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You don't have to go it alone
By MARINA BROWN
We all know intuitively that it feels good to "belong." But when you're in your seventh or eighth decade of life, getting out and finding a venue in which you're truly part of something, a little community where you belong, isn't always easy. Still it is important to find that place in the world, the state, the city, or the neighborhood that is meant for you. It can be a wonderful cure for what ails you. Wiley Magnum, assistant professor of gerontology at the University of South Florida says, "Wherever you have positive social interactions, you have physical benefits as well." Scientists have long touted the benefits of "grouping" for lowering blood pressure and reducing cholesterol. But the development of social ties that turns strangers into friends can reduce stress as well. "Women react to stress differently than men," says Laura Cousino Klein, an assistant professor of biobehavioral health at Penn State University. "Whereas men respond with a 'fight-or-flight' reaction, women produce a calming hormone which prompts them to 'tend and befriend.' But if women are quicker to establish relationships within groups, men, in their own way, find just as much satisfaction." Three groups were examined for this story: one where the venue, Tyrone Square Mall, was the bonding factor; another with a shared activity, and a group in which the members had a common experience. Each of them say they've found fellowship and support. "Community" comes in many guises. It can be just around the corner or just beyond the saddest day of your life. Been thereJohn Fitts is craning his neck above the busy lunchtime crowd. Over the din, he shouts, "Here comes 'the Gaggle' now!" Waving and laughing their hellos, 12 widows ages 68 to 87 bustle to their table, hug each other and, with some fluffs to their neatly permed curls, settle down for the real point of this lunch group: socializing with "women who've been there." The "there" is at the bedside of a husband who had passed away under the care of Hospice of the Florida Suncoast. Although not an official Hospice-sponsored group, "the Gaggle" is the brainchild of Fitts, a former Hospice chaplain who saw the need, not only for bereavement services, but, more important, for friendship.
Norine Conelly, 72, looks affectionately at the women around the table. "Oh, I have lots of friends, but there's a special bond here. We've all been through the same thing. We've all lost our husbands within the last four years." Sitting beside her, friends Shirley Dooley, 70, and Yvonne Burke, 87, nod in agreement. "It's always hard around anniversaries. But I can call any one of these ladies. I don't have to explain myself. They'll just understand it's a bad day," Conelly says. From the middle of the table Hilda Hermann interrupts to ask, "So when is the next gambling trip? I was on a roll in Biloxi and need to keep it going!" Beverly Shircliffe, 85, giggles and says, "Yeah, Hilda, but I'd never let you hold my money." This camaraderie is what Fitts says he'd hoped for when, four years ago, he realized that in his hospice bereavement visits he was going from one widow's home to another. "They had so much in common, but because of their long-term caregiving duties, many of them had sort of dropped out of old relationships." He called his first lunch with relatively new widows as "a gaggle with a giggle." "Some people may not like the word 'gaggle,"' says, Alice Walker, 76, "but we think it's cute." The group has taken on a life of its own. Fitts only comes to monthly lunches and a Christmas party, but "these ladies have just taken off," he says proudly. Dianne McDonald, 72, who wears her husband Bill's rings on a delicate chain around her neck, leans forward. "We're not all gamblers, you know. We do hay rides, cruises, always a Christmas party, and we love picnics." Violet Rowe, 79, says, "The picnics, they're my favorite." A few chairs away, Dooley is reminiscing about how she sometimes finds herself weeping in Wal-Mart when she's struck by the memory of one of her husband's pranks in the appliance aisle. The other women reach for her hand. Fitts says he thinks these women have developed resilience in moving back and forth from the painful to the fun. "And they know it's safe. Nobody is embarrassed if they cry." And what about the widowers? Fitts looks puzzled and the ladies look interested. "They're not like the ladies," Fitts says. "They don't talk as much; they seem to need an activity to do to get them out of the house. And anyway, they only seem to be willing to meet for breakfast." Conelly and Gloria Lord look at each other."We could come for breakfast," Lord says. "Yeah," agrees Conelly, "we'd set our alarm clocks." Ready, set, walk!It's 8:30 a.m.
The windows of the food court at Tyrone Square Mall are steamy from the 87-degree heat outdoors. Thunder rumbles in the distance. Despite the weather, there is a cluster of animated seniors preparing to stream through the doors. There's no sale. This is the crowd of mall walkers: men and women, some of whom have walked almost daily at the mall for more than 10 years, who say they've found something beyond aerobic workouts. "It's just all about friendship, companionship, and being in a cool, safe place," says Edward Prater, 76, with a laugh. Women adjust tummy packs and put on earphones; men retie their shoes. Some are wearing shorts and look like they might head out for tennis after their walk, others are in slacks. All the women have on tennis shoes and lipstick. Charles Konnes, an 84-year-old former supervisor of elections and retired general in the National Guard swings an arm around Prater's shoulder. "Hiya, Ed," he booms. "I hear Jane's got a birthday card for us to sign." Jane Copple, 84, has agreed to be the social doyenne of the mall walkers. Despite a stroke that has affected her speech, Copple regularly draws cards for every "birthday boy or girl" that she hears about. Half-way through her walk, as she swings by Dillard's, two women approach her with a hug. "Hello, Sweetie, I made you something," Teresa Jordan says. "Me too, darling," chimes in a friend. With a giggle, Copple unwraps a tea towel bearing Jordan's hand-stitched initials, and from the other bag, a hand-painted tile with the words, "God Bless This House." Copple looks near tears and the three hug. Tyrone Square's manager, Scott Rolston, says that every mall in the country has a walker program. "In some ways it's about business," he says, acknowledging that the morning crowd often patronizes stores that wouldn't get busy until 11 a.m. or noon, but it's more than that. "We really love these people. Sometimes they're our biggest critics, telling us if there's a pothole in the parking lot, or if the food court isn't clean. But we love them. They really care about the mall and we care about them." There's a crowd gathering around a man pushing a baby in a stroller; another set of grandparents has brought second-graders and third-graders to hike the 2-mile circuit. In a quiet corner, Sandy Jones, a nurse practitioner with St. Anthony's Community Health Department, is busy setting out bottles of water and a birthday cake for a Wellness Walkers anniversary. St. Anthony's started the mall-walkers club 11 years ago. Those who sign up can have pressure checks on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays and also keep track of how many miles they log. "But before the cake, you'd better do the walking," she laughs. Meanwhile, Walter Barnes, a fit 91 and his wife, Hazel, 80, have just lapped Harry Tuchyner, 89. "No fair," quips Tuchyner, pointing to the rolling walker he pushes as he does his laps. They high-five each other and keep moving. Barnes says he has tallied 800 miles in the three years he has been walking. Some who started early in the program have walked more than 10,000 miles, Jones says. The motion at the mall seems to have taken on a life of its own, she says, and not all of it physical. "There's something about this place," says Helen Rhodes, 81. "I watch the men playing cribbage after their walk. They look as happy as if they were in some country store just tellin' tales. I've made friends I go to brunch with. And we have birthday parties and share cupcakes. I even know of one couple who fell in love and got married from coming here. Where else can you go for all that and get fit too? It's good for you here," Rhodes says. Fish talesThe Clearwater Bass Club minces no words. It is all about bass fishing. Pick-up trucks and SUVs line the parking lot of an industrial park where the group holds its monthly meetings. "Well, sure, all fishermen ARE liars," says Bob Gwinn, 65. "If a fisherman tells you he's caught a 6-pounder on a rattle trap, he might just as likely have been usin' a junebug worm." The men around him slap him on the back, laugh knowingly, and stare at the floor. A moment later, another bonding comment, "Yep, fishermen are secretive, and that's for sure," Gwinn says. The men laugh again, shift positions and resume the comfortable scrutiny of the floor. But minutes earlier, during a lull in the planning of the monthly fishing tournament, the 20 or so fishermen had sounded more like boys at a birthday party. Door prizes, those traditional ice-breakers, had provided grab-bags full of spinners and worms, and the men had climbed over each other, trying to see what the other had. In an almost rhythmic flow, the meeting swings back and forth between hard planning, logistics and record-keeping, to the camaraderie of back-slapping, tough-teasing and shouted support. Occasionally, someone is willing to let down his guard. "I like this club, 'cause I feel like I belong -- kind of like family," Will Horton, 73, says. Horton says he and his fellow fishermen talk on the phone all week long. What do they talk about? "Fishin," Horton chortles. Bill Coker, sporting a red baseball cap with a large gold fish hook stabbed into the crown, snickers and digs Horton in the ribs. "I belong to two other clubs. Takes up most of my time. But you know, you get to know a lot of guys when you're fishin.' You get to know 'em real well." The Clearwater Bass Club makes a practice of pairing two men in each boat for each tournament. Sometimes the partners will even fish scout out the lake before the tournament to get to know the best spots. The tournament itself could last all night. "We may be out in that boat, just two guys, for 24 hours," Chuck Bearce, 59, says. "And I always say, if you really want to know a man, you'd better work with him, play poker with him, or fish with him." Hugh Palmer, a retired fighter pilot, and Coker nod in agreement. But all the men admit that no matter how close they come to feel with their fishing buddies, there's always the underlying competition. "Ya gotta keep a few secrets," Gwinn says. Twice a year the fishermen put on a different kind of bass tournament. They sponsor a contest for children, with a little teaching thrown in. And they put on a fishing day for couples. Most in the club say they look forward to the diversion of the "family days," but it's clear they feel most at ease when they can talk in code with a fellow angler: "Aw, Buddy, the last time you won a keeper you had a gray rattler dangling on your uglystick, and you were inching along with that sneaker motor, right?" Gwinn says. It feels good when others can nod in understanding. Private lingo, common interests, a place where you are accepted: it all adds up to community and fellowship. Like others since the beginning of time, these fishermen, hospice survivors and mall walkers have found something remarkably comforting in being part of a group of people who understand. -- Marina Brown is a freelance writer who lives in Treasure Island.
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