Then Again - Diane Keaton [61]
I was born in Winfield City, Kansas, in Crowell County. My birth date was October 31, 1921, the year President Harding was sworn into office and Land O’Lakes butter was introduced to the state of New York. My father, Samuel Roy Keaton, a man of medium height, was a sheet metal worker. My mother, Beulah, was a housewife with gray eyes. They had three daughters, Orpha, Martha, and me.
At 63, I have long gray hair. I wash it with Sassoon shampoo. My conditioner is Silkience. I dry it with a Revlon hand held blow dryer. I curl it with Clairol hot rollers. I bathe in HOT water. I brush my teeth with an Oro Flex toothbrush dipped in hydrogen peroxide. My teeth are sound, as is my mind. I try to drink 8 glasses of water each day. I sleep in nighties, under two white blankets with my husband beside me. In the morning I turn on the radio and immediately put on one of four warm robes. There’s the one I bought at Macy’s N.Y. with Diane for 50 dollars. There’s the short one with six snaps down the front that Dorrie got me. There’s the pink peachy robe with oriental flower designs all over it. But my favorite is my much worn purple robe from Saks 5th Ave. It really is a part of me. My feelings are wrapped inside it.
My face and neck are fairly wrinkled now. I am giving myself a great deal of personal care these days. I apply cell rejuvenator at night and skin lifter in the morning, followed by wrinkle straightener in between. I was promised a surprise at the end of 15 days. 90 days later, I see no change. I like to keep my face clean and colored up with red cheek rouge, brown eye pencil, and various shades of lipstick. I seldom forget to apply a hearty dose of cologne to my body.
We have radios everywhere, even a new one in my darkroom that tapes from tapes. A blue radio sits in my bathroom window. Jack and I each have a radio on either side of the bed. Our newest radio sits on the white countertop in our white kitchen. Listening to talk radio is a constant. I take Feldene arthritis medication for my hand and jaw. I swallow one capful of Geritol for my vitamin requirement every morning. I wear glasses for reading; one pair in every room I work in.
I’ve changed in ways beyond my imagination. The lack of physicality has hit with apparent permanency. I sleep more than I did when I was younger. My dreams are evasive when I try to recapture them. I’m content to stay home all day, waiting for Jack and our evening chat with drinks and dinner. I don’t need people around. We don’t have guests over very much. I’ve lost my singing voice; even my speaking voice has gone soft and hoarse. I can’t play the piano anymore. I don’t listen to music. I sit in my darkroom and play solitaire for long periods of time. I spend too much time alone. I get in my car and go out, but I’m always home by 1 o’clock.
After I change into something comfortable I get serious about monitoring the Cove. I watch cars come and go. I see who leaves and where they’re going. I study Champ, Jim Beauchamp’s wonderful golden retriever. His wife Martha ignores Champ. To me she misses the very essence of that brilliant creature.
There are times I feel as if I’m a true artist. At the moment I’m working on a large sheet of white cardboard I’m transforming into a collage. It’s going well, but I tell no one. I have about five completed works framed and ready to go. Two have been accepted in a show at Santa Ana College. I work on the floor of my darkroom, where I spend a lot of time cutting out things I like from the Times. But I always get my housework done first. It’s a habit I can’t break.