as high as the hitch on our compact SUV. I offered encouragement and minty iced beverages.

The neighbors came calling. The crusty old widower reminisced about his family’s camping days. The stick-to-herself teacher behind our hedgerow stuck her head in and confided envy. Even the nurse I rarely saw anymore had an acute case of curiosity and texted, “Where r u going?”

My artist neighbor, a world-class brooder, climbed in one evening to wax poetic about the creative life. When he left, his step seemed lighter, and his brow, less furrowed.

Sometimes I nap in the camper, my eyes fluttering closed as breezes blow through the windows. Or I write. Partner reads the paper, or chats on the phone to his son or sister.

We’ve yet to take our maiden voyage, but on sultry summer mornings, Partner and I like to sit on the comfy couch cushions, drink coffee and dream about all the places we’ll go someday. I’m along for the ride, even if it’s stationery.

Tina Lincer is a writer, artist and recovering tenter who’s looking forward to her first trip in the world’s cutest camper.