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And a Happy Thanksgiving to all. — Art by Pat Bean

          As I sit here on the day before Thanksgiving, with a newly applied 24-hour heart monitor placed on my chest this morning, I am extremely thankful for my life. At 86, I’m still moving and enjoying my days. And so, I give you a mere 100 things I’m thankful for.

  1. Simply surviving the past year, after a major heart attack in 2024, tops the list.  
  2. Next are all the family members and friends who have supported and loved me this past year.
  3. I’m also thankful for my writing comrades, the Eastside Tucson Writers here in town, and the members of Story Circle Network whose daily online presence inspires me to keep writing.
  4. I’m thankful for my canine companion Scamp, who is never far from my side and whose antics often provide laughter, and whose presence makes me happy. Taking care of him also fulfills a need I have to be useful.
  5.  I’m thankful for heating and air conditioning that keep me comfortable despite the weather outside. I think back to the years I lived on the Texas Gulf Coast without air conditioning and wonder how I survived.  I think back over the years a lot. The changes amaze me – and sometimes confuse me as well.                
  6. And that brings me to the next thing I am thankful for: the ability and willingness to change with the times. As writer and philosopher Alan Watts once said. “The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.”
  7. I’m thankful for the spark of joy and happiness deep within me that has nothing to do with what’s going on in my life. It’s something I have come to realize I was born with and that not all people have. It’s what keeps me looking for that silver lining when all is chaos around me.
  8. I’m thankful that I’m a writer, and for the good life it has given me.
  9. I’m thankful for the view of the Catalina Mountains that greet me outside my patio door most mornings, even before I get out of bed.
  10.  I’m thankful for neighbors who pop in for a visit, or who stop to smile and chat a few minutes when they see me out walking Scamp, or in the case of my next-door neighbor Hiroko, who walks Scamp most evenings, a holdover from my heart attack last year when others had to give him his daily walks for a while.
  11.   I’m thankful for Dusty, a rescue mutt and Scamp’s best friend, who I have babysat for 12 years now. I’m also thankful for Dusty’s mom, Jean, who makes sure I’m still breathing each morning when she drops her dog off before going on to work. Scamp sometimes lets me sleep in until almost 8 a.m.  My granddaughter Shanna and my oldest son, D.C. also check in with me daily.  I’m blessed with love, for which I am very thankful.
  12.  As I am for my memories, especially since it’s the good times and not the bad times that most often find their way to the surface. Like most of us, I’ve had my share of both.
  13.  I’m thankful for rainbows. And for:
  14.  My doctors and modern medicine.
  15.  A hot bath.
  16.  A comfortable bed.
  17.  Good chocolate.
  18.  Books and their authors.
  19.  The New York Times, my morning newspaper these days. I read it online.
  20.  And thinking of that, I’m thankful for my computer, which connects me to the world.
  21.  The television series Survivor, Amazing Race, Challenge and British mysteries, my all-time favorite shows.  
  22.  A rainy day and a good book.
  23.  Birds.
  24.  My Roomba.
  25.  My new recliner, which is big enough for me to share with my dog.
  26.  A road trip this past September with my best friend Kim.
  27.  National parks and bird and animal sanctuaries.
  28.  My small patio yard, which the birds love.
  29.  Competitive card and board games.
  30.  Funky earrings.
  31.  Comfortable shoes;
  32.  Warm fuzzy socks on a cold day.
  33.  Tye-Dye T-shirts.
  34.  Plants, especially my rubber tree plant which is over 30 years old.
  35.  Jigsaw puzzles.
  36.  My rollator, which lets me walk at my former fast pace.
  37.  The oldest thing I own, which is a drawing of a cardinal owned by my grandmother, who was my favorite person until she died when I was 11.
  38.  My piddling with watercolors.
  39.  America.
  40.  Being a woman.
  41.  My leaf blower, because raking hurts my back.
  42.  Smiles from a stranger, and anybody else, too.
  43.  Deep belly laughs.
  44.  My car, and that I can still drive.
  45.  My morning two cups of coffee with cream.
  46.  Strong women.
  47.  Our family football pool, which helps keep scattered loved ones connected.
  48.  A visit this past year by my youngest daughter, T.C., who I hadn’t seen in quite a while, as well as a visit from my oldest daughter, Deborah and her husband Neal.
  49.  Bookstores, especially Back of Beyond in Moab, Utah, which I got to visit during my road trip with Kim.
  50.  Snail-mail letters.
  51.  Maps.
  52.  Photo memories that drop into my email daily.
  53.  Flowers.
  54.  Hot dogs, with chili, onions and cheese.
  55.  My binoculars, so I can look at birds close up.
  56.  Good, honest and truthful journalism – and yes, it’s still out there.
  57.  Libraries.
  58.  Dad jokes, because my oldest son tells them.
  59.  Bird and other field guides.
  60.  My Dick Tracy watch, at least that’s what I call it because I can get and make phone calls on it. It’s my medical alert plan.
  61.  That after trial and error, I can finally make pumpkin soup that tastes as good as what I had on my African safari.
  62.  Boxes full of surprises that my daughter-in-law sends me
  63.  A blank page waiting to be filled with my words and thoughts.
  64.  Reading glasses.
  65.  The time I now have alone to reflect and connect the dots of my life.
  66.  That if I die tomorrow, I’m ready – but not eager.
  67.  Grandkids and great grandkids.
  68.  Kind and caring people.
  69.  Learning something new, hopefully for every day for the rest of my life.
  70.  Olay moisturizing body wash, a new find this past year.
  71.  Ice in my Jack and Coke.
  72. A clean refrigerator, which mine seldom is.
  73.  Microwave for cooking leftovers.
  74.  Sun, moon and stars.
  75.  The drive up to the top of Mount Lemmon on the Scenic Island Skyway with a grandson and his family.
  76.  Shortbread cookies.
  77.  Email, despite the junk.
  78.  My pill organizer. Never thought I would say that, but then I’ve never been 86 before.
  79.  Home delivery.
  80.  Bright colors.
  81.  Trees, like aspens whose coin-like leaves turn golden in fall, or oaks trees whose twisting branches turn into art.
  82.  Smucker’s sweet orange marmalade on my morning – or midnight – toast.
  83.  My curiosity.
  84.  Monday mornings. I like the feel of a fresh start, and Mondays remind me of this.
  85.  Living alone but never being lonely.
  86.  A good pen.
  87.  Hugs.
  88.  The image in my mind of the peaceful place where I dumped my mother’s ashes.
  89.  My monthly Social Security check.
  90.  Yellow and gold sunrises and purple and orange sunsets.
  91.  Helen Reddy singing “I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar.” – and when I am brave enough to sing this song at a karaoke gathering despite the fact I am tone deaf. A couple of Jack and Cokes beforehand helps.
  92.  A good haircut.
  93.  Clean water to drink, and friendly reminders to drink more of it.
  94.  Scamp’s wonderful groomer, who not only comes to my place, but tells me Scamp is a “good, sweet boy,” despite the fact he got expelled from PetSmart. Have I mentioned that he is a Siberian husky/shih tzu rescue mutt.
  95.  Stimulating conversations, especially where differing people can share their views and nobody gets upset or ugly – and might even learn something.
  96.   Glass containers with lids that can go from the refrigerator to the icebox, or even the oven.
  97.  For the saguaro cacti that can be seen all around Tucson.
  98.  For 50 years of journals.
  99.  That I’ve lived long enough to have wrinkles. I’m proud of every one.

100 And finally for all the readers of my blogs. This, by the way, is the 1,648th one I’ve posted over the years.   

Pat Bean is a retired award-winning journalist who lives in Tucson with her canine companion Scamp. She is an avid reader whose mind is always asking questions (many of which are unanswerable), an enthusiastic birder, staff writer for Story Circle Network’s Journal, author of Travels with Maggie available on Amazon (Free on Kindle Unlimited), and is always searching for life’s silver lining.

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While this is the year and model 1949 Studebaker convertible in which I learned to drive, the one I did that in was a lot more scuffed up and less shiny as I recall.

Aging My Way

One thing leads to another is the way my brain works, especially as an old-broad, and retired journalist who has time to let her mind wonder.

It started with a mention of the Stutz Bearcat, which I thought was a funny name for a car, and which sent me scrambling to learn more. My search had me acknowledging that information at one’s fingertips is the No 1 redeeming feature of the internet.

What I learned is that the Bearcat was designed and built by a man named Harry Stutz because he wanted to enter the Indianapolis 500-mile race. The year was 1911, and Stutz’ car placed 11th in the race’s inaugural event.

While uncovering these bits of history, my mind wandered back to the car in which I learned to drive back in 1955. It was a maroon, 1949 Studebaker convertible owned by a boyfriend.

Wanting to refresh my memory of that 70-year-old part of my personal history, I once again strolled through the internet until I came across a photo of the exact same model and make of that 1949 car.

Almost needless to say because of the year, the convertible had a manual gear shift. It made learning to drive a bit more difficult than today’s automatic transmissions, which I use as an excuse for my first driving lesson. While attempting to work the clutch and gas pedal at the same time, I and that convertible ending up taking out a hedge growing too close to the driveway.

There have been a lot of cars in my life since then, including a 1976 Ford Mustang, which was the first new car I owned and which cost less than $4,000; a 1990’s Subaru Legacy that wasn’t happy unless it was going at least 80, and which earned me three speeding tickets in one year (my first and still only speeding tickets) but which I still consider the best car I ever owned: and a 21-foot, 2004 Volkswagen/Winnebago RV that took me around the country for nine years after I had retired.

I wonder what it would have been like to have driven that 1911 Stutz Bearcat. But then that is something the internet can’t answer.

Pat Bean is a retired award-winning journalist who lives in Tucson with her canine companion Scamp. She is an avid reader whose mind is always asking questions (many of which are unanswerable), an enthusiastic birder, staff writer for Story Circle Network’s Journal, author of Travels with Maggie available on Amazon (Free on Kindle Unlimited), and is always searching for life’s silver lining. She also believes one is never too old to chase a dream.

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While it was far from Arjan’s record-breaking number, I did see 182 bird species during my two-week safari in Kenya and Tanzania, including this Hamerkop sharing a water hole with zebra. The fantastic trip with my best friend, Kim, was also balm to my wanderlust soul. — Photo by Pat Bean

Aging My Way

“Just before sunrise, I am woken up by the deep, foghorn-like song of an Emu. What a great sound to wake up to,” writes Arjan Dwarshuis in The Big (Year) That Flew By. The book is about his quest to break the record for seeing the most bird species in a single year. He did, in 2016, counting 6,852 species. And the record still stands.

It was a journey across six continents through 40 continents. I chose to read the account of his incredible adventure because at heart I have wanderlust in my soul. I’ve also been an avid birder since 1999, the year I turned 60 and realized I needed a hobby that wasn’t quite as strenuous as white-water rafting or tennis.

Suddenly, where I had seldom seen birds, I couldn’t not see birds, which I found fascinating.

But one of my first discoveries as a birder was that it wasn’t always something done sedately. Some bird species can only be found at the tops of high mountains and some only in places where no roads exist. Thankfully I saw a few of those before my hardy adventuring days were over.

These days, I mostly bird in my own small, patio yard or on a gentle path, not necessarily paved, that can accommodate my rollator — a four-wheeled contraption that I can hold onto for balance and which also has a seat — I note this for those unfamiliar with such things.

 Some days I simply sit in it and listen to all the bird songs around me while an app called Merlin identifies the birds by sound for me. Knowing what birds are around often helps me find them with my eyes.

I also often awake to the coos of Mourning Doves, the screeches of a pair of Gila Woodpeckers that like to steal the nectar from my hummingbird feeders, and the chirp, chirp, chirping of House Sparrows – birds that visit my yard daily.

 While not as exotic as waking up to the foghorn-ish song of an Emu, listening to the sound of any bird is still a great way to wake up to. And reading about Arjan’s wondrous adventures chasing birds invigorates my wanderlust soul anytime of the day.

Pat Bean is a retired award-winning journalist who lives in Tucson with her canine companion, Scamp. She is an avid reader, an enthusiastic birder, staff writer for the Story Circle Network Journal, the author of Travels with Maggie available on Amazon (Free on Kindle Unlimited), is always searching for life’s silver lining, and these days aging her way – and that’s usually not gracefully.

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Male Hooded Oriole

“Nature is never boring. If you pay attention, you will always see, hear, smell or feel something surprising, whether you are walking around in a tropical rainforest or in your own backyard.” – Arjan Dwarshuis, from his book, The (Big) Year That Flew By.

Aging My Way

As I’m reading Arjan’s book – which takes readers on a year-long journey around the world in which the author saw a record-breaking 6,852 birds in a single year — I’m watching the rain pour over the gutters outside my patio door. It’s monsoon season in Tucson and it’s been a wet and windy one.

I treasure Arjan’s words because the only place I’ve been bird and nature watching recently has been my own small patio yard. It’s a shady place with two oleander trees, a tall cottonwood, and a potted rubber tree plant that I’ve owned for over 30 years. Birds, enticed even more by seed and nectar feeders, love it.

The most recent and spectacular avian visitors have been a pair of hooded orioles, the male a bright gold and the female a bright yellow. They hang around, and feed from the nectar feeder.

Hey Arjan! I’m paying attention.

Pat Bean is a retired award-winning journalist who lives in Tucson with her canine companion, Scamp. She is an avid reader, an enthusiastic birder, staff writer for the Story Circle Network Journal, the author of Travels with Maggie available on Amazon (Free on Kindle Unlimited), is always searching for life’s silver lining, and these days aging her way – and that’s usually not gracefully.

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From my journals: The day I brought Maggie home. She accompanied me in my RV travels for eight years, and was the inspiration for the title of my book, Travels with Maggie. She experienced my laughter more than my tears.

Aging My Way

A character in a book I was reading said that if you ever needed a good cry, do it around a cow, because dogs notice and come around with licks and kisses to cheer you up.

Thinking about the five dogs that have been my companions over the past eight decades, I couldn’t help but agree with the comment. The dogs, in their turn, each knew when a soft nuzzle was needed. And their warm bodies cuddled up next to mine always comforted me.

So, despite agreeing with the fictional character, whose name I can’t recall right now, I think I’ll stick to dogs when I cry. That even makes sense since there are no cows nearby.

Tears have long been a part of my life. I cried a lot as a child, my favorite place being inside a hedge with a small black mutt, whom I had uncreatively named Blackie. I cried because I was not popular, because my family wasn’t the fantasy one portrayed on television. I cried because I thought no one loved me. I cried if I thought someone looked at me wrong.  

I was a foolish child usually crying over nothing, but the tears soothed me. In later years, I learned that tears have actually been scientifically proven to be beneficial, that they detoxify the body and restore its balance.

As a young mother and wife, I cried because my own family was not the everyone-lived-happily-ever-after kind. I cried when my children were hurt, and when my marriage dissolved.

Later I would cry because I couldn’t find my perfect soul mate. Those tears were usually shed at midnight when I was curled up beneath a quilt, and often interrupted when my dog, a faithful cocker spaniel named Peaches back then, would wiggle beneath the covers to comfort me.

 I don’t think a cow could do that – not to mention I wouldn’t want it to. And neither, I eventually decided, did I want, or need, a soul mate. I was my own soul mate, and I had a good life, and a good dog. This is probably why I rarely cry these days.

Luckily, I laugh a lot. And science has proven that laughter is quite good for the body, too.

Pat Bean is a retired award-winning journalist who lives in Tucson with her canine companion, Scamp. She is an avid reader, an enthusiastic birder, the author of Travels with Maggie available on Amazon (Free on Kindle Unlimited), is always searching for life’s silver lining, and these days aging her way – and that’s usually not gracefully.

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Aging My Way

I came across a quote by John F. Kennedy this morning that I thought was worthy of being copied into my journal.  “Too often we enjoy the comfort of opinion without the discomfort of thought,he said.  As I don’t want to write about politics today, I’ll let you put your own understanding and meaning to these words.

Meanwhile, I frequently copy quotes into my journal. Usually, they are ones that cleverly and inspiringly put into words something meaningful to me, sometimes even causing me to rethink a subject.

One quote that came to my wandering/wondering brain this morning was the well-known (well at least it sure be familiar to some of you) was “The pen is mightier than the sword.”  As I added those words to my journal as part of my thoughts, I wanted to give credit to the author.  My brain was telling me it was Benjamin Franklin, but then the old reporter adage, “double check even if your mother says it’s so,” sent me doing some quick research.

I’m glad I did because I discovered that the phrase was first written by novelist and playwright Edward Bulwer-Lytton. He penned the words in his historical play Cardinal Richelieu in 1839.

As so often happens, that search sent me on another search. Why was Edward’s last name hyphenated? The answer was that his father’s name was General William Earle Bulwer and his mother’s name was  Elizabeth Barbara Lytton.

Now that seemed odd to me, as in those days women were still considered property.  So, who was Elizabeth?

My research continued and I learned that she was a member of the Lytton family of Knebworth House in Hertfordshire, England. After her father’s death, Elizabeth resumed her father’s surname, by a royal license of 1811. That year she returned to Knebworth House, which by then had become dilapidated. She renovated it by demolishing three of its four sides and adding Gothic towers and battlements to the remaining building.

She lived at Knebworth with her son, the writer Edward Bulwer-Lytton, until her death. Because of a long-standing dispute she had with the church, she is buried not with her ancestors at St Mary’s Knebworth, but in the Lytton Mausoleum.

Hmm. I wonder if the dispute had anything to do with women’s rights. But what’s the significance of Knebworth House. My brain was still on a roll.

It’s an English Country House (Looked like a mansion to me), according to Wikipedia, that has been the home of the Lytton family since 1490. Furthermore, the grounds are home to the Knebworth Festival, a recurring open-air rock and pop concert held since 1974, and until 2014 was home to another hard rock festival, Sonisphere.

And suddenly I realized the morning was almost over. This happens a lot.

It’s a good thing I’m retired.

Pat Bean is a retired award-winning journalist who lives in Tucson with her canine companion, Scamp. She is an avid reader, an enthusiastic birder, the author of Travels with Maggie available on Amazon (Free on Kindle Unlimited), is always searching for life’s silver lining, and these days aging her way – and that’s usually not gracefully.

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My former newspaper colleague and dear friend Charlie Trentelman has been browsing the archives of The Standard-Examiner, where I worked for over 20 years. He came across these old clippings and emailed me a copy. Ah! … The memories.

Aging My Way

Laurie Lisle, in her memoir Word for Word said perhaps one of the reasons she wanted to be a reporter is because she could ask anyone about almost anything.

I remember responding to that question a few times in the same way. Of course, it went much deeper than that, with the most important thing being that I wanted to write, and I wanted to be read.

That’s why I blog. It’s why I wrote Travels with Maggie, why I am the staff writer for Story Circle Networks’ journal, and why, occasionally these days, I still submit articles to a variety of publications.

And if that isn’t enough, I fill a page or two in my personal journal most days.

I write because to not do so would be to not breath. I consider myself blessed to have found this passion in my life when I was 25. It happened about 2 a.m. in the morning when I couldn’t sleep, and for some unknown reason found myself getting up and writing about an incident that had moved me deeply the day before.

The only thing I had ever written before this were high school English assignments, which I didn’t particularly enjoy. But I had been, from the time I first learned the alphabet, a bookworm. I read every opportunity I got, from the words on a cereal box to Tolstoy’s War and Peace. In my mind, writers were a breed so far above me that I couldn’t picture being among them.

In fact, it was a dozen or more years after I was supporting myself as a newspaper writer before I finally realized I was actually one of them. And even longer after that before I could actually call myself a writer.

It has now been 58 years since that devious writing bug infected me — and changed the whole trajectory of my life.

I’ve come to love that bug with all my heart.  And I’m still writing and hope to be right up until the day I die.

Pat Bean is a retired award-winning journalist who lives in Tucson with her canine companion, Scamp. She is an avid reader, an enthusiastic birder, the author of Travels with Maggie available on Amazon (Free on Kindle Unlimited), is always searching for life’s silver lining, and these days aging her way – and that’s usually not gracefully.

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The Gift of Having Pets  

Chigger — Art by Pat Bean

I came across a blog this morning about the gifts your pets bring to you.

The first thing I thought about was Chigger, the cat my son rescued in a canyon during a snow storm. She was quite tiny, probably less than six weeks old, when he dumped her in my lap on Christmas Eve and said “Merry Christmas Mom.”

She got her name at about 2 a.m. the next morning when I wanted to sleep and she wanted to play. Nothing, I thought, is pestier than chiggers. Chigger and I spent the next 18 years of our lives together.

One of the first things she gifted me with was a bird – this was before birding became one of my passions so I have no idea what species it was. But it was alive and seemed unhurt. I quickly shut Chigger up in the bathroom until I had released the bird, which because of my love of wild things, I was glad to see could quickly fly away.

Chigger let me know she was pissed, and never brought me another bird. Instead, she chose to bring me dead field mice – often.

Then there was my Cocker Spaniel Peaches. She and Chigger were pals, although I never knew until both were aged and hard-of-hearing, and I spied them sleeping curled up together. This, I thought, was a very good friendship because it was a time when I worked long hours and they were home alone.

The only gift Peaches ever brought to me was a tennis ball – and that was with an ulterior motive in mind. She wanted me to throw it for her to fetch – over and over again.

My current canine companion Scamp occasionally brings me a toy to throw for him to chase, or to initiate a game of tug of war, but mostly he expects me to give him gifts. He especially likes to receive his own piece of mail.

He sits in front of me expectantly after I bring in the mail, clearly asking me with his eyes: “Where’s mine, where’s mine?”

So, I give him an envelope or piece of junk mail, and he bounces off happy. A while later, I find myself snooping down – it’s good exercise – to pick up tiny bits of paper scattered around the house. It’s always made more difficult by Scamp trying to rescue as many of the pieces he can. So much fun.

But the best gift all my pets have given me has been unconditional love – and they always know when I need it the most.

Pat Bean is a retired award-winning journalist who lives in Tucson with her canine companion, Scamp. She is an avid reader, an enthusiastic birder, the author of Travels with Maggie available on Amazon (Free on Kindle Unlimited), is always searching for life’s silver lining, and these days aging her way – and that’s usually not gracefully.

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Antelope Island in 2002. The water level of Great Salt Lake has dropped significantly since then. — Photo by Pat Bean

Aging My Way

“It’s quiet, peaceful. My soul feels blessed,” I wrote in my journal on March 19, 2002. This was the winter that I visited Antelope Island in Utah’s Great Salt Lake at least once a week. My companion was usually only my canine companion Maggie — and I usually had the 42-square-mile island almost to myself, given that there was often snow on the ground.

It was a very busy winter for me. As city editor in charge of my Ogden newspaper’s coverage of the 2002 Winter Olympics, whose downhill ski events were all being held in the paper’s backyard, Antelope Island was my recall to sanity.

 I also thought of the lake and island as my personal Birding 101 Lab. It was here, with the help of birding field guides, I learned to identify ducks and swallows and shorebirds and songbirds all on my own. And I recorded it all in my journals.

The robin and meadowlark sharing a tree and seemingly trying to out-sing one another. The magpie stealing food from a golden eagle. A chukar sitting on a rock staring at me as I drove past. The rainbow of sparkling color on the starlings’ black feathers. The lone pair of Barrow’s goldeneyes among the flock of common goldeneyes. The pair of ravens that always seemed to appear near the curve in the six-mile causeway to the island.

And not just birds. There were bison, which sometimes blocked the road, and  prong-horn antelope that kept their distance, and the porcupine asleep in a tree, and especially the lone coyote that followed me across the causeway one morning.

Rereading my words from over 20 years ago, while sitting here over 800 miles away in Tucson on a cold, but sunny morning, drinking my cream-laced coffee, I smile. It’s a good way to start Superbowl Sunday.

Pat Bean is a retired award-winning journalist who lives in Tucson with her canine companion, Scamp. She is an avid reader, an enthusiastic birder, the author of Travels with Maggie available on Amazon (Free on Kindle Unlimited), is always searching for life’s silver lining, and these days aging her way – and that’s usually not gracefully.

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A tree and birds. I like that. — Art by Pat Bean

Nothing like a day spent at a hospital emergency room after being woke up at 3 a.m. with crippling leg pain to set you on a path of new beginnings. I swear it was worse than childbirth, and I have five children.

Thankfully, it wasn’t a blood clot, or something else life-threatening. After tests, it turned out to be related to the back pain I’ve been fighting for a few years – just on an atomic bomb level.

It clearly called, however, for a major change in my life, one family members have been pestering me to take for a few years now, a move to a ground-floor apartment. I know I’ve been a stubborn bitch for not heeding their advice, but I loved my apartment, and I wasn’t interested in a change, even if it meant continuing to walk my dog up and down three flights of stairs four or five times a day, not to mention laundry and errand trips.

I’ve been calling it my fool-proof exercise plan. But dang-it, the plan was no longer working.

So, while recovering this week at home, with family and friends taking on my dog-walking duties, I came across a quote by Stephanie Raffelock, which I found in her book, “A Delightful Little Book on Aging.

We should all take a little more time to cry and wail, allowing tears to baptize us into fresh starts,” she wrote.

Well, I certainly did that Friday. I wailed and sniveled practically all day about my horrid, bad, no-good dilemma. Then on the weekend, I begin online searches for a new apartment. It wasn’t looking good, until my granddaughter Shanna and her wife Dawn, remembered a small nearby apartment complex that they had looked at for themselves a few months ago.

Its office was closed until Monday, but with them carefully ushering me down the stairs, we drove by to take a look at the apartment that was for listed to rent on their web site. It was just about 10 minutes away, a location near the top of my priority list because I wanted to stay in Tucson’s Catalina Foothills, which I’ve come to love since moving to Arizona in 2013.

While I still haven’t looked at the inside, I immediately fell in love with the soon-to-be-vacated outside’s large, fenced-in patio that had doors leading to it from both the bedroom and living areas. It would be perfect for simply letting my canine companion Scamp in and out, an amenity that topped my list of must haves, given that I’m 83 and my back pain is likely to recur.

The clincher for me was the huge tree growing in the middle of the patio. You should know that I once bought a house almost solely because I fell in love with its huge backyard tree.

The new neighborhood is older but nice, and the small apartment complex grounds abounded with flowers and greenery. And within minutes I was looking at birds, including nesting doves above the office door. I can already envision a small fountain and bird feeders beneath that patio tree.

All of the above gave me the confidence that I can meld the inside to fit my needs. Age has let me know that no one can ever simply have everything they want, but it looks like I will have all I need for a happy life.

I cinched the deal Monday and will be moving in around the middle of August. I’m so excited about this new beginning that I’m not even thinking about all the tasks involved in a move. Not yet anyway.

Pat Bean is a retired award-winning journalist who lives in Tucson with her canine companion, Scamp. She is a wondering-wanderer, avid reader, enthusiastic birder, Lonely Planet Community Pathfinder, Story Circle Network board member, author of Travels with Maggie available on Amazon (Free on Kindle Unlimited) and is always searching for life’s silver lining.

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