The downside of independent living

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Helping seniors and individuals with disabilities to maintain their independence and continue living in their homes.

The quote above is the mission of a nonprofit for which I regularly volunteer. And I am proud to do so. The services provided include giving rides, shopping for/delivering groceries, and doing minor home repairs. Our efforts make many, many people’s lives much easier. 

The work I do for them sometimes gives me a glimpse into older adults’ homes. These are usually modest stand-alone houses, condos, and apartments. Often, the resident’s tenure there has been very long - decades even - and the livingrooms are filled with mementos and photos of meaningful lives. While not fussy, the rooms I see, usually from the doorway, are clean, tidy, and well-maintained.

But now and then I find a truly horrific scene when asked to take groceries from the front door, through the house to the kitchen, past smoldering ashtrays and overflowing cat litter boxes. Or I need to come into the living room to assist the client in getting into or out of a wheelchair, glancing at piles of papers everywhere, overflowing garbage cans, and spotted carpets. Or, I need to remind my client to grab the house keys so I can lock the door and to have a mask since the clinic we will be visiting requires them and see around me all the symptoms of hoarding disorder. (In all fairness, I am an admitted neat-nik.)

The folks whose dwellings are the biggest mess are always single. Several, it seems, have recently lost spouses over the past year or so. Many seem to have no family, no family nearby, or no family with which they maintain a relationship. None can drive. Few seem to have a computer or smartphone. Even more than the hazards of filthy living conditions, I don’t know how they bear the isolation.

Our American culture (white, middle-class culture, anyway) celebrates independence. Personal independence especially. The iconic pioneer who goes it alone, needing no one or nothing to survive, is ingrained in many of us. We see single home ownership as a sign of success. We strive to save enough to be self-sufficient economically in retirement. To admit one needs assistance is a sign of weakness. This results in many older adults remaining in homes which they can no longer maintain, even at the risk of their health and safety.

Leaving a home filled with memory, downsizing, and subjecting oneself to new rules of “assisted living,” has to be one of life’s toughest decisions. But I wonder if our culture’s call for independence doesn’t too often drown out the many benefits of living in a more cooperative senior community. These senior apartment complexes offer a range of support and services. Common areas, meal service, wellness checks, and organized activities are among the amenities. The senior apartment my grandparents lived in was small, but had its own small kitchen where they would make their own breakfast and reheat leftovers from the community noon meal. Too many of us when we think of “senior living” only envision nursing homes filled with senile ancients, nodding off in wheelchaits, the odor of disinfectant permeating the hallways. 

Living in a senior community’s biggest benefit may come from the opportunity to increase human interaction. “Loneliness and social isolation can be as damaging to health as smoking 15 cigarettes a day, researchers warned in a recent webcast, and the problem is particularly acute among seniors, especially during holidays.” reports the HRSA. With forced isolation because of the pandemic, many of my clients seem terribly alone. One nervous woman to whom I give rides to doctor appointments once reported not being out of her small apartment for over a year! 

One fellow for whom I regularly provide rides was widowed a year or so ago. He and I often visit on the drive to and from different appointments about his luck with online dating. To put it mildly, he is frustrated. “All these women want is a free meal,” he complains. So the last time I saw him I related the true story of a personal experience I once had. Five years or so ago, when I was looking for a place to live in my current suburban community, I walked just down the street from my office to a “senior housing cooperative” - a large building of condos designed for the 55+ crowd. In walking into the commons area, I was surrounded by ladies who must have mistaken me for George Clooney or something and was enthusiastically bombarded with testimonials why I should move into their building - Bingo night! Chair aerobics! Pot luck dinners! It’s up to you, sir, I told my passenger, but you might have better luck finding a girlfriend in a place like that than on a dating website.

I appreciate and admire cultures who are more intergenerational in their approach to housing and activities. Parents care for children and their own parents; grandparents care for their grandchildren. Meals can be shared, as can household responsibilities. I’m guessing getting on each others’ nerves is more problematic than being lonely in such homes.

We as a society need to recognize and message that “independent living” comes with a price. Perhaps a higher one than many should be paying.

Scout values

A Scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent. The Scout Law

I was a Boy Scout as a kid.  As the picture above shows, I was also a glasses-wearing, hair-jelled, mouth-breathing nerd as a high school sophomore. Is it any wonder  girls  were crazy about me?

One of the “stories” I was asked to write last year was  on the question: “Who had the most positive influence on you as a child?” I tweaked the question to “What had the most positive influence…” And I answered - Boy Scouts.

Here are a few of my memories from that story:

My Boy Scout troop, 197, was based in Sac City, Iowa, where I went to school. The Scout Master was Mr. Manthe and he had two sons who were also in the troop. We met in the basement of a building near where my mother still lives. At our regular meetings we did the normal Scout stuff, working on merit badges, learning to tie knots, navigating with a compass, and practicing leadership skills. Our local clothing store, Chiefs, had a section just for Boy Scout stuff, so we all wore our uniforms to school on meeting days until it became too nerdy in about 9th grade.

One of the favorite activities of our troop was hiking and camping at Lubeck Woods, just a couple miles north of town. We would walk the railroad tracks to a small strip of woodland on the north side of the Racoon River that the Scouts “owned.” There we would practice our fire building skills, tent pitching, and mumblety-peg. It always seemed we cooked meals by wrapping hamburger and potatoes in aluminum foil and sticking the packets in the coals. I was never very patient, so my meals usually came out raw. I ate them anyway. We played in the river and just goofed around.

My equipment consisted of a pup tent that required ropes, poles, and stakes to set up. It was quite nice since it had a sewn-in floor. We were alway careful though to trench just outside the walls of the tent in case of rain. I had a sleeping bag, of course, but I don’t remember what I used for padding under it. My cook kit was metal that fit together with a plate on one side attached to a frying pan on the other with a cup and small pot held between the two pieces. This is how I learned to love camping.

Not all campouts were a success, however. My friends Ray and Dan and I needed to do a five-mile hike and an overnight campout by ourselves to meet some badge requirements. So we hiked to my Uncle Jack’s woods, a pasture through which a river ran. Leaving Dan’s house, we hiked all afternoon, stopped at Uncle Jack’s house to let him know we were there, and continued to the pasture in the middle of the section where we pitched our tent and cooked supper. We were doing fine until it got very, very dark, the campfire went out, and we started telling each other scary stories, huddled in the tent. We began hearing strange noises. And when we looked out the flaps, there were sets of huge, glowing eyes! We were so freaked out that we knew we could not get to sleep so we left our tent behind and ran back to the house. We woke up Uncle Jack and Aunt Ellabelle who reminded us that we were sleeping in a “cow” pasture and that cows made noise and had large eyes that glowed when you shined a flashlight in them. We slept on their porch that night, went back and got our tent in the morning, and hiked back home.

The other big event in Boy Scouts for me was summer camp near West Lake Okoboji. For two summers in a row, my troop and I spent a week there, sleeping in large walled tents on cots and eating in the dining hall. Some traditions included having a “Custer vs the Indians” fight with small bags of flour as weapons (having flour on you counted as a wound); earning a mile-swim badge to wear on your trunks; and having to stand on a table in the dining hall and sing, while slowly revolving with a hand on your head, “I’m a little prairie flower, growing wilder by the hour” if it was your birthday. (Listen to it on YouTube.) A few of us would also sneak out of camp to a drive-in to buy ice cream cones now and then.

But probably the most memorable event for me was receiving the Order of the Arrow. And in the 1960s the Boy Scouts didn’t just give the OA away - you had to survive the ordeal...

On the Thursday of the camp, all Scouts gathered in a large circle around 3 huge bonfires late in the evening. Ceremonies included past OA scouts dressed as Native Americans (wearing war paint, of course) dancing with garter snakes in their mouths, drums thundering in the night. But at one point, these same scouts began running inside the circle with flaming torches. Once each round, these frightening figures would face an inward facing scout, and with a scream and forceful shove, push the unknowing boy into the arms of other scouts behind him. This is how we learned we had been inducted into the OA.

We were then drug to our tent to gather our sleeping bags and led blindfolded to a remote wooded part of the camp. There we were expected to spend the night alone and find our way back to the dining hall early the next morning. On getting back to camp, our breakfast consisted of a raw egg. We did not have the option not to eat it.

During the day, we were to maintain a vow of silence. We also carved an arrow from a shaft of wood which would then later hang in the dining hall along with past years' OA arrows. If we talked during the day, we had to carve a notch in our arrow and if we cut ourselves, we were to adorn the arrow with a drop of blood. (No, I am not making this up.) I don't remember anything else of the ordeal. But I survived.

The camp no longer exists, but there is public park land there one can still hike. (Our family did this over a Labor Day weekend we spent in Okoboji.)  Supposedly all the old carved OA arrows are now in a Kansas or Nebraska Boy Scout camp dining hall. 

Unlike my smarter and more ambitious grandsons, I never made it to Eagle Rank, only Life. I’ve forgotten most of my orienteering, knot tying, and campfire cooking skills.

But Boy Scouts taught me a lot that I still value. I learned that a little hardship while camping or hiking  is survivable and makes a good story. I learned that good people always leave a campsite better than they found it - and that perhaps we should all leave the world a little better place as well. The laws of Scouting that started this post are still my moral compass, even if I can no longer recite them from memory.

I am very glad my grandsons have participated in Scouting*. I have been lucky enough to go to Cub Scout/Boy Scout camping weekends with them, go hiking in Rocky Mountain National Park and canoeing in the Boundary Waters with Paul, and hike Philmont with Miles. I have no doubt but that the Scouts have and will be a positive influence on their lives too.

Scouts is still the best paramilitary youth organization going.

*I am very much aware of the problems Scouts have been having with sexual abuse issues. It is important to call these inexcusable actions out and address them. But it is also important to remember that they represent a small fraction of Scouting experiences. I am also happy to see many more girls participate in Scouting, including hiking at Philmont. 

Is it a walk or is it a hike?

Grandsons on the South Rim.

A local bike club is organizing some winter activities, including outdoor ambulation. A question was raised by a potential leader - “Do I describe what I am planning to do a walk or a hike?”

The first time I considered this question was in 2016. My grandsons and I had just finished a Grand Canyon hike down Bright Angel Trail to Phantom Ranch and back, camping two nights in Indian Gardens. It was a challenge for all of us - but quite fun.

On our return, we spent a day on the South Rim visiting on foot museums, scenic vistas, shops, etc. along the paved trail that hugged the rim. When I told 15-year-old Paul that I enjoyed the day’s hike, he scoffed, “That was no hike; it was a walk!” I didn’t argue, but I didn’t really give it much thought either.

So when the question of whether an activity is a hike or a walk came up again this week, I did a bit of online searching. As usual, there were a lot of opinions. Many had similar criteria:

• How long is the activity in both distance and time? Walks tend to be shorter in both distance and time spent. I’m sure most of us can think of exceptions, but walks are usually less strenuous.

• How fast is one moving? I usually walk about 16 minute miles, but am happy on rugged hikes to do two miles an hour. The energy burned on hikes usually comes from climbing, balancing, and carrying on hikes, not speed.

• What kinds of surfaces will be encountered? Walks are often on paved, flat surfaces. Hikes are usually on trails with elevation change - sometimes extreme, requiring scrambling up near vertical inclines. Roots, rocks, and uneven surfaces are all a given on hikes. 

• Is special equipment like boots required? Walks tend to be done in the shoes one wears for day-to-day activities - tennies, sandals, loafers. For hikes, boots of some sort are recommended, although trail runners, hiking shoes, and other less bulky footwear is ever more popular. I often use poles on hikes.

• Is a pack involved? Hikers often take a pack, even on day hikes, carrying water, snacks, and a first aid kit. (Although I did encounter “hikers” in the Grand Canyon carrying only bottles of Coke and wearing sandals.) Walkers are usually free of packs.

• Is it in an urban or natural setting? When I think of taking a walk, I envision sidewalks and traffic and buildings. Hikes require a more natural area - often a park or wilderness area. 

The trip to Phantom Ranch on the Colorado River was unarguably a hike. And perhaps Paul was right, our day spent along the Rim might have been better described as a walk. 

Just before writing this, I went out for my Sunday morning exercise. I went to a county park. I went a shade over four 18.5-minute miles. The majority of the morning was spent on dirt trails, with a few lengths of service roads. The path was fairly flat, but there were a few hills - none that required scrambling or even stopping for breath. I wore hiking shoes and did not carry a pack. Walk or hike?

My advice to the bike club members in telling others about a planned activity is to worry less about calling it a hike or walk and do a good job actually describing it. “We will be going around Lake of the Isles at a fairly fast pace. Good shoes are required. Anticipate approximately 3.5 to 4 miles total.” Those hardy souls for whom this description sounds pretty leisurely, may call it a walk; for those who may see this as more challenging, they may call it a hike.

Bill Bryson ironically titled his book about hiking the 2000+ mile Appalachian Trail, A Walk in the Woods. I’ve heard a friend say he was going to “hike” down to the store that was two blocks away. I suggest practicing empathy and tolerance toward those for whom the definition of a hike or walk may be different from your own.