Searching for Happiness with a child in Copenhagen

by Jenny McBain

Perhaps my nine-year-old son has the makings of a therapist.  A Scottish friend was hosting us in his deluxe apartment in Edinburgh’s Royal Mile the ancient street which wends its way from Edinburgh Castle to Holyrood Palace.   In addition to owning a number of desirable properties, my friend is in possession of a title and sports a   "Sir" in front of his name; but wealth did not buy him happiness feeling distinctly discontent when he sought my son’s council.  

“Ruairidh (Roory), what would you do if you were sixty years old and you had no wife, no children and no job that you really enjoyed?” he asked him.

Without missing a beat, Ruairidh framed his reply with the innocent wisdom that is peculiar to the very young.  “I would try to be like a child, to be happy”, he said.  

But are the majority of  kids really happy? 

Measuring happiness is a tricky business; you may as well try to catch a butterfly with a hula-hoop.   Yet happiness and well-being are being touted as a new currency to be assessed and scored in international league tables alongside Gross Domestic Product.   According to UNICEF’s evaluations, the Scandinavians and the Dutch lead the pack when it comes to the nurturing of their young. And we in the UK and the U.S. are languishing somewhere at the bottom of the third division.  So I set out on a vacation with a mission:  I wanted to find out why the Danes- and their children- are so darned happy. 

Click to read more ...

BikerBabe: Celebrating Three-Quarters of a Century

by Nancy King

Recently, researchers wanted to test the effects of aging. So what did they do? They put young people in body suits that restricted their eyesight, hobbled their movement, and diminished their hearing. The measurements for the suit were based on the supposed physicality of a 74 year old. When I read this I was 74 and it made me so mad I decided I would celebrate my upcoming 75th birthday in an age-affirming way.I wanted to raise my proverbial finger at the media and people who worship wrinkleless faces and taut bodies. I arranged to take a five-day bicycle tour with a friend to the Sonoma wine country in California, north of San Francisco. Since I wasn t sure I could ride 45 miles in a day, or five days in a row, we trained, riding up and down hills in Santa Fe. Every time I huffed and puffed up a hill I thought of that suit and found energy I didn t know I had. Besides, I figured if I could ride 35 miles at 7,000 in New Mexico, maybe riding at sea level would be easier.

Click to read more ...

My Shrink, the Bike

by Nancy King

By the time I was nine years old I had been yearning for a two-wheeled bike for two years and three months but there were none to be found—not in stores, not in newspaper ads. The bike my parents and I finally found was second-hand and three sizes too big, just because FDR decided making war materiél was more important than manufacturing bikes for little girls too impatient to wait for WWII to be over. When my dad looked at the bike he said, “Nancy, it’s much too big for you.” True. When I sat on the seat my legs dangled, at least a foot from the ground, but I could have sworn I heard the bike saying, “Buy me. I may be too big but you’re big enough to ride me.” I begged and pleaded until my father gave in. The bike was mine. Now all I had to do was figure out how to ride it. I had the will, could I find the way? On top of our hilly street, my father let go of the seat and even though I could barely reach the pedals, I found my balance and freedom—away from parents and sister and squabbling kids on the block. Off I went, to ride wherever I chose to go, full of confidence.

Click to read more ...