Writing Practice - Poetry

One of my goals in life is to improve my writing. As a journalist, I tend to write concise and to the point. I'm trying to add some "life" to my writing. 

With that goal in mind, I recently purchased a journal called, "Write the Poem." Each day, it provides a theme and eight, word associations. Today's theme was, The Ocean. The word associations were: billows, deep, brine, offing, wave, flux, tide, and current. So here goes my attempt at poetry:

The Ocean - image created by Ai

The Ocean

The ocean is deep, 

With waves that billow

And rage across the miles.

Brine floats in the air

Filling my nostrils with the perfume of the sea.

Wave after wave crashes against my raft

As I float…

Drift…

Bob…

Weave to and fro.

The tide moving me onward

To an unknown destination

Like the currents of life.

I try to control them

But I can't.

Downsizing-A Memoir

Recently, I was invited to teach a class on downsizing at OLLI. My first reaction was, "What do I know about downsizing?" Many OLLI members own multiple properties, expensive antiques, and have well-established networks for passing things along. Me? I’m a middle-class woman with everyday stuff. I have no grandchildren, and most of the possessions I have, my children do not want.

Then, I began reflecting on all the downsizing I’ve done over the years. I’ve moved from a large home to a small ranch, eventually selling everything we owned to live in a 33-foot motorhome. I transitioned from a 3,000-square-foot house—where we lived for more than twenty years—into independent living, then later from a spacious apartment to a very tiny one. I’ve held my own estate sale, cleared out my in-laws’ century-old Victorian home, and sent its contents to auction. Along the way, I’ve stored belongings, passed some to relatives, donated much to charity, and sold the rest.

Maybe I do know a little bit about downsizing...

My first real downsizing adventure began in the 1980s when my husband, Bill, took an early retirement to pursue a master’s degree in photojournalism. At the time, we lived in a beautiful custom-built, two-story brick home on an acre lot in Delaware—about 2,800 square feet. 

Our dream home being built. the one in middle.

Christmas in our Delaware home.

Moving to a three-bedroom ranch in Virginia Beach, half the size, required shedding a significant amount of our belongings. We stored some of our nicer things at my in-laws’ and gave away what we couldn’t take. Other than the sadness of leaving my dream home for a rental, it wasn’t a difficult move.

Three months later, everything changed. Bill’s father passed away, leaving my mother-in-law, Marilyn, completely unprepared for independent living. Her husband had managed all the finances, done all the driving, and taken care of the shopping and cooking. So, with two kids in tow, I moved in with her while Bill remained in Virginia Beach to finish his degree. Every weekend, the kids and I made the 17-mile trek across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge and tunnels for visits.

Our 33' motorhome parked at a friend's house.

What was supposed to be a short stay stretched into months. Eventually, we cleared out the rental, sold or gave away much of our belongings, and moved Bill into a 33-foot motorhome while the kids and I stayed in Delaware.

Perhaps motivated by the fact that there were now two bosses in the house—or more likely, the presence of my two energetic children who discovered the bomb shelter in her basement, loved exploring her antiques, and encountered a nude sunbather in her backyard—Marilyn eventually gained her independence. The kids and I were headed back to Virginia Beach.

“How are we going to fit in the motorhome?” my pragmatic son, Wil, asked.

“We’ll find a way,” I said, with more confidence than I felt. “It will be an adventure.”

Truer words were never spoken. Our adventures were many, including burying a cat under the Yonkers Raceway, getting stopped for speeding in the middle of the Buffalo Mall, and avoiding a drug bust in Canada—but those stories will have to wait for another day.

Shelly, Wil, and Bill "dining" in the motorhome.

Bill studying for his Masters Degree

After Bill’s graduation, we moved to Pennsylvania, where he took a job at Teen Challenge, a farm that provided job training for former drug addicts. The organization offered staff housing, but “housing” was a generous term. Our home was a dilapidated trailer with crumbling wood paneling, worn-out appliances, and the constant aroma of cow manure.

Wil, my keyboard player, asked where he should set up. “Easy, just stick it in the closet and swing open the bifold doors when you’re ready to play,” I replied. I had bigger problems to worry about, like dodging the rotted hole in the middle of the hallway, cooking on a stove so rusted it belonged in a museum, and greeting the occasional 6’5, 350-pound ex-con dropping by to ask for my husband. We were doing “God’s will,” so I powered on.

During our time in Pennsylvania, Bill’s mother passed away, and we returned to settle her estate. Her Victorian home was packed to the rafters with antiques, newspapers, and the aforesaid bomb shelter full of rusted canned goods that were now leaking all over the floor. It took an entire dump truck just to clear out the trash. We kept what we could and sent the rest to auction.

The Downes family home.

In 1991, Bill accepted a position at a large church in Tulsa, Oklahoma, where he could use his photojournalism and computer skills. Real estate was affordable, so we purchased a nice, 3,000 square foot home in Broken Arrow. We spent the next twenty years filling it with furniture, books, and the many other treasures that accumulate during married life.

My porch backed up to a lush greenbelt in Oklahoma.
Deer, raccoons, beavers, and other wild creatures were constant visitors. 

Then, in 2008, Bill’s health began to decline. He mysteriously lost vision in one eye, then the other, a precursor to his Alzheimer’s. He was forced to quit work, so I returned to college, finished my degree, and took a teaching job.

By 2014, I was handling everything—working, driving, cooking, cleaning, yard work, finances, and caregiving. Exhausted, I decided to downsize from our 3,000-square-foot home to a 1,200-square-foot cottage in an independent living community. With the help of friends, I organized an estate sale, raising $8,000 to help with our new medical expenses.

Oreo enjoyed chasing squirrels at our Independent Living cottage.

Independent living was supposed to lighten my load, but Bill’s struggles intensified. The man who once graduated magna cum laude was no longer able to operate his iPhone, a TV remote, or even a washing machine. It was time for me to stay home and care for him full time. Without the extra income, we had to move again—this time into a two-bedroom apartment.

The VA diagnosed him with memory loss in 2019, and by 2020, I was breaking under the strain. My children insisted we move to Galveston to be near my daughter, Shelly. That move, in the midst of COVID and with Bill’s full-blown Alzheimer’s, was one of the hardest. But no downsizing that time—just survival.

The real reckoning came in 2022 when Bill needed nursing home care. I couldn’t afford both his medical expenses and our apartment, so I sold nearly everything we owned on Facebook—keeping only what would fit into a 725-square-foot space. This was the most challenging downsize I had ever faced, both practically and emotionally. I lived there for two years.

Living room, dining room, kitchen, craft room: All in one! 

Eventually, I secured Bill his VA benefits, so he’s now in a Veteran’s home with memory care. With our income freed up, I was able to move into my current, beautiful, 1,200-square-foot apartment in fall of 2024.

My new apartment!  Big living room. 

Separate craft room.

And a beautiful kitchen!

As you can see, I’ve upsized and downsized quite a bit in my life. And I’ve learned a few downsizing tips along the way. But the most important thing I’ve learned? It’s just stuff. Letting go of your possessions isn’t losing—it’s making space for what truly matters.

Today's Visit-A Downward Progression on the FAST Scale

I’m definitely seeing downward progression in Bill. Each week, he communicates less and less, replaced by more and more repetitive speech. Mostly, it’s “Help me, please help me.” The nurses say he does this constantly now. When I stop him and ask, “Bill, tell me what’s wrong,” he just says, “I don’t know.” Sometimes, he’ll start saying it in the middle of a sentence, as if his mind is stuck in a loop. If I distract him with a photo of the kids or Oreo, he’ll smile—but then, almost immediately, he returns to the refrain: “Help me, help me.” He even says it while they feed him. It’s relentless.

The changes in him are stark. He can no longer stand or walk. He tilts his head like it’s difficult to hold up. And now, this loss of meaningful language—it all points to him progressing toward Stage 7 on the FAST (Functional Assessment Staging Test) scale for Alzheimer’s. I had to look it up again. This is the scale used to determine treatment plans for Alzheimer’s patients. Once they reach Stage 7, they qualify for hospice care. This stage can last anywhere from six months to two and a half years, depending on other health conditions. Since Bill is otherwise relatively healthy, he may stay in this stage on the longer side.

When he does speak, he asks to go on a ride. He wants to be in a car, to go somewhere—anywhere. And I so badly want to take him. But I can’t. I can’t get him in and out of the car by myself. If he needs the bathroom, he requires a lift to help him up. He wears incontinence pants, but until recently, he still wanted to try using the toilet. However, I haven’t heard him ask to go on my last two visits, which is unusual in itself. He was asking to go every 10-15 minutes.

The thought that he may never go on a ride again makes me so sad. I need to see if I can make it happen, even just once more. Maybe I can hire a caregiver to go with me, even if it’s for just 30 minutes. I’m going to look into it.

Today was another rough day. And I know it’s only going to get harder. So if I call you up just to cry for a bit—thank you for listening. I’ve done that to my kids and several friends. Please know that it helps. And I’m grateful to you for listening. That's all I need, is for someone to listen. 

The FAST Scale:

My 75th Trip Around the Sun (Memoir)

February 22, 2025, marked the completion of my 75th trip around the sun—and what a journey it has been! Like everyone, I’ve had my share of good days and bad days, but this particular Saturday was unquestionably one of the good ones.

I celebrated my 75th birthday surrounded by my daughter, Shelly; my son, Will; my cousin, Debbie; and more than two dozen friends from the Galveston area. I hadn’t had a birthday party since elementary school, so I decided this one would be special—one to remember.

I rented the Club Room here at GYB, handcrafted a special shirt and party invitations, and took on the challenge of catering it myself, with Shelly’s help. The menu was a feast: homemade quiches, hash brown casserole, bourbon-glazed little smokies, yogurt parfaits, fresh fruit, a charcuterie board with homemade bacon jam, lemon blueberry muffins, bagels with cream cheese, and a birthday “cake” made of coffee cake. Shelly kept the mimosas flowing, and everything came together beautifully.

My friends Bev and Carol took charge of decorating, while Shelly and Debbie finished up the food prep in my apartment. Will became my unofficial “secret service agent,” tracking down my keys every time I lost them—which, in my excitement, was often. Oma arrived with balloons and beads, handing them out to guests as they arrived. Meanwhile, my friend Debbie (from Alvin) played photographer, capturing all the special moments as people trickled in beginning at 9:30.

The party was everything I had hoped for—a warm, lively gathering that celebrated not just a birthday but the life I’ve built here on this island. When I arrived in Galveston in the middle of the pandemic, I knew no one. But slowly, friend by friend, my world expanded. Now, I’m surrounded by a wonderful, eclectic mix of people who brighten my days and enrich my life.

I am one lucky 75-year-old!

One More Circle - Peter Mayer

A friend of mine sent me this video on my 75th Birthday. It says it all: 

https://youtu.be/qKfVtuiANt8?si=CDUXB0Q7qcjFK7BY

Here are the words: Lyrics and Chords

[Capo 2]

Intro: / C Csus4 C Csus4Csus2 / /

We have been weighed down by sadness like a stone

And we have yearned, we have yearned

And we have sometimes felt so utterly alone

While we turn, while we turn

/ C Csus4 C Csus4Csus2 / F - G - / :

And we’ve been stricken by the wonder of it all

Stricken dumb, stricken dumb

And we have sometimes felt so faint we want to fall

Overcome, but all in all

/ F Fsus4 F Fsus4Fsus2 / C - G - / :

{Refrain}

I’d say this year in flight together has been fun

What say we make one more circle around the sun

/ Am G F Dm / F G Intro /

We have raised our fists in anger and we’ve tried

To work it out, work it out

That we need each other, we cannot deny

There is no doubt, there is no doubt

So let us weave another dream in outer space

While we’re turning, while we’re turning

On this planet home that holds our human race

We still are learning, but all in all

{Refrain}

/ Am G F Dm / F G C - /

I’d say this year in flight together has been a good, good one

What say we make one more circle, one more circle

One more circle around the sun, around the sun

/ Am G F Dm - / F G F G / F G Intro /

Typing: From Yesterday to Today (Memoir)

Being the practical person that I am, I took typing and shorthand classes in high school alongside my college preparatory courses. After all, these were essential skills for women in the ’60s, and I wanted to make sure I could get a job. I learned to type on a manual typewriter, probably a Royal or a Smith-Corona, and by the time I graduated, I could type over 60 words per minute with 95% accuracy.

Learning to type was a smart decision. Although I did go to college, I left in my junior year to get married. While my husband was in Vietnam, I started my working career as a typist for the DuPont Company in Newark, Delaware. The job came with a good salary, great benefits, and even financial assistance to help me finish my degree; much better than working at McDonalds!

What I didn’t expect was the quirky challenge that came with the job: every document had to be typed using five different colored sheets of paper stacked together. On top was white bond paper with the DuPont header, followed by lemon yellow, mint green, pastel pink, and sky blue. Oh, and don’t forget the carbons in between, making a total of nine sheets! I affectionately call this The DuPont Sandwich.

A typical day at work went like this: 

I roll my paper sandwich into the Smith-Corona Electra and begin typing. Click, click, click—my fingers fly across the keys at a steady pace. I swipe the carriage return back to the left, over and over, making excellent progress. This is a piece of cake, I say, mentally patting myself on the back.

Then—the inevitable happens. I make a mistake.

Fixing an error on the DuPont Paper Sandwich is no simple task. Among my arsenal of office supplies sit five bottles of Wite-Out (correcting fluid), one for each paper color: white, lemon yellow, mint green, pastel pink, and sky blue. Without removing the stack of papers from the typewriter, I carefully separate each layer and paint over the mistake with the corresponding color. First the white, then the lemon yellow, mint green, pastel pink, and finally, the sky blue. And in between each layer, I wait for the Wite-Out to dry. Once the process is complete, I carefully roll the pages to the spot where I left off and resume typing, hoping the next error is far down the page.

Later, as a stay-at-home mom, I continued to type, mostly letters—something humans did before email and texting. Mistakes remained a hassle to fix; but, thankfully, I needed only one color of Wite-Out - white. No carbons for me!

Then came the '80s when Apple introduced a home computer called the Macintosh. I was sure I had died and gone to heaven. The machine fixed the mistakes before printing, using something called software! No more Wite-Out and time-consuming corrections! 

Image created with DALL-E

In the '80s, my days went like this: 

Tap, tap, tap—my fingers dance across the keyboard as I compose my latest letter. The keys barely make a sound, and there is no carriage return to swipe. In fact, my hands never leave the keyboard, which enables me to type even faster. Tap, tap, tap—my steady pace climbs to 97 words per minute with 95% accuracy.
Then—the inevitable happens. I make a mistake.

 No problem! I simply press the backspace key, hit delete, retype the correct letter, and move on. Now, this is the life! 

The years passed, and I was sure that word processing technology had peaked. Then, 2024 arrived bringing ChatGPT, artificial intelligence or AI for short, to the general public.

Now my days can go something like this: 

Scratch, scratch, scratch. On a mint green Post-it Note, I pencil in a few ideas for a time travel novel with my dog, Oreo, as the protagonist. I input the ideas into my favorite AI, and poof! Within seconds, out comes a fully written, grammatically correct 90,000 word novel!  

I had prompted the AI make my book sound like Steven King wrote it. But after reading a few pages, I change my mind, "Let's imitate the style of H. G. Wells," I prompt the AI. In seconds, it spits out the new version. "Much better," I say after reading the top page. 

I then ask the AI to create an image for the cover, a poem for the introduction, and a video to advertise my book on YouTube. Within minutes, AI has created my New York Times "Best Seller," Oreo's Time Machine: Paws, Portals, and Pandemonium written by Cindy Downes. 

Sure, it makes mistakes. I've caught many of its so-called "hallucinations" (a polite way of saying it just makes stuff up). You can't trust it, completely - yet. But soon, it will be more accurate than humans.

No more typing classes. No more paper sandwiches. No more Wite-Out. 

Will we even need humans anymore? Only time will tell. . . 

-----------------

Author's Note: As you have probably guessed, I used exaggeration when describing the process of writing a novel with AI. It takes a bit more effort than that. However, it is possible to create a complete book and it's being done, today. 

In answer to the question, "Did you use AI to write this memoir?" No, I did not; however, I did use it to tighten up sentence structure in a few paragraphs and added the word "hallucinations" as suggested by AI. I mostly use AI as a thesaurus, spell check, grammar check, all in one. Not to write memoirs and nonfiction. 

I do use AI as a creative tool. It's super fun to get ideas for fictional characters, dialogue, setting and plot. I also use it when teaching for ideas of topics and to create an outline. And because I'm not an artist, I use it to create images, like the one above. As time goes on and AI gets better, I'll probably use it more. For now, it's too unpredictable to depend on. 

The Long Goodbye (Memoir)

They don’t call Alzheimer’s “The Long Goodbye” for nothing. 

Yesterday, after visiting Bill, I returned to my empty house. Shortly after, the phone rang. It was the Activity Director from the Veteran’s Home asking for details about Bill’s life to include in a biography they were compiling for each resident. As I shared his accomplishments, she marveled at all he had done. Of course, she couldn’t have known. How could she? The man she sees now is a shadow of who he once was.

Bill no longer knows where he is, why he’s there, or the people around him. He can’t walk, use a TV remote, or make a simple decision. One day, he’s lost in psychosis; the next day, he’s gripped by depression; followed by days of restless anxiety. An unending cycle of “hell on earth.” 

After the call, I began looking through photos of Bill, tracing our life together from the early years of our marriage until now. That’s when my next “funeral” began. 

Lined up in chronological order, the pictures painted a vivid picture of his slow, painful decline. A once-strong, healthy, highly educated, multi-talented man, now lost to the cruel grip of dementia. '

To the rest of the world, Bill is alive. His body breathes, his name is on our bills, and his income arrives each month. But the Bill I married died years ago. 

Grief crashes over me in sobs as I mourn him, all over again. But this funeral is different. There are no friends gathered in remembrance, no kind words spoken about what a remarkable man he was, no shared meals, no arms wrapped around me in comfort. It’s just me, alone, grieving the loss of the man I love.

I cry until I have no more to give. Then, I put the photos away, wash my tear-streaked face, and change my top, damp from sobbing. It’s time to live my life; the life of a “widow in waiting.” I have survived another “funeral” alone, but it won’t be the last one.

Because with Alzheimer’s, the goodbye never comes all at once. It comes in waves, stretching endlessly across time, until there is nothing left to lose.

That is the reality of “The Long Goodbye.” 

NOTE: If you know someone going through The Long Goodbye, give them an extra hug this week. They probably need it.