Oddly, I’ve found little to regret about that. What I’ve always done, I do now, and feel little loss. My interests hae been mostly intellectual and not such that require an athletic body, lots of exercise and physical activity. There has been no need to give up personal interests because of an aging body. 

I sympathize with those whose interests have been mostly physical–swimming,, tennis, hiking–because age cuts down on them.

   BEARD–a protection men grow to hide a receding or double chin.

    FORGETFULNESS–an excuse to ignore birthdays.

   GOOD BEHAVIOR–what one demands of others, but not of oneself

    GRANNY SHOPPING–getting others to reach up to the high shelves.

   HEARTY MEAL–a dinner of cooked hearts.

So many are talking about Brooklyn these days, writing about Brooklyn, dreaming about Brooklyn, visiting the place that I feel impelled to put in my two cents and tell you about my first visits as a child to Brooklyn, long before I came here to live in 1966 and took root. It was the early 1930s and my family was living in New Haven. But my uncle Joe had the wanderlust and loved to take us in his new Buick automobile on the big highway to Brooklyn. The  occasion was the yearly feast of the Madonna of Mt. Carmel which was celebrated in full regalia in  the church of the same name in Brooklyn. It was a grand yearly event for all of us and after mass, we piled into Uncle Joe’s red Buick and drove to a local Italian restaurant for Sunday dinner where we feasted on pasta and braciola, baked chicken and  potatoes and salad piled high, with us kids consuming gallons of cream and orange soda. Afterwards, sated and holding our bulging tummies, we piled back into the Buick and began our journey home.

Going to Brook-u-LEEN, as our family pronounce it,  was our favorite event, and  a memorable one.

Victory costs more than money. Mayor Bloomberg may find his winning a third term as New York’s mayor is costing him more than the millions he spent on it. So far his close win seems to have turned against him, as he tries to win over his former Democratic opponents. In today’s NYTimes he is shown sitting near a restaurant window sharing a meal with incoming public advocate Bill de Blasio. But even as he was chatting with Mr. de Blasio, there lay hovering a muted threat, as two burly men, with a menacing air, stood guard outside the window on either side of the Mayor and his guest.

Called “Coco before Chanel,” the movie lives up to its title. One can’t complain about that, it being about Coco’s life before she became Chanel. It’s about losing her mother and father at a young age, being sent to an orphanage run by nuns, where it’s barely indicated  that nuns taught Coco how to make her first stitches. About her young life  living as a dancer and actress in big cities, and then love scenes galore of her falling in love and being kept like a princess by a rich military Frenchman and then by a friend of his. These two privided the wherewithal for her setting up a little dress store on rue Cambon in Paris.

But little to show of her skill with the needle or of her prowess in mastering the art of the couturier for which she is most famous. It’s a lovely  movie, with scenes of horseback riding and dancing in  grand French manors, but I felt cheated. Coco, the kept lady, and her lovers, take over. Chanel, the designer, is an afterthought at the end.

Having read a description of Jason Epstein’s new book, “Eating: a Memoir,” I’ve decided not to bother. It’s described as a “delicious book” that “celebrates a lifetime of pleasure in cooking and eating well.” Reading about other peoples’ pleasures in masticating and swallowing,  with recipes, is hardly my idea of an edifying read. Eating is a personal experience, a necessity that happens to be enjoyable and, to my lights, not to be blown out of proportion.

Churches, like people, are feeling the economic crisis. Friends we visited in Pittsfield said their church had closed down–dwindling parish, dwindling income–and now they travel to Lenox for Sunday mass. We drove by their old church, and saw a FOR SALE sign nailed to the door. This past weekend Henry and I attended mass in Most Holy Trinity Church in Easthampton, Long Island, where we go in summer and on weekends. In his homily, the pastor noted that he was happy to see the church so packed and ended by saying, in effect, We are in dire financial straits and our future is bleak. The church has enormous debt and is on the verge of disaster. If you want to continue to come here to worship on Sunday, you’ll have to double your offering so that we can pay our debts and remain open. 

In the 1990s Henry and I were frequent visitors to Spain because we had inherited a house near Barcelona, in Catalonia, the northeast region of the country. Henry’s paternal family came from the area and his father, who inherited the house, gave it over to us. Thus, we got into the habit of spending part of our summers in Spain. 

Catalonia, including  Barcelona, its prominent city, likes to distance itself from the rest of Spain and its people and thinking. Perhaps, Catalonians feel a bit more “superior”than the rest of the peninsula and less bound by tradition and bullfighting.  Yet, as our neighbors, they kept advising us to see a bullfight (even though they rather disdained the spectacle) before it ceased to exist. Talk of bullfights’ demise was rampant. (Remember, this was the l990s.) Our neighbors urged us because they knew of Hemingway and of  America’s fascination with bulls. Actually, we saw two bullfights, one in Barcelona and one in Sant Feliu, where we were  living. 

Today, 14 years later, the bullfights still take place in Barcelona (and more frequently, of course, in other parts of Spain.) A few days ago, the NYTimes had a half page color photo of Jose Tomas, a leading  torero in full regalia fighting a bull in the Plaza Monumental in Barcelona, in what looked like a full house. Somehow the sport is ingrained in Spain which refuses to separate from it.  

Eliminate the negative. Life gets easier. Here are ways that work for me.

     Call a friend you haven’t spoken to in months.

     Plan a week’s diet emphasizing foods you know your body needs.

     Consult listings and order tickets to a play or lecture that interests you.

      Clean out two closets.

Our neighborhood Brooklyn Heights has a favorite eatery at the corner of Montague and Hicks Streets. It’s not expensive but has a cachet that draws professional people, moderate-income types, tourists, writers, journalists, the poorly-paid, what-have-you. The place is full every night, come dinnertime. The menu springs surprises. Calamari salad is served as an entree and presented in a high peak in the middle of a large dinner plate (Henry’s choice). A large, overstuffed hamburger (meat, tomato, rashers of bacon, sliced carrot, onion, lettuce) is placed on a ground of paper-thin strips of french fries (my choice). Last night the tables hosted local celebs, a publisher who owns several neighborhood papers, the 90 year-old widow of a local heart surgeon, surrounded by friends, a middle-aged bachelor out on a date with a lady.

But what caught our ear and  eye was a couple sitting next to us, a young woman and a child of 7 or 8 or thereabouts. The child was neatly dressed  with short, blond hair. She astounded us because she talked incessantly, never stopping, in a wasp accent.  And  it all made good sense. Books, school, her hobby, mommy, daddy.  The girl’s companion put in a word now and then, but did not persist. She listened attentively. When it came time to pay the bill, the child handed her companion a white envelope. From that, the young woman withdrew just enough money to pay the whole bill. When they got up to leave, the child led the way out.

Henry and I came to the conclusion that the girl’s parents had hired  the companion for the evening, treating them both out to dinner, thus whisking their loquacious offspring out  of their hearing, leaving them alone to have a quiet, wordless meal.