The one where I retired: Things that go bump in the night (Part 5)

I meant to update my retirement posts on the one year anniversary in August. Except life was busy. There was a trip or two. My husband’s surgery. Babysitting. And by that you can take away the fact that this retirement thing is just swell! I’ve had the time and energy and presence of mind to attend to life’s joys–and life’s challenges.

But let’s be honest. Over the past year, I have had a few bugbears to face down. These are the top contenders.


#1

Solitude has been a friendly companion, but I expected that and made sure I was ready to embrace its company. To a teacher, this isn’t the worst thing in the world. After dealing with the personalities of 100 plus students and 30 staff members day in and day out every year–solitude looked pretty damn good.

But my retirement experience is shadowed by the fact that in many ways I live the life of a single. My husband’s schedule stretches into the evenings and weekends, and most days we are ships passing in the night, except for conversations like, “There’s a plate in the ‘frig if you need to eat” and “Does the dog need to be let out?”

I am my own best activity director.

And I keep myself engaged in the world around me: writing, workshops, classes, volunteering, grand babies, coffee dates, and the occasional happy hour. But that’s because from Day #1 of retirement I was mindful about my days. Writer Annie Dillard sees a schedule as “a net for catching days” and “a haven set into the wreck of time”. It has been for me. The snow and ice last winter wrecked havoc with my days and I’m not going to lie and tell you I didn’t cry one day in January when I couldn’t go to tai chi class because of the weather. And when I locked myself out of the garage in March and couldn’t get my car to attend a St. Paddy’s Day party, I might have called an Uber.

Because the situational ebb and flow of human interaction that exists in the work world is gone, a game plan keeps me from floating aimlessly. Again, Annie Dillard: “How we spend our days is how we spend our lives.”

And I want a life well spent.

#2

Because I no longer grade papers, plan lessons, write curriculum, email parents, students, and staff, attend meetings and parent-teacher conferences, and make copies, then come home to collapse before I take on dinner, kids, pets, and housework, I have plenty of time to cogitate–ruminate on–kick around and otherwise ponder all of the coulda-woulda-shouldas of life.

And since most folks retire in their sixties, we’ve plenty of years to look back on. Retirees (depending on their age) are in those last stages of life that Erik Erikson wrote about: generativity vs. stagnation and ego integrity vs. despair. What will I leave behind? Do I look back on my life and regret those coulda-woulda-shouldas? Or can I come to terms with how life has unfolded? I’ve returned to Clarissa Pinkola Estes’ book Women Who Run With the Wolves to remind myself how life is an unfolding of age-old stories and that my own stories embody wisdom and truth. I am fortunate to have years of therapy and doing the work under my belt, so I have made my peace. But I can only imagine the wallop that emotional baggage would deal a person who hadn’t.

Deal with your crap, people.

#3

Coin. Loot. Cash. All four-letter-words, if you didn’t notice–and a kind of conversational taboo. Pre-retirement it’s all anyone talks about; post, not so much.

I knew going into retirement that my financial picture wouldn’t make ad copy for Morgan Stanley. College at age 32, a late start in my profession, years as a single parent, and my husband’s commitment to his small business determined that destiny. Vacation home or cruises or trips around the world? Not. in. the. cards. Retirement for me had to be about something different–that ego integration and wisdom to which Erikson referred. And paying my bills, of course! If I could do both of those things, retirement would be a success.

And it is.

But after years having some measure of expendable income, I’m sometimes startled when I remember I must be more mindful, that it’s probably not wise to drop cash on a whim just because I need that new high end mascara from Ulta. Just because I want to replace my in-perfect-condition summer sandals for this year’s style. Just because dinner and drinks at that new place downtown sounds like fun. Those situations don’t bother me as much as they surprise me. It takes some time to get used to this fixed income thing.


Your scary shit may well be different–we’ve all got those things that nibble around the edges at 3 AM, don’t we? But those are mine.

At least for now.


[If you’d like a my favorite perspective on retirement, read Ernie Zalinski’s How to Retire Happy, Wild, and Free. Zalinski believes that you will never have enough money squirreled away to retire if that’s your measure, so the book isn’t about finances, but everything else–the creative and emotional and social. It helped mold my sense of what retirement could be and gave me the courage to pursue it.]

Blue skies

If I was to choose a soundtrack for my visit to Tucson last month, it would surely be Willy Nelson’s “Blue Skies”. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say I’d never seen the skies shining so bright–nor noticed the days hurrying by so quickly.

Now mind you, I missed August’s 100 degrees plus. Temps were between 85* and 90* every day and that was fine by me. While it rained buckets back home, I soaked up every bit of sun I could and felt good deep in my bones. (Morning coffee looking out over the Catalina foothills didn’t hurt, either.) I came to the conclusion that if I lived in the Southwest, I’d be one of those leathery old ladies with wrinkles galore, anti-aging skincare be damned.

I took a day to indulge myself at Canyon Ranch again. I’ve got something of the ascetic in me, so spending the money on this kind of luxury is not in my nature. But I don’t know how long I’ll have this opportunity–so indulge I did. The grounds were every bit as beautiful as I remembered them, the food (salmon tacos, herb iced tea, lemon sorbet) was delicious, and the service I booked–the detoxifying ritual–exquisite. Just imagine putting yourself in the hands of someone whose sole purpose was to make you feel cared for and nurtured–I was scrubbed and buffed and soaked and massaged into bliss.

This Little Miss was the main attraction, though. Mom and Dad took some long-needed time away, and Grandma and L got to hang out for five days. Just the two of us! Being a grandparent from afar is tough–but I try to stockpile as many memories as I can when we are together. We mini-golfed. Lunched on Japanese bento. Walked at Sabino Canyon. Picnicked in the shadow of the Santa Catalinas. Treated ourselves to gelato. I hope I left more happy memories than sad, but when you’re only four and your People leave (even for a few days), all the feels come crashing in. Grandma did the best she could to reassure, but often felt helpless.

And that doesn’t even take into account the fact that I also miss spending time with my son and his partner. They are warm, creative, and thoughtful souls I’d love to see more often.

The first day L went to preschool, I ran to the store, came home to wash dishes and straighten the house, and plan our meals. (It’s easy to forget how many tasks parents must cram into the spare hour or two with which they sometimes find themselves!) The next day I ventured out into Tucson. First stop: the De Grazia Gallery in the Sun. It’s a quirky mix of gallery, garden, museum, and working studio. Although Ettore De Grazia died in 1982, his property keeps his memory alive. More than once, I’d turn a corner to find an outdoor workbench or a metal sculpture of found objects and it was as if De Grazia had just stepped away. He was an eccentric and what I learned about the man himself was just as fascinating as his gallery. That’s the biggest take-away I’ve found on my travels so far–it’s not necessarily what’s on the itinerary, but the people (dare I say the characters?!) who make the journey worthwhile.

My second stop was Tohono Chul, a botanical garden and nature preserve. Only a third the size of the botanical garden in My Town, it was a manageable visit in one or two hours. The garden featured displays of the many ecosystems that exist in the Sonoran Desert–and since I tagged along with a docent, I learned as I walked. (See that tortoise’s red-stained face? This little guy had been feasting on prickly pear fruit!)

See L ride. See L scoot. See Grandma sit. We were racing, you see. And by racing, I mean that L tried out all her vehicles: trike, scooter, and balance bike. And I timed her on each, lap after lap, to see which vehicle “won”. This is racing even I can get behind!

Cut me some slack, friends. It was day 4 of 5 … and Grandma was tired.

Rising

What I read

Each year for Christmas I give my son Peter a Stephen King novel, usually one hot off the press. (And yes, with over 85 published books to the King name, that’s not difficult.) Last year’s was a slim little volume–a mere 160 pages–titled Elevation, and because it’s more novella than novel, and because it wouldn’t last more than an afternoon, he saved it for eight months. And then passed it on to me.

Now before you exclaim as I always did “I don’t read Stephen King because I don’t like horror” you need to know that King isn’t a one-trick pony. He has some great reads–even for a scaredy cat like me–that tend to the more magical and metaphysical.

Elevation is just that.

Scott Carey has been losing weight. Precipitously. And for a slightly overweight man pushing middle age that’s not a good thing. Except here’s the deal. No matter how much weight he loses? It doesn’t show: his clothes fit the same, belly still hanging over his belt just a bit. Odder still is the fact that Scott can put on his heavy winter coat and load his pockets with rolls of coins and that extra weight doesn’t register on the scale. And the weight loss is steady. First one pound a day, then two … until he realizes if it keeps up at the same pace, he will weigh nothing in just a few months.

But as Scott ponders the implications of such an event, he is also still very much in the here and now. And the here and now has him trying to resolve a conflict with his new neighbor Deirdre McComb and her wife Missy Donaldson. Upset that their dogs did their business on his lawn, he politely asks Deirdre to address it. And her hostile response was one that Scott hadn’t anticipated. A little digging around town tells him the women’s relationship isn’t welcomed by the residents in Castle Rock and the couple is feeling the sting of exclusion. To make matters even worse, their restaurant Holy Frijole is likely to go belly up.

But as he loses weight, Scott also begins to feel a peculiar pep in his step and an energetic spring as he walks around town. Suddenly a 12k Turkey trot in November seems like a good idea. He’s also discovered a way, he thinks, to bring the town and Deirdre and Missy together.

As Scott runs the race in blinding rain, he realizes he’s “never been happier in his life. Only happiness was too mild. Here, as he explored the farthest limits of his stamina, was a new world. Everything leads to this, he thought. To this elevation. If it’s how dying feels, everyone should be glad to go.”

Elevation is a sweet (yes, I did just say that about a Stephen King novel) magical story.

What I lived

This past weekend I went to a woman’s retreat led by Susan Duesbery called Learning to Love Yourself. I felt a little out of my comfort zone and that led to cold feet (as in What the hell were you thinking signing up for such a thing?! Now you’ll spend the weekend sitting in a circle sharing and God knows what else … I can be melodramatic like that!), but I also welcomed the opportunity to reset my head space and repair my heart which has had its fair share of bruising over the past few years.

And, oh, it was lovely.

The retreat was held at The Inn at the Rustic Gate in Big Rapids which is a Bed & Breakfast with a mission: to provide retreats that foster spiritual growth, renewal, and creativity. (Friend Denice has written several posts on her blog Denice’s Day about her time at the Inn; here and here are two.) Set on nearly 150 acres of meadow, woods, and wetlands, the Inn is truly a sacred space.

And the food. Oh. my. word. While Chef Sharon was mindful of vegan and gluten-free diets (those yoga folks, don’t ya know!) her dishes were simply delicious, and we felt the love in every bite. (Seriously, who wouldn’t feel love in her vegan Fudgies and peach upside down cake, her Asian salmon with pineapple salsa, her vegetarian chili and Greek salad?)

So just imagine a weekend with a little yoga. Some seated meditation. A releasing ceremony. Smudging. A labyrinth walk. Meals in silence. Group walking meditation. And time enough to read, ramble the woods, take a nap, and otherwise unwind. But do all that in the company of supportive women who are themselves seekers, always looking to understand their experience and grow in love with a heart that is soft and open.

The weekend was sweet and magical and if that isn’t elevation, I don’t know what is.

On the road

What I lived and what I read

Last week I took my first journey out on my own in the little trailer I call Bag End. I needed to see if the story I’ve been writing was actually set in southern Ohio (it is!) and I also visited a few historical sites: Grant’s birthplace and childhood home, and abolitionist John Rankin’s home.

Stonelick State Park

When we met for coffee the week before the trip, Friend Denice was reading David McCullough’s The Pioneers about the settlement of the Northwest territory–and especially Ohio. Perfect! (I loved traveling to South Dakota and Wisconsin while reading Pioneer Girl.) I started the book the weekend before I left and almost finished it in Stonelick State Park where I camped. The blind courage of those early settlers who couldn’t even make their way through the woods without clearing trees and who depended on a stockade fence (!) to keep them safe from Indian attack is beyond my understanding. I also thought about those indigenous peoples who had no concept of humans “owning” land and how incredulous they must have been when these white squatters had the audacity to take over their ancestral home. (Sadly, we know how the story ended.)

John Rankin House overlooking Ripley and the Ohio River

The rock stars of my trip were the docents who showed me around Ulysses S. Grant’s birthplace in Point Pleasant, his childhood home in Georgetown, and the John Rankin House in Ripley. They were engaging storytellers and ambassadors for Ohio tourism, and they don’t get enough recognition. At each site the guides suggested other landmarks to take in, which is how I learned about the John Rankin House, my favorite stop of the trip. The abolitionist Rev. Rankin was one of the first conductors on the Underground Railroad. He built his house on the top of a bluff overlooking Ripley, so he could track the movements of the bounty hunters in the town below. Runaways were led to his home by a single light in his window–it is estimated he guided over two thousand to safety.

Ulysses S. Grant sites

I learned a lot about traveling alone with Bag End. I officially hate trucks, expressways, and wind. But taking rural routes? While I loved the pace and the space the country roads offered, they added nearly 100 miles each way and the fatigue was overwhelming by the time all was said and done. I’ll need to move slower and stop overnight more often than I did–over four hundred miles in a day proved to be too much. But that’s what this trip was for–to figure out how I can comfortably roam on my own.

By the time I was within an hour of Stonelick, I knew my story was indeed set in Ohio. The corn fields and roadsides were exactly where I saw my character Patty walking, and the Gas ‘n Go could have been any number of seen-better-days garages. My soundtrack as I explored was a local blue grass station and I can imagine Pops humming along with If Teardrops Were Pennies. Although I didn’t work on the piece while in Ohio, I did some pretty substantial organization of the story–so I know which direction I’m headed.

Which is the whole point of a journey, no?

The livin’ is easy …

What I read

Our book club read this month was Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine by Gail Honeyman. Since we had a few absent members, we met at Panera for discussion and a sweet treat–a little change up from usual. This book club was total serendipity. We first met and organized on a neighborhood social media platform and the mix of women is amazing. We are all pretty much on the same page when it comes to current events, we are a comfortable mix of married, divorced, remarried, and widowed, and our ages are within a decade of each other.

But I digress.

Eleanor Oliphant is a touching character: a survivor of childhood abuse, socially illiterate, and incredibly endearing. (I even wondered aloud if Eleanor might be on the spectrum.) But when this fragile woman with a horrific past meets love and friendship, she finds within herself a strength I think few of us possess. And courageous?! Eleanor comes to realize she must face her tormentor to put the trauma behind her.

Now if I sound cryptic here, I really don’t mean to be. But this is one novel where it might be best to let each reader discover Eleanor as he or she reads the novel, especially since Honeyman makes a style choice that is not revealed until the end of the novel.

It won’t, however, hurt to tell you about Eleanor’s first-ever friend, Raymond, the IT guy at the small graphic design company where she works. Raymond is frumpy–Eleanor dismisses his baggy pants, trainers, mussed hair, and whiskers. But he treats his elderly mom like a queen and is kind to a fault. Which brings us to Eleanor’s second-ever friend, Sammy. Eleanor meets Sammy (if you can call it that) when he collapses on the street outside her office building. She and Raymond come to his aid, staying with Sammy until the ambulance arrives. That ‘stay with him’ part was all Raymond’s doing, though. Eleanor thought Sammy was a drunk, homeless old man and would have stepped right over him in true Eleanor fashion if Raymond hadn’t convinced her they couldn’t leave him. From there, Eleanor, Raymond, and Sammy–and even Sammy’s family–are irrevocably connected.

And it’s in that connection that Eleanor begins to heal.

What I lived

Actually the title of this post is something of a misnomer. Although yesterday was the first day of summer and we are barreling into July at breakneck speed, it could hardly be described as “summer-like” in this Great Lake state. We have had day after day of cloudy skies and rain. Lake levels are at an all-time high and beaches are underwater. And can you say chilly? It’s been one of the coldest, wettest springs on record–and summer isn’t turning out to be much different.

So can you blame a girl for picking up a needle and starting to stitch a little? (Reading goes without saying!) I haven’t done any hand stitching since my children were young when I crafted my little heart out: cross-stitch, basket weaving, doll-making, and more. But by the time my daughter was three, I was working part time–and then it was divorce and back-to-college and all the craziness such life events bring.

I have missed it.

So a few weeks ago I took a hand loom weaving class from Jennifer Haywood of Craftsanity–and although the piece I started in class was an embarrassment (I’ve since unwoven it Penelope-style!) I ordered some yarn stash packages from an Etsy seller, and I’m now weaving my little heart out.

I’ve also stitched four of Ann Wood’s Very Nice Mice with the thought of gifting my granddaughters some cute little friends–with no end of teasing and puzzlement from my daughter and husband. (“So you retire … and start sewing little mice for … what, exactly?!”) But my ideas keep growing. What if I weave each mouse a little bedroll or gunny sack? And this boat is a no-brainer, since don’t the Tiny Mice (as I call them) need some sort of transport for their journey? (Because of course mice such as these are on a journey.) And what if each Tiny Mouse came with a story about who they are and from where they came?

Oh, my. I have surely missed this whole stitching game …