Beth Broderick: Wit and Wisdom for the Ages from the Aged Podcast

A Little More Time

Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick I made time, which is not easy, as my not-so-subtle workaholic tendencies always put up quite the argument. Yes, I should have stayed home and worked on the many projects that are crying out for my attention. Yes, there are lists of things that need to be done. Print Bob’s script. Pose with Ivy Cove bag. Letter to building management to report neighbor for smoking in the bathroom. Book flight. Pick up SSD 1 TB for the ballet company, whatever the hell that is. All on the to-do, on the should-be-done. I wished I had just a little more time that day, but it would all have to wait. I wanted to see my family, so I took a French bath, gave the pits and bits a quick once-over, and headed out the door. I love to frequent a weird old Italian market in the Valley called The Monte Carlo. This is the first odd thing about it, because Monte Carlo, the place, is located on the French Riviera and is not in any way, shape, or form Italian, but that’s the name of the joint, and we all just go with it. As you enter, there is a quaint little dining area to the left. The locals pour in after soccer games and graduations, or just because, to dine on fresh pizza and pasta. They line up to order and are given a number, then everyone crowds into the booths with a soda and tells stories while they wait for their food. It’s a fun ritual to observe, and the mostly male staff is non-plussed when a child knocks a whole pie to the ground or elbows her Shirley Temple sideways, flooding the table. The items are replaced at no cost, and the young tears of frustration are quickly dried. A great scene, but not what I am there for. I head to the right and take a number. There is always a wait, but the ancient, hair-net-clad gentlemen behind the counter move with surprising speed. I will peruse the gluten-free section while awaiting my turn or cadge a bottle of imported balsamic glaze to drizzle over their house-made burrata. There is a whole case of gelato made right there, and another filled with pastries, cookies, and cannoli. The aisles boast some very good affordable imported wines as well as dried pastas, herbs, and oils. The deli counter is bursting with options. There are gallons of fresh marinara and meat sauce, cases of cheese and imported meats. Homemade sausage and neatly grated mozzarella, all sold in amounts large or small. Huge lettuces and other fresh veggies line the simple wooden bench in front. A visit there is, for me, the adult version of being a kid in a candy store. They even have eggplant prepped and fried to a golden crisp, ready to be molded into a parmigiana. Heaven. Once home, I set out all of the ingredients that I will bag up and take over, making sure to put the new stuffed toy I picked up for the nephew at Disneyland where it would be remembered. It is a lovely snow leopard, a little bigger than the other stuffies I have given him. It gratified me to hear recently that he often cradles the Winnie the Pooh doll I picked months ago. I am told that he offers it cookies and treats too. The alphabet puzzle I gave him last week was a dud. He liked dragging the box around by its corded handle, but opening it and playing with it? Nope. No chance. Big yawn. He ran around the house with a broom and a dog brush instead and shot the occasional basket with his blue ball. My sister Laura and I had a good time putting it together, but the most we could get him to do was put a few pieces back in the container afterward. It’s hit and miss with kids and gifts, but always fun to try. My sisters and I have a ritual. At least one night a week, we take turns choosing a meal to share and providing the ingredients to compose it. I suggested that I pick up the fantastic rustic bread and the above-mentioned burrata along with fixings for a spaghetti dinner. The girls had peaches in the fridge from their bi-weekly farm delivery, and I had some small Persian cucumbers and sweet ripe tomatoes on hand. A perfect early summer menu emerged. Fresh peach/tomato salad with cucumbers, mint, and burrata topped with a light homemade balsamic dressing, followed by simple red-sauce pasta with fresh sausage (regular and vegan) on the side and meatballs for the lad. He is eighteen months old and a whirling dervish. His moms are madly in love with him but admit that his energy level is at times so over-the-top that they have to rotate taking breaks in order to maintain their sanity. I love being able to go over and make a meal for them, so that they can relax for a few minutes. He was sleeping when I arrived. I smiled to see his Winnie tucked under one pale, chubby arm. The girls sat at the counter, and we all shared a glass of wine as I puttered around the kitchen. I have cooked so often there that I know the ins and outs of their well-stocked galley, but I still struggle with the “child locks” on the cupboards and stovetop. I can futz with those magnet thingies for what seems like an eternity, but I only occasionally manage to get things open. Sarah is the handy one in the family and is regularly required to intervene. We set the table outside and set up FaceTime so we could keep an eye on the baby as we ate. Dinner was delicious, the salad bursting with sweetness, crunch, and tang, the pasta simple and satisfying, and that damned bread! I am not supposed to eat it; the gluten activates my psoriatic arthritis, but it is so delicious that I had to have one piece and then just a little bit more. Sarah explained to me what an SSD with 1TB is and where to find one. The girls went over the new words that Kalen is finally using. He is physically very adept, learns how to use tools and toys quickly, has terrific balance and perfect aim, but until recently he was not that interested in talking. He is coming on strong now. “Mama,” Kitty,” Cheese,” and Doggie” are frequent utterances. I have tried to teach him to call me BB, but he is so far indifferent to that proposal. He can use sign language too. He’s got “good job, “all done,” and “more” down pat. He woke up groggy and a bit cranky at first but soon stood on his ladder/stool at the kitchen counter and shoved fistfuls of spaghetti into his mouth. I rinsed off the dishes, and we took turns refilling his plate when he pointed to the pasta and tapped his fingertips together for “more”. Then we were off to the races, singing and dancing and careening around the living room. I can keep up with him but admit to being a tad winded from the jig-like dance interludes. I told him about his present as I took it slowly out of the plastic Disney bag. The snow leopard was a big hit. He hugged it tight and took it everywhere, intermittently placing it on the coffee table so he could offer it some water from an empty cup. ONE MORE WAVE. There is never enough time to spend with my nieces and nephews and the new batch of grands. Some are blood, and some are not, but all are family. Lauren and 2-year-old Luna are in Colorado, where she and her husband have built a good life. Jenica is close by with Andrew and Lily; her brother Adam has settled with Zoe and Hannah in Kansas. I don’t see any of them often enough. Neither Conor nor his brother, Journey, has tied the knot yet, but I am betting that one will be heading down the aisle soon. Meghan does not seem the marrying kind but may surprise us. She has been a devoted aunt and caregiver to her best friend’s two girls and may end up finding her way to one or two of her own. Maya is still in college and way too smart to let anything interfere with getting a good education, but like her own multi-talented mom, I suspect she will find a way to do it all. The littles will grow and, like their parents before them, will begin to drift from me. The day always comes when a visit from their beloved aunt is no longer a special occasion. They will, in what will feel like no time at all, greet me with a quick smile and perfunctory hug and then go back to plans with their teen friends. It is a bittersweet moment, but an important development along the way. Their parent(s) and I will watch them bang out the front door with equal parts awe and terror, then we will collapse onto the sofa and remember when. I have often been asked why I did not want children. (Which, for the record, is rude, insensitive, and reeks of misogyny.) I did. There were years where I desperately wanted them, and I tried and tried and tried, but my body had other plans. I had had four surgeries to remove tumors before finally having the hysterectomy, which would give me back my health. I was just 40 years old. My second husband did not want kids, and by the time that marriage imploded, it might not have been, but it felt too late for me to adopt on my own. I have my sorrows, but I do not have any regrets. Unto each life … a little rain. By eight o’clock, little Kalen was growing weary, kept resting his head on his new buddy “Snowy,” and I had a long-Ish drive across town. The girls and I had packed me up with to-go containers from my last visit and a few grocery odds and ends that would likely go unused in their house “Hey, K, I have to go. BB needs to leave. I am going to go home now, okay?” It took him a minute to register this. He tootled around with Snowy and paid little attention until I picked up my bags and slung my purse over my shoulder, and then his eyes went wide. “It’s okay, buddy. I will wave to you in the window. Go there, and I will be able to see you, and we can wave. I’ll see you in the window!” His mom, Sarah, wrapped him up in her strong arms and headed toward the bay window that looks out upon their street. He looked at me with pleading eyes, his little hands clapping his fingertips together. “More, more, more!” “Aw, he’s signing ‘more’ for you. He wants more of you,” she said. I waved enthusiastically. “I have to go, honey. Meet me at the window.” His lip began to curl with disappointment, but his mom held him tight. “Aw. Sorry, baby; we will wave from the window, okay?” Outside, I rapped on the glass and made faces, waving bye-bye. Then I would leave and quickly jump back into the picture, getting weirder with each wave. He laughed and laughed, and I repeated the bit a few times, then made my way off the porch. There was still time for one more comedy moment, so I parted the bushes and appeared out of nowhere, mugging and goofy-eyed. I got a huge reaction and, as any good performer knows, that was my cue to disappear into the night. Always leave them laughing. Driving home, I smiled ruefully, remembering his little hands pleading with me to stay. I want just a little more, too, buddy. Just a little more of all of it … every damned day. On we go … We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe [https://bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

Expect Delays

Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick “Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking.” It was twenty-five minutes into the flight from Miami to Newark, New Jersey, too late for the standard welcome speech that is often given from the cockpit. The one where he or she (but let’s face it, still mostly he) welcomes the passengers on board, introduces the names and home city of the flight attendants, and then gives a quick rundown of how the flight should go. “Looks like we are going to get to Philadelphia in about 4 hours and 26 minutes; wind speeds could get us there a little sooner. Weather should be pretty clear, maybe a few bumps about midway where we will have to ask you to stay seated with your seatbelt fastened. But we should have a mostly smooth ride. The weather in Philly is cloudy with a chance of rain, and it’s about 65 degrees on the ground there. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight.” You don’t have to tell me twice. I actually love flying. It is one of the only times that I EVER sit back and relax. I crack open a good book, indulge in the salty snacks provided, put my feet up as best I can, and allow myself to drift off into another world This announcement had a different tone. I sat up. “Looks like we are going to be making an emergency landing in West Palm Beach. There is an issue on board, and for everyone’s safety we need to get this aircraft on the ground. We are making our descent and should be there shortly. I will keep you posted. Please remain seated. Flight attendants, take your jump seats.” He sounded calm but concerned, and while I did not panic, I admit to having felt a flush of worry. Firstly, we were in a large-capacity plane with a full tank of fuel, which technically would make us too heavy to land. These weights are calculated very carefully according to flight duration and anticipated speed. I looked out the window next to my seat, searching for clues as to what was wrong. As we approached, a wide variety of emergency vehicles were assembling below. Two fire trucks and several smaller red ambulance-sized vans were standing by, with a few more on the way. ‘Uh boy,’ I thought. We landed without incident. There was no smoke or skidding, no listing to one side or the other. The tires did not give way under our girth as we rolled toward the great gaggle of first responders. who were racing toward us. Turned out that the oven in first class was acting up; the stewardess had smelled something burning. A fire on an airplane could spell disaster, so the captain had made the right call. It was very dramatic for a few minutes as the emergency crews assessed the damage and checked the plane for injuries caused by our abrupt, overweight return to terra-firma. The inspections were going to take a while, so we were allowed to deplane, but ordered to stay in the waiting area for updates about our flight. There were not enough seats there, so some folks were milling about while a large gathering stood shoulder to shoulder staring at the lone attendant manning the desk, trying to collectively will her to give us a hint about what lay in store. I headed to the bar. A glass of chardonnay was very much in order at that point. It was tiny and crowded, with the two barmen trying to serve drinks as well as pizza. I jostled into position and waited patiently. The gentleman next to me ordered a beer to go, and a bell rang. Perfect. I could enjoy a glass of wine while following the erroneous order to stay in the crowded boarding area. As I made my way back with my to-go glass, I passed two young gay men who were obviously returning from vacation. They were dressed in beach-y outfits, sandals, and straw hats, but their body language was tense. One of them seemed more than a little anxious. I held up my glass and pointed in the direction of the bar. “They sell it to go here.” They looked at each other and then back to me with wide eyes that said, ‘Oh, thank Gawd!’ There is not much to be said for Florida in my book, but take-out cocktails at the airport are definitely in the plus column. One of the men hightailed it to the bar, and I settled down on the carpet near the window and took out my phone. “Expect major delay,” I texted the friends waiting for me in New Jersey. “Emergency landing. Everything is okay, but this could take a minute.” “Dinner reservations for 8. Your favorite Italian. Think you’ll make it?” “Fingers crossed.” I looked up, and the two men I had spoken to earlier smiled conspiratorially and toasted me with a couple of beers in plastic cups. I tipped my less-than-stellar glass of vino toward them with a big grin. When life gives you lemons … I have been traveling for years and have had some pretty major disruptions and delays. Detroit and Chicago in the winter are always dicey. I have spent many a night at the Hampton Inn near the infamous Michigan city. Ditto the O’Hare Hilton, where you can find good beds and a decent burger. Atlanta and other Southern cities are tricky in the summer, when tropical storms can gather speed and knock your plans right out of the sky. Coping with these problems is part of the deal we must make to avail ourselves of the engineering feat, the--to me, at least--mind-blowing miracle of air travel. When I fly, I always wear three layers of sunscreen. One clear and two tinted, which, I have convinced myself, provides more protection. This is because Martha Stewart says that if we are seated by the window, we should always keep it shut tight. The UV rays above 10,000 feet are incredibly strong and can damage our skin. I always fly in the window seat, and I keep it open for much of the ride. There is no way I am going to miss the sight of the Pacific Ocean as we glide over it, arcing toward the heavens. I am not about to skip seeing a deep blue river snaking through rust colored canyons, or the majestic emerald, sage, and piney hues of our national forests. I delight in staring at the clouds below, always filled with wonder at the fact that we can soar above the weather they contain. The Miami flight took hours to resume, but we made it to Newark in one piece. The First Class passengers had to endure cold snack boxes instead of a proper warm meal, but they did not grumble. At that point, everyone just wanted to get where they were going. I should have landed at 1 pm, but it was after 7 before I had luggage in hand and headed toward the ride-share waiting area. I texted my friends once again. “Made it.” “Huzzah! Why don’t you meet us at the restaurant? It’s halfway between us.” “Brilliant. Will do.” BETTER LATE THAN NEVER. When I arrived at Nettie’s House of Spaghetti, Russell was waiting outside to transfer my luggage to his car. The boys had a good bottle of white already on the table, and I settled into the cozy booth, grateful to be in their company. We ordered what these days is too much food, as we are all older and our appetites have diminished. The broccoli rabe dish is a favorite. It is cooked down and ever so lightly creamed, then molded and delivered in a soufflé-shaped mound. Over the next few days, I used the leftovers in omelets and incorporated them into sauces for pasta. Andrew had to go back into the city, so Russel and I hiked and ran errands and toured about. He drove me past the large former military barracks, now under construction, which will one day be an outpost of Netflix studios. New Jersey has been making a BIG play for production and is poised to become the Hollywood of the East. We visited a fantastic Italian market and walked on the beach at the end of every day. It was a wonderful visit made possible by the privilege of hurtling through the air in a giant vessel. Thursday, I flew into Chicago to see pals the night before going into rehearsals for a live Sabrina the Teenage Witch reunion show. Fierce storms had all of the area airports closed down, and we circled and circled and circled so we could burn enough fuel to land in Indianapolis and wait out the raging winds. Now we needed to re-fuel in order to leave, and there was a long line of vehicles ahead of us, so we sat for hours on the tarmac waiting our turn to gas up. It was tedious, but we eventually took off, made it to our original destination, and landed without further incident. Later that night, rogue tornadoes raged through Indiana, leaving chaos and destruction in their wake. Whew. Those travel Gods can be tricksters, and it’s no fun being waylaid, but I was grateful to have dodged that bullet. A lot of folks complain about air travel these days. I have friends who will not do it unless absolutely necessary. It is expensive to be sure, and arrival times can be disrupted by several factors, some of which are dubious. The planes are getting larger; the new ones so gigantic that it would seem impossible to keep them aloft, but gravity is no match for today’s technological advances. The space allotted each passenger is smaller and more cramped than ever, the snacks are puny, and the add-on charges for luggage and seat assignment are unfair. The mergers in that industry have made for less competition, and there is little incentive to cater to the customer. All of this is true, but I am undaunted and always ready to go when the spirit of adventure calls. I have learned to expect delays and endure complications with equanimity. Flying, to my mind, is still a gift, one that I am ever grateful for. Many of my friends live on the other side of this great continent, and yet I can leave my place after breakfast and be there in time for dinner. Ain’t that something? Ain’t that just the best damned thing? On we go … We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe [https://bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

The Great Erase

Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick On Saturday, I was three pages into the new column for today when I somehow accidentally hit a series of keys that sent the material into the ether. Gone. Deleted. Never to be seen again. Gol dang it!!! This new keyboard bedevils me. The configuration has led to the constant insertion of the number three into one out of six words that I type. My fingers somehow graze it on their way to a t or e or d. That is super annoying, but not as annoying as erasing my whole article! I turned to Google and followed all of the different protocols intended to help me retrieve the lost material. Nope, there was apparently no coming back for the words I had painstakingly strung together with the intent of sharing them with you all. The thought of trying to recreate the piece made me want to lie down and bang my head, so I didn’t. I took a shower and went to the gym. I am aware that this is not the typical order of things. Still, I needed the shower to calm my frazzled nerves, and I needed the gym to make up for the sizable serving of lasagna I had had the day before, followed by Chocolate Peanut Butter ice cream. As I have said before, I am a one-flavor gal; love my vanilla chocolate chip, but that peanutty/chocolatey stuff is a comer. I am still thinking about it, and the fact that a shower of chopped salted Spanish nuts would put it right over the top. AY yum. The loss of the article started me thinking about erasure, about what is and isn’t here. My address book is huge. There are hundreds of entries, many of them outdated or incorrect, but I cannot bring myself to delete any of them. Several years ago, I was at the store having my data transferred from one phone to another. This was before we had the whiz-bangery of the “cloud,” back when we had to do things manually. “Ma’am, I’ve never seen this many contacts! This is going to take a while. Maybe you could go run some errands or grab a bite and come back.” In addition to the duplicates and no-longer-accurate information, I still have the numbers and addresses of people whom I have lost. Still have Gary, Stacey, John, Michael, and my sister Kim. Dad’s old cell number is saved, Mom’s too, and many, many others. Though some have been gone for years, I simply cannot hit delete on what is most certainly by now someone else’s number. To erase them feels too permanent. Should their memory begin to fade, there is the chance that I might scroll past their name and be filled with recollection. An author I worked with years ago passed away at a fairly young age; he was one of those people who died from complications of everything. He had a slew of life-threatening conditions and fought valiantly, but they eventually wore his body down. Once he accepted that he was going to die, he actually had a blast doing it. He got pals to build a wooden coffin that he designed to be fastened together only using horseshoes. He sent me pictures of it; he loved that thing. I think they also fashioned a mausoleum of sorts for his remains. After he passed, his widow kept his recorded voice on their answering machine. For years. At first, it was sweet and sort of nice to hear his voice again, but as time wore on, it became jarring and kind of weird. It is important to remember the dead but not cling too tightly to them. To go on living fully for ourselves, we have to let them go. I remember the popular soap operas in the 80’s and 90’s often had a storyline in which the leading man or woman had been injured in an accident and lost all memory of the life they had led before it. Their entire history had been erased. These folks usually had pretty checkered pasts, marked by adultery and theft and run-ins with the law. The other characters spent days and weeks and sometimes months trying desperately to remind these folks of their former lives. Those stories always got me thinking. If a person does not remember having committed a crime or done someone wrong, should they still be held accountable? If they are no longer that person, no longer living that life, then does that other person still exist? COME UNDER THE LENS. I did a photo shoot last week. The modeling agents wanted a “beauty shot,” which is a specific kind of photo. They need to be tightly framed, and the make-up should be either very subdued or wildly obvious. These pics are sent to cosmetic companies and advertisers who are looking for faces to represent their products. The agency sent me to Daryn, a young photographer who uses the technique that I was told we needed for success. “Okay, I have to admit that I’m a huge fan,” said Cynthia while she was setting up her kit to work on my makeup. “I grew up watching you. My sister is freaking out that I am here. We were both huge Sabrina people.” Cynthia is 39 years old, which places her squarely in the demographic of my fan base from Sabrina the Teenage Witch. She would have started watching it with her sister when she was around 9, an ideal age to start believing in magic and talking cats. “You’re an actress?” Daryn the photographer asked. Like a lot of people her age, Daryn has never seen my work; she has no idea what kind of career I have had. To her, I was just some old lady model that someone asked her to shoot. If new generations have no idea that I existed, then, did I? One hundred years from now, there is a good chance that nary a soul will know that I was here. It is a part of aging; the slow relegation of our beings to the background. We know this, but it is still weird, like asking a young person about the Beatles and getting a blank stare in return. “You never heard of the Beatles?” we ask, our tone incredulous. They shrug. “No, sorry.” We erect monuments and pour material into archives; we paint on canvas and walls, with oil, chalk, and charcoal. We make pottery, fashion jewelry, write columns and books, make movies and television shows, and record songs. All of that contributes to our culture, our sense of who we are and where we came from. But there is no guarantee that new generations will know of it or us. One person’s antique treasure is another’s worn-out trash. One person’s delight in an “oldie but goodie” is another’s dreary eye-roll. Walking past the new young residents of my apartment building is a reminder that while I am not yet a ghost, I am fading from view. My voice may call out from behind a screen for a few more decades, growing fainter and fainter with the years, but it will, one day in the not-so-distant future, cease to be heard. One of the reasons that despots attack arts institutions and topple statues, censor libraries, burn museums, and ransack private homes is to erase the collective memory, so that they can institute a new culture that both fears and reveres their power. When their reign of terror inevitably comes to an end, remnants of the old culture reappear and insert themselves into the new. Our stories somehow live on, traded underground, whispered in the dark. They are always worth telling, and I believe that they continue to exist somewhere in the universe. They can never be totally degraded by the bludgeon of time; even if no longer told or read, they are still felt in the bones of those who follow us. “All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee.” -William Cullen Bryant “Thanatopsis.” I am not sure if this is a better column than the one that got away, but I am grateful that you are here to read it, and that I am here to write it down. I have been deleting threes from this text for an hour, but my words persisted. I managed to avoid erasure this time, so for now at least, they have not been scrubbed from the record. On we go … We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe [https://bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

Dream Life

Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick I can dream, can’t I? I live in a fantasy world for a not-insubstantial portion of every day. My mind fixates on an idea for a business, or a new place to live, or a complete change in course on my career path. I have done this all of my life. I can build an entirely new imaginary existence for myself in the time it takes to walk the dog (approximately 90 minutes). Say I go to visit a friend in Asbury Park. My mind begins to assess the situation. Could I live there? What would my life be like? Miami? Maybe. The art scene is vibrant, and the multicultural vibe is cool. What about Palm Springs? Mexico City? Detroit? The possibilities are endless. “I used to think there was time, you know? That I could go back to New York City and work on stage again, or head to my old stomping grounds in Venice Beach,” Dennis said as he stared at the giant oak in his Austin backyard. “Somehow, I ran out. I’m in my 70’s; there is no way I could do that now. The window is too small, and the change would be too drastic. This, right here, where I am, this is it. This is my life for as long as I’m on the planet. Weird. I had so many plans.” I know that my time, too, is short, and most, if not all, of my pipe dreams are just that. But I do love them so … An ad popped up in my Instagram feed the other day, which prompted my most recent foray into a “what if” scenario. It featured a video camera moving slowly and lovingly around a leafy locale in Topanga Canyon. A woman’s sultry voice accompanied the images: “This property, listed at 1.3 million, features three small homes on one big, beautiful lot, each with its own distinct personality.” (I don’t have 1.3 million lying around, but go with me here.) I was transfixed, studying each small home in the charming estate. Which would I live in? Could I Airbnb the other two? Maybe it would be better to have at least one full-time renter? That would be more reliable. I started the video over. I think I would choose the cabin-like structure referred to as “Angel’s Nest.” It has the largest kitchen. I would build a big fence around the perimeter, something that complements the natural setting, maybe wood or bamboo in a neutral shade of brown. Or, I could give it character and paint it green to match the foliage. That way, the dog could run and run and run. He is happy with our lives, but on the occasions that we visit pals with a yard, he is ecstatic to have the chance to roam freely. He could have the “zoomies” any time that he wanted. A yard. That would be sweet. It would be farther from my sisters and nephew, but closer to the beach. Friends could come and stay for extended periods of time in one of the other abodes, or maybe a few of us could retire there together? I would definitely put in a lap pool. Swimming is a required activity in all of my dream lives. “When I am 72, I can cut my hair and swim every day, dunking my head at will. It can turn green at that point or be a frizzed-up mess, and it won’t matter more than a poot in a windstorm.” I think this often; sometimes even say it out loud. This is one of my regular fantasies. I spend time in the water whenever I can, but I don’t dare put my dyed blonde hair in a swirl of chlorine. I dream of diving, of doing laps of butterfly or backstroke, but for now, I am only allowed to paddle about, careful to keep my head and shoulders above the undulating blue. So, in my new Topanga life, I would need a lap pool. I would miss the epic grocery shopping available to me here in Beachwood. I routinely toggle between six different grocery stores because they each have one item or another that I prefer over the competition. I wonder if there is a local paper? I could write articles in the town rag about life in Topanga. I bet there is a coalition to preserve some of the historic buildings. (Does Topanga have historic buildings? Is it actually a town?) I could join the boosters, and we could have meetings at the local family-owned coffee shop, where, against all I know of myself and my propensity to cook at home, I will have become a regular. I have really enjoyed thinking about this newest possible new life. This mental exercise has got legs. I visited a friend up there once, but it was nighttime. I have made a note to take an afternoon to explore the area, because … Topanga Canyon, I mean, maybe? Why not? My friend Mellissa lives in a big, beautiful home where she is raising her three big, beautiful sons. She wants, one day, when everyone is grown and on their own, to get an apartment in Manhattan with a panoramic view of the city lights. She plans to take up smoking again and sit with a perfectly blended cocktail in her well-appointed living room and stare out at the wonder of the nation’s largest city. I, too, have a New York City life on the back burner at all times. I never tire of strolling purposefully down the streets and boulevards there. I would be a walker in a walking town. Heaven. There is no snow, sleet, or sweltering heat in the projection of how my life there would pan out, and I think it’s best to leave that fantasy intact, unless it threatens to become a reality. Then somebody who loves me needs to get the net. AISLES OF “IF”. About halfway up my street, there is a charming little mom-and-pop grocery store, next to the storied Beachwood Cafe. It is run by the son of the original proprietors and features a lot of essentials and last-minute finds. The shelves are sparsely filled, but they have everything from dog food to birthday candles, things one is grateful to find in a pinch. I stop in a few times a week during one of my walks. The employees all greet Fairness with a smile, and I love being able to dash in to pick up a pepper or a small bag of fresh herbs. They carry the only flavor of ice cream that I am helpless to resist Häagen-Dazs Vanilla Chocolate Chip, the devil in a carton. Some twenty years ago, the deli counter near the wine and spirits was well stocked and famous for its tuna salad, among other delights. Now it is barely functional. There are a few meats and cheeses available for slicing, and there are usually one or two “salads” on offer. One of potato or macaroni, and the other almost always is a turkey/cranberry concoction, which features too-big chunks of meat with dried cranberries and walnut halves. After every visit, I dream about taking over the deli counter and stocking it with delicious takeaway foods. I would have a tray of chicken paillard. There would be a lemon dressing and curls of Parmesan to add on at home. I would have things like pasta salad with pesto and three peas. Cold shrimp mixed with dill and mayo and topped with sliced nuts. There would be chewy, crackly almond cookies and butterscotch brownies. Rich coconut cake would be sold by the slice, and fluffy chocolate pots du crème available in compostable containers. I would sell out of everything by 5 P.M. and head home to take the dog for a long walk, then have a leisurely dinner at my favorite French bistro. A chef’s life. Of course, in the dream, my hands do not cramp and ache with crippling arthritis, my joints are flexible, and the physical demands of cooking for the multitudes are easily met. Some days, I am a resident in legendary Palm Springs and write a weekly column there called “This Old Life.” I get talked into running for city council and then mayor, because it is the one place where I would be considered young enough to do so. I start a program of expanded underground water storage and restore train service between the desert and Los Angeles. Everyone would compost, and traffic would cease to be an issue. We would start a collective that would gather all of the unwanted fruit that is tossed out every year and turn it into specialty marmalades. The proceeds would go toward job training, housing, and rehab for the homeless. I am a great mayor; they end up naming a street after me. There is one in San Francisco. I have always wanted to move there just to live on Broderick Street. In that scenario, I do not have to avoid gluten and am able to eat my weight in chewy, tangy sourdough bread. I go to the Wharf for fresh seafood three days a week and take the ferry over to Marin on Fridays to meet a friend for lunch. (I do not know a soul in Marin, but I am sure I could find a willing companion.) Sunday, I indulge in an Irish Coffee at BV’s and then stroll down to Golden Gate Park to watch the young families fly kites and play tag. I have a great life. I love my neighborhood and my proximity to the gorgeous Griffith Park. I am grateful for my long career and enjoy juggling the actor/writer/model life. It’s not as if I dream of other lives because I am unhappy in my present state; I just love imagining new ways of being in the world. What is it like to run a tasting room at a winery? Host a cooking show? Own a seaside gallery? I am still blessed with an abundance of energy and have a creative engine that is wont to crank into overdrive. I enjoy asking “what if” because the one thing that I am certain of is that, to age well, one has to be flexible and able to adapt to new circumstances. There may be little chance that I will enter into any of the worlds mentioned above, but I believe in keeping an open mind, because it feels important to remember that I am free to change, anytime for any reason. It’s the freedom that is at the heart of my imaginings. They say if you can dream it, you can do it, and, well–I probably won’t. But they also say … ”Never say never!” On we go … We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe [https://bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

'Tis the Season

Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick We had seen it, some time ago: the sign for the “California Botanical Garden.” It sits on 846 acres in Claremont, a historic and quiet community about 40 minutes south of Los Angeles as the crow flies. It is one of many smaller interior California cities that are chock-full of history, including Azusa, Arcadia, Glendora, and Upland, just to name a few. Most of them were groves in the old days, where lemons, oranges, and olives once thrived, but now they are neighborhoods, still leafy and fruited, the scent of citrus and jasmine all around. I grew up in California, but that is a region I have never before explored. As a young, newly-driving teen, I headed straight to the coast when given the chance. The legendary Highway 1 held all of the mystique and most of the allure. San Luis Obispo, Carmel, and San Jose charmed with beauty and sass. The quaint Danish traditions of Solvang, and the rich food and wine scene in Santa Barbara never disappoint. Then, of course, there are the big guns at opposite ends of the state. Chilly, scenic, ritzy San Francisco and warm, laid-back, storied San Diego. Though I lived for two years in Pasadena, one of the oldest cities in California, I never ventured east-southeast, never traversed the hillsides in between. The interior towns of San Bernardino County didn’t catch my attention, but they are quite something to behold. They hold the history of California in their DNA. Those towns are teachers. We were driving along, on our way back from attending the theater in La Verne. Another lovely historic place I had not experienced until that time. “Oh my God, Dean, we have to go there! I would love to see it! The Botanical Garden!” “I have lived here for twenty years, and I’ve never been.” He shook his head. We made a note to go as soon as our schedules would permit. The moment arrived this past weekend, though we were both pushing the envelope to embrace it. I had just flown home from the East Coast, and he was 48 hours hence headed to Europe, to tour with his aging mother. One thing we both know is that with our busy schedules, there is never an ideal time, so we honored the commitment. This particular Sunday, a few members from Dean’s church were gathering to observe a spiritual stroll through the gardens. I was relieved to learn that this was an entirely unstructured endeavor; we were not required to stick together. I am a fast walker and prefer to go at my own pace; Dean easily matches my stride, but most folks cannot. The group leader fanned out a collection of cards in his left hand, and we all were offered the chance to choose one. This card was to be our inspiration, was intended to give us food for thought. Like a fortune cookie for believers, without the sweet treat to entice. I chose a card and glanced at it. The title was “Seasons of Growth.” Below it was a longish paragraph, and off in the margin in small print were the words: “walking thoughts.” I walk ten miles a day, so I know a thing or two about those, but I read on. The message was a tad sappy: “Every season represents a cycle of change for our Earth.” “Well, that’s a bit of the genius of the obvious,” I thought, but I continued to the end. “Today, as you walk, contemplate this season of your life. What season are you in? How does it feel to be in this season?” Huh. Those questions kept repeating over and over in my head. “Look, Dean, a little bunny!” We stopped, and he snapped a picture. “Oh, how sweet,” he later declared. We had come upon “Children’s Woodland,” a play area made entirely out of old tree stumps and hollow logs. Not fancy, but there were plenty of things to hop on and crawl through. An old-school playground where the kids have to figure out how to entertain themselves. The tots on hand were managing to do just that. We strolled past all manner of beautiful species. Great wild-looking Joshua trees, Torrey pines, Western Junipers, and stubby Scrub Oaks, all of which had flowering shrubs around their perimeter. The question kept popping up: “What season of life am I in?” THAT CRISP AIR. I am not sure which would be assigned to me according to the rings around my trunk. I am sixty-seven; have a little over a decade to go before I reach the age of life expectancy for women. I will live past it, of course, is what I say to myself; but whether or not we choose to believe it, the data tells a story. I am sometimes confused about where I am in life. I am still busy with deadlines, auditions, and photo shoots. I enjoy all of the activity but admit that I crave freedom from the many obligations that consume my precious time in this body and on this planet. The creative drive that has fueled my life keeps pushing me forward, while the contemplative part of my soul craves quiet and ease. If and when I allow myself to feel it, there is a schizoid pull in opposite directions. What season? Crap, why did I read that card? What season?! I am well past spring, that is certain, and I have never been much of a summer gal. Most would say a woman my age is entering the winter of her life, but that feels too cold and brittle. I am not who I once was, but I am still limber, still moving through space, still learning and yearning. I am not yet frozen, and though my bones may in fact be, I do not feel breakable. Let’s go with Fall. I am in the Fall season of my life. I have shed a lot of my finest feathers; time is stripping me down to the basics. My senses are dimming, vision and hearing straining for input, reading lips, and cupping one ear. I wake with stiff joints; my flesh does not stretch as tautly over the sinew beneath. Objects slip easily from my grasp, and I spend an inordinate amount of time each day trying to find my keys. My phone is never where I am certain that I put it … … okay, LATE Fall. Dammit. I am in the LATE Fall phase of my time here. I am haunted by the ghosts of loved ones lost and know full well that the hobgoblins of fate could trip me up any day. My friends are coping with demons like AFIB and high blood pressure, many avoiding grapefruit because it interferes with their cholesterol-lowering meds. I have my weird heart issues and the damnable Psoriatic arthritis, but except for low-grade anemia and meager platelets, my blood work looks great. I am keeping the Grim Reaper at bay, giving the terrors of All Hallows’ Eve a run for their money. There is a chill in the air, and I am wrapping myself in layers, but I am not yet bending into the wind. One thing for sure about seasons is that they change. Winter will come for me as it does for all of us, and I want to be prepared for that final stretch of life, but as of yet, there is no plan to speak of. Where will I be as I sip some tea and watch the outlines of the day unfold? Which rail will I hold onto when I can no longer perceive the depth of the stairs beneath my feet? What community will I seek to share those last days and nights with? I do not know the answer, but the final question on the card at the entrance to the garden asked, “How does it feel to be in this season?” I can give that one a whirl. I am far enough along in the late Autumn of things to feel some nostalgia for the brightly colored passions of my youth. I love deeply but am now devoid of the white-hot emotions that once stole my breath and squeezed me tight. I can still be roiled by events, upset by injustices, and offended by a lack of regard, but I breathe through it, treat upset as routine. I walk all those feelings toward the hills and climb with them high enough that the light renders them transparent. Dark thoughts cannot hold me for long; I simply don’t have time to spare for them. I am thicker and slower, but somehow, feel lighter and less weighed down. I am celebrating Thanksgiving as often as possible. Not the one that champions the conquering and cruelties of our forefathers, but the essence of the holiday. I am gathering near my loved ones whenever and wherever I can. I am making time to see the beauty all around me and to feast on the bounty of my blessings. I am saying grace over and over and over again, at times under my breath and others, singing it to the heavens. I am saying it and praying for it every day. Grace. On we go … We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe [https://bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]