What Della Said

I’ve been doing it all wrong. It’s a sobering feeling, panicky almost. I have found that is how these moments usually go, these sudden realizations that typically hit us in the morning as we are brushing our teeth or shedding the clothes of the night for the clothes of the day. We see our own reflections in the mirror and exclaim – typically inside our heads but occasionally out loud, “Oh, Mylanta! I get it now. I finally get it!” That is how it normally goes for me, anyway. Show me an inopportune moment where time won’t allow me even a second to regroup, and I will solve a problem or right a grievous wrong. I just won’t have time to implement the solution. So it was this morning. I was trading in the messy bun of slumber for the messy bun of daily activity when it hit me. I am fading. My hair is turning gray with these areas around my face where the color of one is morphing into the color of the other. My complexion is more sallow, my eyes more hollow. I have lost that distinction of youth completely. The contrast is gone. There is no bright undereye for the peachiness of the cheek to reflect from, though the peach has long turned into a persimmon. There is only slackness and darkness and fuzziness. I’ve become blurry. Blinking my eyes, I half expected to watch my image break into a million pixels and disappear altogether. Under regular circumstances, these observations would send me spiraling faster than Merle Haggard can sing “are the good times really over for good,” but today was different. I smiled at my reflection with teeth that are no longer as straight as my parents planned them to be and only a few shades whiter than my olive complexion thanks to an undying love for coffee, and exclaimed, “I’M SUPPOSED TO LOOK LIKE THIS!”

We associate youth with power and virility. Things are just all around stronger and better when younger, right? The NIH did a study on newborn rattlesnakes and found marked higher lethality and hemolytic activity were present in the venom. Snakes do what snakes do – and they do it stronger in youth. The more you ride a horse, the better bond you will create, thus, the gentler the ride. Bucking rodeo broncs are unbroken, young horses, not yet acclimated to the feel of a rider on their backs. Horses do what horses do – and they do it more forcefully in youth. Even our own bodies work differently when we’re young. I once saw my first husband carry a small refrigerator on his back. I’m sure he regrets that today, but I cannot deny the impressiveness of the moment. These days, I can sleep wrong and throw my back out. If I were the prosecuting attorney in the case of Modern Culture vs Aging, I would stand in front of the jury and denounce my-aged people. It seems that our gloves do fit. Alas, they will not say, “Acquit.” Don’t throw in the towel just yet though. Perry Mason’s secretary has just entered the courtroom. You’ll want to hear what Della has to say.

Rosemary might be my favorite herb. I love it as a tincture, for hair growth. I love it paired with new potatoes and loads of real butter. I love it stuffed under the skin of a well-basted chicken. It adds an unexpected touch to a too formal floral arrangement. It even makes the perfect hippy-dippy shrub in a flowerbed, the antiestablishment boxwood. Try using fresh rosemary in a recipe. You will need a literal truckload. But, let it dry. Allow it to age in the sun, fading from brilliant green to the color of a heathered forest. You will be astounded by how little you will use in recipes. Herbs triple in strength as they age and fade. My brother wears the same shoe size as our late father. He inherited all of daddy’s western boots. The 70s era Luccheses are my favorites. New boots are nice, though one would need to commit to years of potential blisters and both religious conditioning of the leather and custom wooden forms to make them perfect for your specific foot. If you’re willing to do the work, however, get ready for a massive payoff in terms of patina and suppleness. Leather ages beautifully, only becoming more luxurious with time. And no dissertation on the power of maturity would be complete without discussing my current obsession, sourdough starter. You can easily make your own starter, mind you. But, if you really want to win bread friends and influence yeast people, you will order dehydrated “vintage” sourdough starter from an established baker. It is not uncommon for such starters to be handed down through generations. If you’re willing to pay, you can get your hands on starter with an origin that predates the Mayflower. The elasticity is other-worldly. The taste is sharper. Sourdough grows stronger and more valuable as it ages. Not everything is better when it’s squeaky and new. Don’t count us out yet.

Here is the takeaway you’ve been waiting for, that moment where we wrap everything up in pretty paper and put a bow on the top. Wisdom and beauty are strangers to each other. Beauty is like preservative free, freshly baked bread, angelic to behold but only for a few days. You’re craving a piece of bread, but knife in hand, you stand in horror as you gaze upon the tiny green dots of mold that have infiltrated your masterpiece. “It is ruined,” you say, destined to be discarded with the trash. Yet what is Penicillin but a spore of mold on a crusty wedge of bread? Not everything old is pretty, but it sure is strong. It certainly is useful. It may just be gorgeous. Go forth in strength. Fade proudly.