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

Beth Broderick
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Beth Broderick dives deeply into her personal experience to deliver a weekly essay full of wit, wisdom, and stories from the heart. bethbroderick.substack.com

  1. FEB 26

    The Sweet Spot

    Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick I worked for a summer as an employee in the Sequoia National Forest. I was reeling from the tough final year at the Academy of Dramatic Arts and needed a break. I am not sure how I knew about it, but I managed to secure a position as a waitress in the restaurant at the main lodge. Housing was provided in cute little cabins, and meals were free on workdays. It was a healing environment, the great trees offering canopies of protection and peace. I walked and walked among them, passing deer and giant brown bears, inhaling pine, and bathing in the green. At least once a week, the peace was disturbed by the sounds of sirens as, yet another tourist was felled by heart attack or stroke. They had worked all of their lives and waited for retirement to finally see the scope of the country they called home, only to have the trip cut short. It was a cruel fate; seemed to me to be damnably unfair. But I was told it was a regular occurrence; happened year after year. Today is my birthday. It is a rather unremarkable one. 67 is a dull number, really. Even 68 has a bit more pizzazz. This time of year is loaded with birthday celebrations, as quite a few of my closest pals were born around the same time. Russel led us out of the gate with a bang, spending his 60th in Asia, bathing elephants and swimming in the warm waters. Then it was Mike and Jeff on the same day. Michael quite literally took the cake this year with a three-day extravaganza celebration of his 70th. Jeff had a quieter affair of drinks and dinner at his local hangout. I am opting for an even quieter night of takeout and wine with my sisters and the baby. That will do nicely. Nancy, Cookie, and Sara are all in the same window. They spend their birthdays with kids and grandkids, but we will squeeze in a “ladies’ lunch” next week. Andrew will follow us all with his usual no-fuss style, a simple dinner out. All of this celebrating is making me think about time and these markers of its passing. I think about those new retirees seeing the great forest at last and being felled by the altitude, finding themselves with less life than they had planned. They missed the sweet spot: the span of time between relinquishing the responsibilities of employment and finding oneself hobbled by the onset of old age and infirmity. My pal Eric is in his 70s and newly married. He and his husband are determined to experience the best that retirement has to offer. They have been cruising and traversing this great planet at breakneck speed, heading off for 30 days of discovery here, then a long weekend there. Eric still has a few responsibilities, is wrapping things up with some longtime clients, but he has firmly refused to add new ones. It takes discipline and planning to effectuate a happy final chapter. He and his husband have that in spades. “I think the sweet spot is between 72 and 82,” I said to Michael during one of our long, long walks. “That’s when we need to be focused on adventure and fun or whatever it is that calls to us before our bodies begin to break down in earnest.” Michael nodded. His work is his life in many ways, and the same can be said for me. I am here writing on my birthday, because it is what I do, who I am. It is hard to figure out where the stopping point should be/could be. The engine of creativity still churns away in us both; we have projects to see through and ideas yet to be fleshed out. There is still work to do, but for how long? I dream of a river cruise through Europe. Bryan and I like the sound of a bicycle tour of small towns in the French countryside. I am determined to see the sights South America, the beaches of Uruguay, the mountains of Colombia, horse country in Argentina, and the cultures of Chile and Peru. Mike wants to go to Africa; he has pals there. My sister wants to see many of the historied swatches of America. Savannah is up next on her bucket list, which is long and varied. I also want to finish the book, and the kids’ book, and get the movie into production, and maybe finally launch my dream of a cooking show. The trick is going to be finding the balance between these competing desires. I have all of my life defaulted to work, but that will need to change or at least shift at some point in the not-so-distant future. My 72-to-82 projection for this timeline is contradicted by the actual numbers. Average lifespan for an American male is 76.5, female is 81.4, so the odds are most of us would croak off in the middle of the “sweet spot” I have proposed. I ordered myself two “posture bras” for my birthday, because I worry that by hunching over my computer I could end up with forward-sloping shoulders or, worse, the dreaded hump. My mom had one of those. Her entire skeleton curved forward in what appeared to be an attempt to protect her heart. “My heart is fine,” I tell myself. “Shoulders back, tummy in,” I say at least twice during every morning walk. I spend a lot of time in my head, thinking, daydreaming, writing in the air. It is work to try to stay in tune with my body. I also treated myself to a new pair of coveralls from “Free People” and a darling green sweater from the place next door. My sisters ordered Indian food, and a few friends surprised me by showing up with wine. It was a fine birthday spent in some of my very favorite company. The 14-month-old nephew entertained with gusto and kept us all busy and laughing. CRAVINGS ON THE HORIZON. My life is already pretty darned sweet. I am happy when I am walking in the green hills near my home or wending my way to Palm Springs, taking in the gorgeous views of snowy mountains, or driving down Pacific Coast Highway, awed by the grandeur of the ocean waves that crash into the shoreline. I am fulfilled when I hear back from those of you who read these pages and weigh in with thoughts of your own. If I can keep the lights low enough and my eyes kind of squinty, I see in the mirror the woman I still feel myself to be. There are so many ways that I am buoyed and blessed, but my mind is restless, my spirit craving adventure. I think my friend, the great actor Judith Ivey, has pegged the spot or is at least straddling it with admirable agility. She still accepts acting work but does not allow it to interfere with standing travel plans. She and her husband have a group of old pals who love to go exploring, and she honors those occasions. They are planning those long-awaited adventures and keeping ski vacations and beach excursions on the books. They have recently been blessed with their first grandchild and are over the moon about it. She is making it work. Where to land? When to retire? What to keep? What to let go of? I am at an age where I expected to be steeped in some kind of wisdom, but it often eludes me. I don’t have all of the answers or even a majority of them, but maybe that’s a part of it. I am still learning how to be a grownup, still pondering the future with tilted head and mixed emotions, still young enough to wonder just how I should go about being old. The only thing that I am entirely sure of is that I have all of the problems that everybody wants. That’s a pretty damned sweet spot. 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

    7 min

  2. FEB 10

    Lucky Me

    Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick LUCK The force that seems to operate for good or ill in a person’s life, as in shaping circumstances, events, or opportunities. With my luck I’ll probably get pneumonia. Good fortune; advantage, or success, considered as the result of chance. He had no luck finding work. A combination of circumstances, events, etc., operating by chance to bring good or ill to a person. She’s had nothing but bad luck all year. Some object on which good fortune is supposed to depend. This rabbit’s foot is my luck. -dictionary.com I have written about luck before. It is a concept that confounds me. I wrestle with the idea of it, with the way that, good or bad, it is present in our lives. I have an old friend who has, for most of her lifetime, perceived the people around her as lucky, or at least luckier than her. She has a deep envy of people who are, or were, born into money. This used to hurt my feelings. “J, I have made it entirely on my own, supported myself all of these years, and built a decent retirement portfolio to boot. Why do you feel that the folks from silver spoon crowd are superior to me … to us?” Well, not entirely on my own. I had a lot of help from friends in the early years and, even with a total of eight kids to support, my dad found a way to bail me out here and there. Almost no one is successful “on their own.” There were agents who believed in me and casting directors who went to bat on my behalf. There was my sister, who encouraged me and was ever by my side. J was in and out of my life as our pursuits took us to different locales and communities, but she was also a source of support. J was a scrapper like me. We came from households held together with spit and sealing wax by single mothers. J’s mom craved attention from men; she was a looker and lived to attract the male gaze. She married four times, and when she was on her own, she shuffled men in and out of her girls’ lives on a constant rotation, with the single-minded intent of landing yet another spouse. My mom craved Scotch and menthol cigarettes and was a mixed bag of feelings when it came to men. Her hatred of them just barely edged out her fear of being alone. She had her reasons. Was I unlucky to be raised in a chaotic household where rage and violence often won the day? Or was I lucky to be in an environment where there were no rules to speak of that could be broken? There was freedom in that, and it served me well, so I would have to say that it’s a tie. J excelled in school, and I somehow sailed through, in spite of my notorious poor attendance. We both wanted out of that school and that town, were driven to escape our crazy childhoods. J ended up with a husband who was a whiz in finance, and they lived a very high lifestyle together, but it was never good enough for her. They ran in circles of folks who were to the manor born, who were effortlessly wealthy, and it burned her up. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt strongly that the rich are chosen somehow, are divinely delivered to this earthly plane through a great giant granting of good fortune. She was certain that she had been gypped by the Gods. In spite of means, which offered her lovely housing and exposure to fine things like great restaurants and ease of travel, she felt betrayed. I never understood it. A DIFFERENT LEDGER. I don’t think of fortune as related solely to financial wherewithal. I have had the “good fortune” to sustain a long career, to make and maintain decades-long friendships. To be housed in a body that functions pretty well. Even the crazy disease that I cope with feels like the luck of the draw for me. Everyone my age is dealing with some form of malady. I got dealt psoriatic arthritis, which will surely cripple me down the line, but for now is mostly just painful. Pain is no match for my mulish determination, barely puts a dent in it. I have friends dealing with much worse, so I will willingly, if not happily, take the pain. “Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.” * Attributed to the Roman philosopher Seneca. * Appropriated by Oprah Winfrey. * Seneca is, somewhere, smiling about that. That’s the thing about luck; it is all around us and also in short supply. We are lucky to be living in an era of relative ease. Amazon makes shopping a breeze; transportation is available in a dazzling array of forms. Most of us have cars, but can also avail ourselves of scooters and rent bikes and buses and trains and Uber and Lyft and flights to anywhere a person can think of wanting to go. There are superhighways and Big Box stores and all manner of entertainment delivered to us at lightning speed, wherever we are, whenever we want it. We are offered a dazzling array of choices and cradled by convenience. We are unlucky enough to have lived in recent times through a recession, a pandemic, wild and unprecedented catastrophic weather events. Gun violence is the leading cause of death for children. Children. We are bombarded with a 24 hour news cycle that assaults our nervous systems and disturbs our sleep. We are enduring a political climate that is off-course, unstable, and downright ugly. The future feels impossible to predict. I was at dinner with old friends a while back. Jonathan and Stacy had a long, successful marriage and two brilliant and beautiful kids. The ALS that would claim her life had begun to manifest in Stacy’s speech, and her gait was unsteady, but she was buoyant and glowing. We were engaged in a lively conversation after a good meal. In earlier days, we would wrap up with bedtime stories for the kids and a nightcap for the adults once the dishes were done. The kids had by then grown up, and we all stayed at the table after it was cleared. We had decided we would engage in a rousing round of Bananagrams. Jonathan went to get the game, and Stacy made her way to the bathroom, where she lost balance and went down with a thud, striking her head. When we retrieved her and determined that she was okay, we gathered around and prepared to play. Her son put his head on the table and took a deep breath. “I think we are the luckiest unlucky people who ever lived.” he said. “Yes.” I said as I put my arm around his shoulder. “Yes, that is exactly right.” Then we all smiled and got on with the night. A lot of the young people in my life are struggling. Job opportunities are scarce, and the bottom has dropped out of several industries. The tech and entertainment fields have been particularly hard hit, but manufacturing, too, has stalled, and is losing ground. It is difficult for them to see where their luck might lie in this era of uncertainty. It is a hard time to be young and talented. It wasn’t easy for me in my day. There were the requisite tears and dashed hopes and down days, but compared to now, it was a cakewalk. For these kids the whole “preparation meets opportunity” thing is ringing a bit hollow, as the latter is in very short supply. They will fight their way through it–they will have to–and hopefully will create a new way to express and monetize their creativity. Some of the best, most productive eras in human history have followed horrific wars, terrible depressions, and devastating diseases. This is a tough time, but hopefully the struggle will produce real breakthroughs and lead to a kinder, gentler, and more sustainable way of living and making a living. I had a young man contact me on CAMEO last week. He wrote asking for a pep-talk. “I have lost another grandparent,” was the only reason he gave. As I talked into the camera, I ended up recounting a lot of the people I have lost in my life. I told him about how I always think of Stacy when I walk by Red Oak Drive, and of the way that Gary could make me laugh and laugh. I spoke about spending time with Michael’s grandkids and seeing so much of him in their smiles. I spoke of my own grandparents passing (I left out the fact that two were suicides, which only begins to explain my parents’ troubles.) They were gone before I could get to know them. A missed opportunity? Maybe. Maybe not. “The thing is,” we got to have them. You got to have grandparents that you loved enough to miss and to mourn. I got to have friends and family and pets who are gone now, and it broke my heart to lose them, but they have mended me, too. Their memory sustains and guides and fills me with gratitude. We are lucky, you and I, to have loved them all.” I hope it helped. It’s not easy to feel blessed when you are reeling from loss, when you are overwhelmed by grief or weary with frustration. But we must. This crazy, weird, mixed-up time is ours to behold and to mold. I never shared J’s disappointment with our personal origin stories. Mine has crippled me in some areas and empowered me in others. I have had my share of fortune, both good and bad, and felt privileged to receive it. Life is long if you are lucky. I will be 67 years old this month. Ain’t that some serious damned luck? 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

    9 min

  3. JAN 29

    When We Were There

    Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick I recently spoke at an event for the newly formed Pride Bar Association of the Inland Empire. There were several people honored that evening. I received the “Stonewall Legacy Award” alongside Abby Rubenfeld, an attorney famous for her pioneering spirit and harrowing victory at the United States Supreme Court, which established marriage equality for people in the LGBTQ community. My resume pales in comparison, but we were both present at a crucial moment in our Nation’s history. The two of us were on the front lines of the AIDS crisis in the very early years. She pursued legal remedies and political avenues of support for persons with HIV/AIDS, while I served on the social service delivery side, providing meals and counseling, and other basic needs. We were there to witness a time that is etched into our beings, has forever imprinted itself upon our psyches. A time and a cause that is largely being forgotten and relegated to the history books, well, one hopes it is in the books. I want to believe that it is, at least in places where history still matters. I am afraid it may be lost entirely in others. History is tricky that way. There was a dinner and program planned for that evening, but there was also a session beforehand, which was designed to give people a deeper understanding of our histories. That afternoon, sitting beside Abby during a plenary session where the lawyers in attendance could learn about our work, we were in synch. I explained the basic nuts and bolts of the illness in the early days and what we set about doing on the ground to try to ease the suffering of so many. Abby talked about the legal side of things and how she ended up prevailing against all odds. When it came to what we witnessed in the early mid-eighties, we could have finished each other’s sentences. Two women who, on the surface, could not be more different. Abby is short of stature, long married to her wife, with whom she shares a quiet life, several children, and a gazillion animals. I am tall, straight, and childless, have spent a noisy life in front of the cameras, and have one dog. When we were there in the 80s, we were just two young women trying desperately to get help for, and to raise awareness of, young people who were dying of then-unknown causes. Because the disease first affected gay men in disproportionate numbers, we faced a society full of prejudice and fear, and even worse, indifference. President Ronald Reagan never even said the word, though he knew it was happening. He and his staff often joked about it. I guess young people dying was funny to them. It wasn’t to us. A lot of folks remember his tenure fondly; I am not one of them. It also soon became clear that people from all walks of life were at risk for infection. AIDS was not then and is not now a “gay” disease. As it grew from a crisis into an epidemic and then swept out into the world, creating a pandemic, it was not picky about who it killed. The virus is not interested in your identity, sexual or otherwise; the virus is interested in reproducing itself and finding a host where it can thrive. I am often asked to speak about that time and encouraged to write about it, as I was a firsthand witness to the horror and tragedy that fell upon thousands and thousands in the early-to-mid-80s and remained a death sentence until 1996, when the “AIDS cocktail” was introduced. That was the first medication able to disrupt the progress of the disease and a precursor to the terrific drugs available today. I always go when I am summoned, and I always tell the story of that time, but it is always impossible for me to do so without emotion. Last week, I was grateful for the plenary in the afternoon, as it gave me a chance to work through the tears that inevitably threaten to choke me when I share what happened. Several of our listeners wept as we spoke. I teared up several times that afternoon but held steady. A few people in the audience asked what they can do now to help those who face new forms of discrimination and prejudice. Without hesitation, we both answered: “Get involved.” Go to City council meetings. Go to church. Go wherever folks gather and tell them the truth. Support politicians who believe in civil rights for all. Donate, knock on doors, help them win. We can both tell you from experience that elections have consequences. It absolutely does matter who is elected to office. As we saw in the 80s and are seeing all around us now, in places like Minneapolis and beyond, it can be a matter of life and death. I hope we got through. Abby and I took photos with the class at the end of our session. It was a good event. “Abby, we are a good team,” I said to her between poses. “We should do this more often. They had not heard any of it before. There are new generations with no clue about what went on.” “You are right. We should. So weird that we did not meet back then. There were so few of us,” she replied. “So weird.” We made a note to keep in touch and look for opportunities to help educate people about the early days of the crisis. In order to honor the thousands who died, it is important to keep the memory of what happened to them alive. At the dinner, Abby spoke before me, introduced by her daughter, who was a delightful presence. Abby spoke of the struggle, the harrowing battle to establish equal rights for the LGBTQ community, a battle that is being fought again in the face of a new political regime, which seems determined to set back all of the progress that has been made. She is a good speaker and a true legend in the legal field. The audience was on their feet as her remarks drew to a close. Then it was my turn as the final speaker of the evening. My good buddies Jeremy Bernard and Michael Alden took turns introducing me, and I sat there, moved by my two old friends and, of course, trying unsuccessfully not to cry. Then the Realm Ballet company, for whom I serve as president of the board, somehow managed to perform a beautiful piece in the middle of a hotel banquet room. It told the story of a young man telling his beloved that he has AIDS. It was gorgeous and, of course, foiled my efforts to hold back tears. Then it was my turn to speak to a group of folks who had, by then, heard a lot of speechifying. My words were printed in comically large font, so that my old eyes could see them in the dim light. I somehow got through it without breaking and managed to hold the audience’s attention. I was grateful for their enthusiastic reception. A long night. A good night. I am reprinting the speech here because it speaks to a time in my personal history that has informed every waking hour of my life since. It is in the exact form that I read from that evening. It is called “Gay Men’s Cancer.” Thank you, Jeremy, and Michael and Chasen and the Realm Company. ADLIB Gay Men’s Cancer, no one knew what else to call it then. No one knew what it was or what caused it, but young men were turning up in doctors’ offices with strange symptoms. Some were flu-like, others were old people’s afflictions like Kaposi’s Sarcoma and weird stuff like Toxoplasmosis. None of it made any sense. No one could explain the rapid decline in fellows who were otherwise young, healthy, and strong. I had been reading about it in the Village Voice weekly newspaper and other non-establishment sources, this strange disease that was spreading. It was worrisome. The whispers were growing louder. It was clear that something was wrong, very wrong. Then one day I read that a NY State senator intended to introduce a bill to quarantine all gay men, which to this day I do not know how he proposed to do that. “Nuts!” I thought. If we could get it from the air, we would all have it. If we could get it because we touched the rail on the subway stairs and rubbed our eye, we would all be sick. Ridiculous! But fear and prejudice can make people ridiculous, and we know all too well, that it can make them dangerous. I decided that I had better sign up to help. I found an office in the village. It was tiny, fit only one desk. It was the beginning of Gay Men’s Health Crisis. The young man behind the desk did not cotton to me, gave me the side-eye. I couldn’t blame him. It was hard back then, to know who to trust. “Look,” I said. Just take my number and let me fill out the form. I have been on my own since I was sixteen. I know what it’s like to be away from family on the holidays. Just take my number.” He did so reluctantly. I got a call the next day “Are you a woman?” The voice was breathless, excited. “Are you really a woman? I need a woman so bad!!” He pleaded in his thick New York accent. “Yes. Yes, I am. How can I help you?” His name was Peter Avitabile, and he was organizing a Thanksgiving dinner at St. John’s Episcopal for a few men who were sick with the “cancer” and needed volunteers to cook and clean and serve. “Yes, of course. Of course I’ll be there.” What I saw that night as eleven young men came through our doors took my breath away. The disease had ravaged those boys. Some were covered in dark purple lesions; others had faces hollowed out by wasting syndrome. They were all skeletal. One 6’2” boy could not have weighed more than 120 pounds. A few used canes to steady themselves; one was in a wheelchair. I greeted everyone, then ran to the ladies’ room holding back tears. ‘You will not cry,’ I told myself. “You will not cry’. I stared into the mirror. Those young men had the courage to come here, and you will go out there and honor that. You will go out there and smile. And I did. We served dinner, and I made sure to sit with each young man and touch him. These plagued, untouchable boys. I held their arms, patted their legs, looked deeply into their eyes, and I smiled. We talked about regular things, like where they were from, what their favorite

    17 min

  4. JAN 13

    Don't Move!!

    Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick “Don’t move!” Michael’s tone was friendly but firm. “We don’t know what is going to happen with your medication. So far, it’s looking crazy expensive. Your place is great. We can keep working on it; just don’t move right now.” It’s not that I LOVE to move. I mean it’s a hassle, of course. The packing and sorting and heaving and hoeing. It’s a lot to deal with. I am just pre-disposed to not mind it as much as say … EVERYONE else I have ever met. Moving is a major stressor for most folks; it is said to be one of the biggest we encounter in our lives. I don’t mind it. I must actually enjoy it on some level, because I have done it literally dozens of times. Back in the good old/ bad old / just plain old days, we all carried address books and had a Rolodex on our desk. My friends’ rule of thumb was to enter my information in pencil as it was sure to change within a short amount of time. Over a period of 20 years or so, I moved from the Fairfax district to Hancock Park, to Hollywood proper, and then up to the Hills. Then I tried out life in Venice, which was cool, but too far out, so I high-tailed it back to the Hills. From there I headed to West Hollywood and then to Hollywood proper again, then over to Beachwood, then further east to Los Feliz before ending up back west in Culver City. There are so many ways to live in Los Angeles, so many neighborhoods, each with its own unique offerings. I loved trying them out, taking fresh routes to see old pals, exploring new markets and local joints. Loved studying the architecture prevalent in my new locale and finding the parks and hidden stairways and secret gardens. It was over ten years ago when I took a place in Austin, Texas. I wanted to experience life outside of Los Angeles and New York City, the only two places I had lived as an adult. I lasted two years in the first neighborhood and then dwelt for an all-time personal-best record of seven years in the house I owned there before returning to Los Angeles. Texas was fine. I met a lot of great folks and enjoyed the ease of travel from the middle of the country. It just wasn’t home. Not that I would know exactly what that feels like, but L.A. is closer to the bone for me. I have been back a total of three years and have moved twice already. Lately my trigger finger has been poised over the Zillow app, itching to do it again. My current place is big and beautiful inside, but shabby on the outside and lacking a few things that I thought I would be fine without, but I am now pretty sure that I NEED, or okay maybe just want, but whenever I want something, I am accustomed to getting it, and that is how it always starts. I have never had an attachment to a place. People mean a lot to me; houses and apartments not so much. I can be happy anywhere; make any environment livable. This made me a great candidate for a profession that required constant travel. Once I unpack, pick up cheese and grapes, and put some flowers in a vase, I am good to go. Travel is easy for me. Being “home” is not. I am living back in Beachwood, which is my favorite neighborhood in Los Angeles, and as noted above, I have lived in most of them. I love it here; love the artsy weirdo vibe of the place, and the proximity to the magnificent Griffith Park is a big, huge selling point. I have heard that there is a spectacular park in Glendale with the best hiking trails in the region. I might throw the pup in the car and go give that a spin, but as much as I love an adventure, I draw the line at living in Glendale. That is a big no; that is a bridge too far, even for me. The sign read ”3 bed 3 bath.” I had walked by it countless times, but that day I dialed the number. A lady named Linda got back to me right away. “Hi. Yeah, I am interested in the apartment for rent on Beachwood Drive. I live just up the street.” “Who is it for?” Linda asked imperiously. “Um, well–me. It’s for me.” “You and who?” she demanded to know. “Me. Just me.” There was a long pause. Then she spoke to me as if I were an errant child. “YOU? Just you??? Do you have good credit?” She was clearly disappointed that I am a solo female. She did not like the sound of that one bit. “I think it’s 832 or 835.” “Oh.” “Do you want to show me the place or not?” I asked. I was becoming impatient with her. “Well, there is a couple that wants to see it, so maybe you could come after them.” “Wow, what a b***h!” I thought but did not say. “Okay, Linda,” I said with no small amount of derision. “You let me know when the COUPLE wants to see it and I will come down if I can.” It took dear Linda three days to lock down a prospective tenant worthy of her time. She invited me to come down when they were done looking. I was really annoyed by her prejudice against my single-female-dom, but it’s not the first time I have encountered that, so whatever. I went. HMMMM. It had possibilities. “Michael, I looked at a place; it’s just down the street. It’s not perfect ... but…” “How much more?” Michael asked. “Over $1,000 more, plus moving costs.” “That’s a lot.” I went on to describe the new place in detail. Three bedrooms plus three full baths. Huzzah! Kitchen: mediocre, but bright, dining room: basically non-existent. In-unit washer and dryer. Yahoo!!!! Living room: super-small and weird, angles in such a way as to offer almost no wall space … deal breaker? FREEZE THE MOVE. “It has so much of what I want, but it’s just not good enough, right?” I knew the answer. “Not to justify a move, no honey, because then you will have to move again. The living room definitely sounds like a deal breaker and this is not a good time. We don’t know how we are going to resolve your medication situation.” “You are right.” I felt relieved, if a tad disappointed, as the thrill of the new gave way to the reality of the present. The Screen Actors Guild has finally succeeded in forcing me off of their medical plan. They have changed the rules repeatedly in recent years, determined to get rid of anyone over 65. First, they abolished the “age and service” category, which would have qualified me for life. Then by excluding residuals from the earnings requirements for members my age or older, they finally backed me into a corner and cut me off. They won’t even allow me to buy in with COBRA. I was told that I could spend $1,200 per month to do so, but they would only pay in second position. “Because you are a senior,” the young woman explained. I wanted to say a lot of things. “Don’t call me ‘senior’! I am furious right now and sick of y’all calling me ‘senior.’ I am not running around calling younger folks ‘junior,’ so you can buzz off with that crap!” That was what I wanted to say, but I didn’t. I took a deep breath and thanked her for her time. So, I filed for MEDICARE, thinking to myself ‘it can’t be that bad.’ Turns out that it can be. It’s bad. Really, really, crazy bad. Firstly, the folks from the Social Security Administration are threatening to charge me $575 per month just for Plan B. This is punishment for having had a good earnings year in 2024. SAG is punishing me for having a less good year in 2025 by dropping me entirely. An ffing “senior” gal can’t win in this America joint. The long and short of it is that as of now, after adding PLAN G, PLAN D, and a supplemental for dental vision and hearing, I will be paying close to $1,000 per month and the medication I need is not covered by any of it. My doctors warned me of this, but I thought there must be some way around it. No. None. I can try to qualify for transfusions, but that’s all they’ve got. Michael found a source in Canada, where the shots I take will be $1,400 per month. So, in order to keep walking, which, according to our government, is a non-essential medical goal, my insurance/medication nut will be $2,400 per month. I will manage it, not happily, but I will figure it out. The worst thing about it is that I will be okay, but what about the others? 9% of the population carries the gene markers for Psoriatic Arthritis, which is in the Lupus family. A large percentage of them will be hit by it. What happens to those folks? They will be given steroids and pain pills and a cane or walker and be sent on their way; that’s what will happen. The richest country in the world is throwing a large percentage of “SENIORS” under the bus and charging some of them up the wazoo for the privilege. So, the future I have dreaded is here. All right, I will make the best of it. You can be damned sure that I will find a way to make it work. A few things will have to change, of course, changing being first among them. My penchant for moving, for pursuing an environment that is better or at least newer, will need to be curbed. My place is lovely, after all … it’s fine. I am telling myself that I can always re-decorate. I am restless by nature; will have to find some way to keep it interesting. Ironically, in order to keep my arms and legs in working order, to keep my body moving, my new mantra will have to be: “Don’t Move!” I do love me some irony … most of the time. 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

    9 min

  5. 12/31/2025

    My Favorite Year

    Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick “1954 was my favorite year,” the voiceover that narrates the start of the classic old film “My Favorite Year” declares. “In 1954, a Buick looked like a BUICK,” the rich, heavily New York-accented voice continues, as the camera lingers on the grille of a classic Buick sedan. “Nowadays a Buick looks like a Ford, which looks like a Pontiac,” he laments. (I am paraphrasing, but you get the gist.) He had a point. Today’s cars are not nearly as ornate or elegant as the one depicted in the movie, but they are equipped with life-saving devices not available then. One has a better chance of surviving a collision in one of our modern vehicles. They may be lackluster to look at, but they are more than machines. They are giant computers on wheels, capable of parking themselves, detecting raindrops, displaying live satellite images of traffic on your dashboard. So, take that, 1954! We are not as sightly up here in the 2000’s but we are capable of some serious whiz-bangery. (Really, though, something should be done about those hideous Tesla trucks. We should have known Elon was getting wiggly when he approved those contraptions. An eyesore on the roads.) When it comes to years, one is tempted to play favorites. In my youth, I was inclined to make definitive statements about such things. “This year sucked!!” I might have said in response to career frustrations, or personal turmoil that had been a feature of the month’s past. I am sure that in hindsight there was more nuance to that narrative, but time felt so plentiful, life so well guaranteed, that it was easy to label a year that didn’t go entirely my way as a bad one. That feels ungrateful now, in light of the dwindling number of years available to me. Mom made it to 83 … not bad … until I realize that number is less than two decades away for me. Not even 20 years left if my fate follows hers. Dad made 93, which gives me a bit more breathing room, though he went that distance with some considerable handicaps in the fourth quarter, most notably the complete loss of his eyesight. Macular degeneration runs in the family. I am swallowing those lutein vitamins like candy and crossing every digit, but the possibility looms. I look back on even the toughest, leanest years of my life with fondness and appreciation. The year I entered the American Academy of Dramatic Arts was complicated, wonderful and terrible in equal measure. I rented a room near the school in Pasadena from an older woman named Mrs. Snyder. She was in the process of learning Braille as her vision was dimming and she did not want to be caught off guard. Something to consider there, now that I am remembering it. I was 16 years old and lied my way into a waitress job at Bob’s Big Boy. The hours were long as I raced from class to work, but there was a sense of discovery at every turn and, even with all of the doing, there was a respite from the chaos and violence of my mother’s home. Mrs. Snyder worried that I worked too hard. She would wash out my uniforms by hand and hang them to dry in front of the oven, which was always on. In hindsight that was a bit unwise, but I was touched by her care and concern. She would make oatmeal and save a portion for me on the stove. I politely tried to eat it, though it had usually congealed into a thick paste by the time I got home. I loved her and I loved school, though I was often sleep-deprived and winging it, sneaking in study time on my breaks from work. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was where I was supposed to be. My rare time off was spent exploring Pasadena, the oldest city in California. There were a few tiny, old-timey buildings on Colorado Blvd. which offered counter service for breakfast. There were no more than 5 or 6 stools in each, but wait times were short and the food was hearty if uninspired. There were bookstores and old movie houses and a host of good cheap restaurants, my favorite of which was “Pie ’n Burger,” a local legend of a joint, still in operation today, which serves only those two things, good burgers and great pie. There were two engineering students living next door and they dazzled me with their intellect and grown-man-ness. I can still smell the after-shave the taller boy wore. Whenever he stopped to talk to me, I nearly swooned. At school, I was exhausted and out of my league, as most of the other students were 20 and older, but I was determined to succeed. There was a tense moment or two or three, when the folks who ran the school somehow found out that I was only 16 years old. “You will not make it here,” I was told. “You will want to leave, or we will have to ask you to leave… you are too young.” The one sure way to get me to do something is to tell me that I can’t. I begged and pleaded and pledged to work as hard as I could to earn the right to stay in class. I assured them that I knew I had what it took. They agreed to let me stay, but let me know that I was on notice. One slip-up and I would be out. I doubled down and won over most of my teachers with diligence. I have always been a confident test-taker, so I breezed through those without much effort. The administrators eventually backed off, and my shoulders started to go down. One night I got home from a shift at the restaurant at about midnight. I threw on pajamas and got into bed, trying to get as much rest as possible before the alarm sounded at 6 a.m. I was drifting off when I suddenly bolted up. Something was wrong; I was sure of it. I made my way down the hall. “Mrs. Snyder? Mrs. Snyder, is everything okay?” I looked toward the kitchen where the ever-burning oven remained on without incident, then I saw a beam of light under the bathroom door. I knocked and knocked, calling her name, but there was no answer. The door was open, so I pushed it in and saw her lying on the floor. She was immobile, but alive. She could not speak, and I did not know if she could hear me. I ran to the desk and searched for her daughter’s phone number and called her. She promised to send an ambulance. I did not know what to do, but I could not let my friend lie there on that cold floor. I was sure she must be freezing. I ran to my room and grabbed the blanket and pillows from my bed, then raced to the bathroom. I covered her little body, then put her head on the pillow in my lap. I just sat there talking to her quietly and stroking her soft cheek. I knew in my bones that it would not be long. Mrs. Snyder lingered for just three days. The daughter was furious. She blamed me for the whole situation, for not finding her mother sooner, for calling her first before dialing 911. I was immediately kicked out of the house and went on a mad scramble to find a place to stay so that I could finish out the year at school. I was devastated, but I pressed on. There were 100 people in my freshman class. Only 25 were invited into the graduate year. I was one of those 25. It was a tough year. It was terrible and wonderful and scary and awe-inspiring; all of the things that life can be rolled into one big, messy first foray into adulthood. Oh, and I lost my virginity somewhere along the way. Like every year before it and since, it could not be described as either good or bad. It was fully lived and, as such, was both. It began as 1975 and ended as 1976. A YEAR TO COME. 2025 was a bad year for a lot of folks in my industry. Production is down and has taken wages and work hours with it. What little filming there is, is often being shipped overseas where it can easily escape union oversight. The battle over the sale of Time Warner and its subsidiaries is being watched with great trepidation. There has been a relentless move toward corporate consolidation of the entertainment industry for decades now. The relaxation of our monopoly laws and political indifference to their enforcement has narrowed the number of employers to an ever-smaller group of big guns. A very few, very powerful folks now call all of the shots and own all of the mechanisms which distribute content to your screens. Actors, hair and make-up artists, writers, directors, film crews, and teamsters are all suffering. It is an actual job that many of us have done for a very long time. Most are at a loss as to what to do, as things seem unlikely to rebound anytime soon. The 2024 rallying cry of “Stay alive till twenty five” has rung hollow; it seems in hindsight to have been laughably optimistic. This was not the year’s fault. 2025 did not ask to be painted with the brush of disappointment. Some bad things happened and some good things didn’t, but I am not blaming the year itself. The year consisted of days counting themselves from one Sunday to the next, of months holding court with their bounty of birthdays and bat mitzvahs and graduations and then ceding ground to the next one, biding their time until it was their turn to be lived through once again. For me, the frenzied activity of the holidays has given way to the tedium of tending to a seasonal cold. Winter has begun in earnest in Los Angeles, where the burnt wheat colors of our grasslands have flushed green with the recent rains. The hills are a deep emerald, offset by hues of olive and pine; the streets are washed clean by floodwaters. The new year will arrive in the midst of another big storm that is heading this way. 2026 will make a wet and wooly entrance, full of both menace and promise as “years” are wont to do. I do not know what the year will hold in store for me, but I am grateful to herald its arrival, humbled by the opportunity to live it, eager to breathe it in. Wishing you all the very best in the coming days, but you know … there are no guarantees, so hold on to your hats, ’cause anything could happen. It’s just a year, only a year in the life, but it is ours to behold…ain’t that grand? On we go … We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers

    10 min

  6. 12/09/2025

    Busy, Busy.

    Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick It’s that time of year when the world falls in love. Every song you hear seems to say, “Merry Christmas” or something along those lines, depending on from which vantage point you view the situation and what you want to celebrate this season. I just want folks to have a happy something or other. Happy Holidays, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa …. whatever floats your festivities boat. It all means more or less the same thing, though of course many of the pesky details diverge, which has, throughout history, caused wars and such. So, for now, let’s set those aside. What it ALL means in the main, what we can all agree on, is that we are ALL busy. Very, very. Busy, busy. What remains of 2025 is being compressed into a December full of events and obligations, full of shopping and giving and taking and partaking. The notes are everywhere … There are six performances of a new ballet by The Realm Company, all of which I am promoting, not less than four of which will require my attendance as the president of the board. It is a Christmas show, of course, but it is based on the legend of “Krampus,” the marauding bad boy of Norwegian legend. Not your grandma’s Christmas ballet, it is sexy and dark and thrilling and deserves to be seen. Work to be done there to spread the word. It is part of the job description and, make no mistake, I am a volunteer, but it is a job. I got a note from a banker this morning saying that he never received the necessary forms from me, which I sent no less than five minutes after they were requested, but which somehow landed in the ether of the internet and never made it to his desk. I almost cried. Thought that was one tiny annoying detail off of my plate, but no, delivery was “incomplete”. Argghhhhhhhhhh! Of course, I took a good sharp inhale and phoned him, and we sorted it all out in minutes. But my bedevilment is a sign that I may be a tad overwhelmed. A teensy bit stressed out. I love this time of year, and I also hate it just a little. Dinner with friends a few nights ago at the legendary Musso and Frank involved the requisite sighs of disbelief that the holidays are so suddenly upon us. Happens every time, of course. We are once again amazed that the year has gone by in a flash. We are, as always, worried that our packed schedules may be too packed. We don’t want to miss anything, but also, at some point, would love to sit down and take stock. Year-end and all. What worked? What didn’t? What are my priorities? Should they be different going forward? I try to attend to these thoughts, but am inevitably interrupted DASHING THROUGH WITH JOY. It will be my 36th Christmas party. The 36th time we have gathered together to create beautiful gifts for the women in the emergency shelter at the Good Shepherd Home. It is a longstanding event, attended by an ever-growing and changing group of folks. Don cannot make it this year but will send soaps. Ditto Bruce and Cookie, who have donated by Venmo, but Sabrina and Dani will come for the first time, as well as Carmen and a few others. Anthony and Miguel are holding it at their place again, which is truly a blessing. They have the perfect space for it and are consummate hosts. Laura and Sarah always have financial skin in the game but will be there in person this year as the baby is big enough to stay with a sitter. Yay! This is as much their tradition as my own. Elizabeth broke her toe at Thanksgiving, so cannot do the shopping, a full-day affair that involves crawling along the aisles in TJ MAXX and Ross trying to find 32 of everything we need. 32 mascaras, 32 lotions, 32 hair bands, 32 face wipes, etc., but she will be there on the night and is a whiz-bang organizer. Whew. It will be great. It is always great to be with good people doing good things. That’s the big one. Once those gifts are delivered to the nuns, it’s a lovely sleigh ride down the calendar toward the big finish. There are other events, of course, and I am going to love each and every one of them. I am particularly looking forward to seeing my nieces when the oldest visits from Colorado with her lovely husband and child in tow. Somewhere around the 22nd, I will be able to goof off a bit, go see Dean and Jim, hang out with the dogs and chill … until the 23rd that is. Then it will be time to finalize the menu, finish shopping, and start prepping for dinner on the 25th. I keep that one small these days. Just the sisters and a few others, and of course, the nephew. It’s his first. He is a year old this month, and of all the things moving at warp speed, that is the one that takes my breath away. It goes so fast. The other night I watched him pick up a pasta noodle and gnaw on it, and I could not believe that this is the same person as that little fellow I met 12 months ago. So tiny then and so sleepy … I would stroke his cheek to keep him alert enough to drink his bottle. Now he is 30 pounds and tearing through the house, able to stand long enough to wipe all of his toys off of the shelf. He is ever on the move and eager, getting into mischief with his best friend Bruno, a 110-pound German Shepherd. He just wore a suit and tie to a wedding! And shoes! Shoes! DANG! So fast. Too fast, and also perfect. December brings us home to the fact that another year has given way to memory. When I was younger, there was real consternation about how that time had been spent, serious determinations to be made about how to do so in the future. Now I am just grateful to have lived it. New Year’s is a marker too distinct to ignore. There are others, of course, and at my age, they come tumbling toward me at a relentless pace. The children are ever-growing, and many whom I once held as infants are now full adults. There are new emails from the government which detail the future benefits available to me from Social Security and Medicare. There are new lines on my face that run in a crisscross pattern from my chin toward my earlobe. I have some friends with new hearing aids, some friends who definitely need them; and I am getting some not-so-subtle hints that it is only a matter of time before I will, too. Someone on the street asked me how old my dog is this morning. “Three,” I replied. Then I realized that I have been saying that for two years. When I first got him, I would answer “almost three,” which was the vet’s best guess. Over time that became just plain three, but it occurred to me today that he is actually four and a half, almost five, which is half the life expectancy for a dog of his dimensions. I can barely grasp that, but there it is. Maybe I will just stick with saying three and avoid thinking about it entirely. Whatever you celebrate, and however you do so, I wish you a joyous, messy December full of friends and feasts and frolic. January will be here soon enough and bring the chill and thrill of a new winter. We will once again get serious about a future, which is ours to behold and to mold. A lot of things have changed, as our country has taken a turn. Many uncertainties abound, but the holidays are here, by God, and we can count on that. The trees will go up, the gifts will be wrapped, and the candles lit. The pies will be baked and the toasts made. There is real comfort and true joy in that. Time is passing and the ball will drop once more, but before it does, it’s time to get busy. Very, very. Busy, busy. After all that is said and will be done, these are, and ever will be, the good old days. 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

    8 min

  7. 11/26/2025

    Clank. Rattle. Bang. Hum.

    Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick Clank, rattle, bang, hum. Uh-oh. There were signs, of course. It had been clear for a good while that the machine which has served me dutifully since 2011 was losing the will to live. The mechanics of the thing had begun to lag, causing a maddening delay between my typing of a letter and its actual appearance on the page. It became easily confused and struggled to keep up with my various needs. It could not stay awake for longer than two minutes if it was not connected to a power source. In all fairness, the computer is not the only thing getting old around here. In my dotage I often forgot to plug it in and so disappeared in the middle of several important Zoom calls. It just conked out, causing me to frantically re-engage by phone, returning to the meeting frazzled and apologetic. Thankfully I am up front about my meager abilities in the arena of all things technical, and these unforced errors were accepted with grace by my colleagues. It was painfully clear that my darling device and I were approaching the last of our time together, that we would soon have to part. I put off the inevitable. There was the expense, of course, and the dreaded trip to the Apple store where people decades younger than myself would offer to assist and, in doing so, become very quickly apprised of my incompetence. There would be a c**k of the head, a raise of the eyebrow, a smile which said, “Oh dear. You are one of those” when I explained that I had never been able to figure out the back-up machine thingy and would need a hand transferring my (to me) precious data. Also, I was truly attached to it. We have been writing together for years, taking breaks to search for goods on “Chewy” and “Amazon” and “Ortho-foot” We knew each other’s quirks and customs. I petted it, offered encouragement, and deleted as many files as I could to try to reduce the burden on the slender laptop. I became fanatical about plugging it in and learned to accept the starts and stops, the hiccups, and the general lackluster performance it offered. We were scraping by, getting along, and then one day it all changed. The dear thing struggled to awaken after an afternoon nap. I would carefully connect it, only to have it insist, against all evidence to the contrary, “You are not connected to the Internet.” It would complain and stubbornly refuse to acknowledge its errors. Then the racket began. SURVIVING THE ICE AGE. Clank. Rattle. Bang. Hum. It sounded like one of those ice machines that lives under the stairwell in an old motel. I dearly love an ice machine, have made many a trip down the hallway or around the back or wherever one is located. The plastic liner, dutifully if clumsily installed into the bucket, provided to gather the precious cubes as they rat-atat-tatted down into view. I have spent days, weeks, and months traveling for work, and ice is a big part of how I adapt to my new surroundings. At night it can be used to chill wine or sparkling water or a brick of good cheese. In the early mornings it is often required for filming—a washcloth can be soaked in the icy water that’s left. This can then be applied to the forehead and eyes in hopes of soothing and contracting the heavy lids and under-eye bags that I don’t want the cameras to see. Those machines are always a welcome sight. I love the click, rattle, bang, and all, just not when it is coming from my computer. It was time for hospice, time to get serious about winding the old girl down and heading out for a newer model. I could not find the time before leaving for Cancun on a modeling job. It was impossible, so I dragged her to Mexico, planning to use her only in an emergency. I am totally dependent on my computer, and I could not think of leaving her behind. I was also terrified that she would give up and go to her grave taking all of my writings and passwords and saved bank codes with her. Dammit, why had I not tried harder to figure out that external hard drive business? I hesitated for a long time before entering the computer age. I clung hard to my old ways. I loved writing full story lines out on crisp white paper with my cherished rollerball pens. I was certain that embracing the new technology would have a bad effect on my creativity; could dull the edges of my thoughts. Ridiculous, of course, but that’s how I felt. I had come of age when telephones were still attached to the wall. When there were “answering services” wherein messages were retrieved by live humans who were on call to respond to our telephones. I had to call in and talk to one of those folks to find out who had called to talk to me. When I began my career, my agents would send me scripts, printed out on real paper and delivered by messenger. Paperwork like taxes was done by hand and sent in by mail. There was no such thing as an “e-bill.” Bills were sent by snail mail and returned in envelopes which contained handwritten checks. Anyone under 40 reading this will think I speak of a Stone Age, but to my mind, it was not long ago. Not long at all. Now all of these things can be accomplished with the press of a few buttons, the stroke of a couple of keys. It is a miraculous invention, the computer. It influences every aspect of our lives. Our cars are computers, our phones are computers. We have “smart homes” where the lights and locks are controlled by remote machines. We have no choice but to embrace them, no option but to dive into the technologies that now support our very existence. I am in. I am not all that good at it, but I am in, if a tad reluctantly. I am not entirely convinced that all of this is a positive. We have gained so much in terms of ease and immediacy, but we have lost things, too. The speed at which we now process information is rapacious. I sometimes think we know too much of the world outside ourselves and not enough of the one around us. Every waking moment (and some of the sleeping ones) of our lives is informed by the fact that we are wired in. We are all expected to be reachable at all times, no matter our location, no difference the hour. Now, when I travel, I meet mostly the tops of people’s heads as they glue their eyes to their phones. We used to exchange greetings, engage in conversation, but no more. Even in the glory and green of nature, most of the folks I encounter on my hikes are plugged in to some kind of machine. The beauty of birdsong is lost on them; the sound of wind rustling, of leaves crunching underfoot, or the scurry of a small animal never heard. And yet … I have just typed those sentiments on a brand-new computer that is a joy to behold. It is sleek and black and matches the ebony paint of my wooded desk. My old one was filthy and banged up, but this new machine is pristine, the screen larger and clearer, the mechanics whiz-bang. The girl who helped me with the sale and transition spent three full hours of her day at work trying to make sure that I could transfer all of my data successfully. There was so much of it that what was begun in the store would take another 4 hours to finish at home, but she made certain I was set up to have a great outcome. All of it was handled with ease, and I was giddy with excitement when I brought my new treasures home. She also sold me a new watch and set that up, too. This required me to download a new operating system on my old phone, which is very old and will soon need to be retired. The young saleswoman told me all about the marvel of the new iPhone 17, and it sounds like a humdinger. The need for a new one looms, but I am not ready. I have had a great good helping of New and may need to cling to some Old for a while yet. I am fond of my giant iPhone 10+ and, ya know, it still rings, still calls my sisters, and registers my texts. I will get the 17 someday, someday soon, or at least soon-ish. Gotta keep up with the times, right? And that new camera, come on now! I am going to get to the getting of that. Any day now, the getting will be gotten. I swear. Happy, Happy Thanksgiving to you all. I am truly thankful for your readership and support. Your appreciation and encouragement have given me a new direction in life and I am profoundly grateful. 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

    8 min

  8. 11/11/2025

    A Matter of Taste

    Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick It happens on a regular basis. I will poor myself a glass of wine from a favorite bottle of Chardonnay and think, “Ewww. Yuck. I hate this.” I have learned from experience, however, not to pour it down the drain in disappointment. I simply pour it back into the bottle and re-cork it and plan to visit it another day. This is because there is a very good chance that a glass of wine from the very same bottle will taste delicious on the morrow. This is happening with a wide variety of foods and beverages now. One day I love that bite of cheese, the next day I spit it out in distaste. This is especially true of the condiment that I adore and cannot live without. The item that is always stashed in my carry-on in small portable packets. The great, creamy wonder sauce that makes all things more delicious. Mayonnaise. I f—king love mayonnaise. I have four different kinds of it in my refrigerator at any given time, because I go off first one then another and so need a variety in rotation in case my steadily declining faculties of taste and smell decide against a former favorite. There is the vegan one, “Just Mayo”, which I love until I don’t. There is another plant -based one from Hellman’s that is not bad and is faintly reminiscent of Miracle Whip, which my mother ate exclusively. An acquired taste to be sure, but it was all we knew as kids. It was not until I moved to New York City and tried real proper mayonnaise that I knew what I had been missing. There is also the kind made from olive oil and of course the standard Best Foods cholesterol-be-damned classic mayo. A quick dive on the internet reveals many, many articles which discuss the phenomenon of changing tastes in us as we age. This is mostly attributed to a decline in our ability to smell, though I have a strong aversion to many odors, particularly body odors. Some people just smell weird to me. So, my sniffer, though unreliable, is definitely intact. Our taste buds themselves also begin to deteriorate. This makes sense, of course. Mother Nature is sending some not so subtle hints, as she begins the long process of convincing us to slide off of this mortal coil. My Dad spoke of this often and with great frustration. He was a foodie and for the last two years of his life would wax poetic about foods he missed, wanted to eat again. Brown bread in a can. I loved it as a child; it is a weird Midwest thing, I think, though the name of it is Boston Baked Brown Bread, so who knows. We found it and ordered it for him and warmed the can, then we all shared a bite. I must report that from my adult point of view it was some nasty stuff. My palate gave a hard no to it. and no amount of re-tasting could change that. No just no. He dreamt of lamb chops with mint jelly. I had to have the jelly delivered, because no store in his small town carried it. I carefully marinated the lamb chops and seared them in a hot iron skillet. He took two bites, then sat back with his arms folded. The taste was not what he remembered. This went on with a large eccentric menu of dishes that he longed to eat again, but ultimately could not. He said the only taste he really could register was sweet. This led to him asking for candies and cakes and pies that he remembered from childhood. I searched out Mincemeat and Look Bars and Necco wafers and I never arrived to visit without a box of See’s Candies peanut brittle. My Mom’s last years were one big trip to sugar town. Her freezer was chock full of sweet foods: Honey Dipped Corn Dogs Drumstick Ice Cream Cones Rocky Road Ice Cream Neapolitan Ice Cream Sandwiches Trader Joe’s Orange Chicken (Also full of sugar, but a nod to nutrition,) Her countertops overflowed with her absolute favorite Caramel Popcorn, which she lost more than one tooth crunching into. Her refrigerator contained Coca Cola and champagne, both of which soothed her throat, which was always sore from chain smoking and the slowly growing cancer it had caused. If I took her to her favorite place, Denny’s, she would order the French Toast platter with extra syrup and gleefully drench her meal in it. Afterwards we would stop at Ross and pick up more Caramel Corn and cookies. Then we would head to her favorite bakery for brownies and blondies. They also served ice cream, so I would get her double scoop to eat in the car on the way home. Mom was rail-thin and had zero interest in eating right or exercise or any of the recommended behaviors we are supposed to pursue for our health. She sat in her big chair, watched her programs, read People magazine, washed her cigarettes down with Cola and scotch, and had an ever-present bowl of gooey corn by her side. She lived to be 83 and died on her own terms. Dad made it to 93 and heard his own drum to the last. They had a pretty darned good run. Here is the conclusion from a study run by Pub Med: Conclusion: Losses of taste and smell are common in the elderly and result from normal aging, certain disease states (especially Alzheimer disease), medications, surgical interventions, and environmental exposure. Deficits in these chemical senses cannot only reduce the pleasure and comfort from food but represent risk factors for nutritional and immune deficiencies as well as adherence to specific dietary regimens. Chemosensory decrements can lead to food poisoning or overexposure to environmentally hazardous chemicals that are otherwise detectable by taste and smell. Use of flavor-enhanced food can increase enjoyment of food and have a positive effect on food intake and immune status. Whew. SEASONED. The take-away? We are all going to experience change in our tastes as we grow older. Both of my parents ended up eating very little toward the end and what they did consume was not exactly healthy stuff, but it kept them alive. Why drink Ensure when there is champagne in the house? They both spent their lives working in hospitals. They had seen a lot of illness and more than their fair share of death. They knew they were lucky to live so long, and they weren’t about to compromise in a vain attempt to extend their stay. They wanted what they wanted, and they got it, death be damned. There is a good chance I will end up taking a page from their playbook. After a lifetime of discipline, of food combining and rigorous exercise, of zero-carb days and step-counting, it might be fun to dive headfirst into a plate of maple-laden French toast. I am not sure how I will approach those final years when they are upon me. Right now, it seems doubtful that I will indulge in Dad’s favorite breakfast of pie with ice cream and champagne but check back with me if I make it to 91. All bets will be off. I draw the line at candied popcorn though. Ewww. Yuck. I hate that! 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

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Beth Broderick dives deeply into her personal experience to deliver a weekly essay full of wit, wisdom, and stories from the heart. bethbroderick.substack.com

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