Amazing how as you get older, less and less matters. Of course, for a writer, when less and less matters, there is less and less to write about. I’ve been in this state of ennui for a while now, which is why I think it took me so long to finally get that art quilt done and then the story of it posted. But now, here I am again in this general mood of carelessness groping for a topic.

     Okay, lest I mislead you into thinking that I am totally disengaged and completely apathetic about current events, allow me some distinctions. Yes, I care about the elections, yes I care about climate change, and yes, I care about the rise of bigotry and discrimination and the erosion of civil rights and war and all the other ills and grievances and injustices that fill the nightly newscasts. But ranting and raving and talking back to the television is not going to change what I, as one individual, can do about the bigger issues beyond my reach. Such passion will only increase my anxiety and make my blood pressure rise. Ultimately, as any politician knows, or should know, issues people care about ultimately become a matter of immediate priorities, and my dance card is rather full of those these days.

        So what do I care about? First of all, I care about my health and the health of my immediate family, including my 11 year old dog, since all of us are getting older and problems we never thought we’d have are suddenly appearing. In terms of a national issue, I might identify this concern as part of the larger topic of universal healthcare and insurance coverage: the “corporatization “of private medical practice, the rise in routine referrals to specialists, and the incredible cost and confusion of medical insurance.  For example, on a recent visit to our primary-care physician, my husband and I were informed that our doctor is retiring at the end of this month. How about a lot of notice! And then we were informed that other doctors in the practice that we have been part of  for 16 years, will not accept “transfer patients,” meaning us. So here we are, at this age and stage, without a primary-care physician. It is not a happy place to be.

     Next, even though I don’t commute to work anymore, I find that I am forced to care about the local traffic patterns each and every day: the closed-off roadways and the massive, pervasive construction all over the entire city and state where I live. Call this part of the larger national concerns about infrastructure and the demands of urban population growth, especially in Texas. As just reported in the San Antonio Express News (9/13/24),San Antonio led the nation with the single largest population growth of 22,000 new residents last year; the greater metropolitan area experienced a 2% growth rate with almost 50,000 new residents from 2022 to 2023. (I might add that these migrants are not foreign but “domestic,” that is people moving here from other areas of the country.) 

     Once again, there is nothing I can really do about any of this except to pack my patience and try to cope whenever I go out. Case in point: the main road right outside of my residential neighborhood is being expanded from two lanes into four with a center turn lane. This is the ONLY access into or out of our small neighborhood, and so some days, when the traffic is at a complete standstill, I simply decide to turn around and come back home rather than cope. Few destinations in my life right now are worth the bother anyway. This particular road project is supposed to extend into 2027. I think I’m about to become agoraphobic. 

    Actually, aside from the immediate well-being of my loved ones, what I have come to care about most these days is dinner. I am an accomplished home cook and this is something I DO have control over (except when the traffic prevents me from getting to the market). My husband keeps us provided with fresh herbs growing right outside my kitchen door, and does his best to keep me cheerful with fresh flowers and seasonal vegetables from his larger garden when the weather cooperates. My son and I have just published the fourth edition of Savvy Chef, our own 107 page compilation of favorite family recipes over the years. Unlike so many other people, I not only plan and cook dinner at home almost every night, but I also still indulge in those quaint old-time activities like canning and preserving, baking bread, and making holiday cookies and cakes. There is nothing like the comfort of a full larder and a treasure trove of favorite recipes. In a foodie family, caring about “what’s for dinner” brings me way more satisfaction than worry. 

      In truth, I think it is simply harder and harder for me to care about much of anything with any passion anymore because I’m older, I’m tired, and I’ve heard it all before. My priority list has grown shorter and shorter as my more immediate, day-to-day cares have taken precedence. However mundane those cares may seem to others, they matter to me — and even “me” is sometimes more than I can control. 

    To echo the words of that famous “sartorial wit” of the past on her way to a migrant children’s detention center here in Texas, “I really don’t care, do U?” Yes, I do still care, especially about children as victims in war and migration, but I just can’t afford to care as much as I used to.