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Archives for May 2019

Long Walk

May 30, 2019 By admin

Another adventure unfolded on our recent hike into the nooks and crannies (i.e. canyons and ravines) of New Mexico. After a 4.5 hour drive down to the Gila National Forest, we made our way to the Doggone trailhead. That’s right Doggone. So named when an early explorer to the area…you guessed it…lost his dog. If you are consulting the map, this would be just outside the town of Mud Stain.

We had hoped to enjoy cooler temperatures at the 8,800-foot elevation with some tree cover shade, but no. It was hot as hell with no relief and not as much shade as we hoped. The first 2.5 miles up Dead Horse (don’t ask) mountain were sheer torture as it involved about 1500 feet of elevation gain. The payoff was at the summit where we enjoyed a fine view looking across Dirty Bastard Valley.

Our exhilaration was short-lived as the Doggone trail went from a wide path to a narrow shoulder along a sheer 400-foot drop. This part of the trail is known as Foolish, Foolish Choice for obvious reasons. Incidentally, we have numerous classifications for hiking trails such as this. There’s FOAGBU (fall off and get back up), FOARD (fall off and roll down), and of course, FOAD (fall off and die). Foolish, Foolish Choice did not disappoint as it was clearly a FOAD kind of trail.

Thankfully we made it across the blade edge and dropped down (not literally) into Chipped Tooth Gulch. Local legend is that a cowboy named Larryme fell off his horse and chipped his tooth on some wicked granite that lines the gulch.­ We did not suffer the same fate although we did take the opportunity to floss.

The trail turned steep as we made our way out of the gulch into a glen known as Furry Maiden. Not much is known about the origin of this name but the dense shade and thick forest canopy above was most welcome. A small stream ran through the glen and our topo map indicated this was a small branch of the larger Knuckle Dragger River. It was the perfect place to stop for coffee and snacks and give the biting insects a decent shot at making us completely miserable.

Nourished and rested (along with bitten up real good), we got back on the trail to complete the long loop back to our starting point. This involved a hairy scary steep downward set of switchbacks on loose scree, where one false step could have you going ass over teakettle, which perversely was the name of this part of the trail. Only the topo spelled it Ass O’er Teakettle. Same difference.

Although it was level, the path back to the trailhead had a death march quality, as our legs were weakened by the strain of constant braking to make our way down Ass O’er Teakettle. We continued on this course which the topo labeled Mad Cow for another two miles. With the truck in sight and darkness about to come crashing down, we congratulated ourselves for having had another rewarding hike in the beautiful landscape that is New Mexico at its finest.

Note: Everything about this description is true except for the facts. And a shout-out to Geo’s Hiking blog for inspiration.

Total Distance:  8.30 miles
Elevation: start  8,878 ft, maximum  10,667 ft,  minimum  8,207 ft
Gross gain:  1,789 ft.  Aggregate ups & downs:  ascending  2,256 ft, descending  2,359 ft
Maximum slope: 47% ascending, 39% descending, 15% average
Duration: 7:20

Jay Harrison is a graphic designer and writer whose work can be seen at DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle. You can also visit his author page here.

 

 

 

Filed Under: FICTION

Alarming!

May 30, 2019 By admin

Everybody has an opinion, but I was shocked to see retirement advice stating it’s important to establish a routine by getting up with an alarm every morning and filling your day with activity. I was going to leave a comment, but this particular site doesn’t enable comments. Here’s my comment:

Are you smoking crack?

Seriously, that is the dumbest advice I’ve ever heard. Dumber than even the new Abby, who hardly ever gets it right, in my opinion. The old Abby had her act together.

Back to the subject of sleep. The author says once you’re retired and don’t use an alarm, your whole day might be spent in bed or on the couch watching TV or on the porch watching the world go by.

I imagine there are retirees who might spend 30 or 40 years working their butts off and then suddenly decide to squander the rest of their lives doing nothing, but no, I really can’t imagine that. Even in my quest to be less productive, I have many interests, and well, shit must be done.

My body wakes up naturally around 6:30 a.m. I read the news and do the NY Times mini puzzle from under the covers, which by the way, is an art form. Bad things happen if you press too hard on the back of the phone. Most mornings I choose not to get up until around 7 a.m. I pack a lot into my days, but I go for the late start and ease in slowly.

The blur of breakfast and lunch can be problematic if you’re not careful, but retirement meal clash can be avoided with proper management.

Waking up without an alarm is one of the greatest joys retirement brings. I waited my whole life for this. While there’s no shame in getting up early to be productive if that’s how you roll, I’m here to say you can ignore all the advice if you like. Not everyone needs a routine. You don’t have to be productive. You can do what you want. You can sleep in.

During my last few years on the job, I had a long commute and got up every morning at 4 a.m. I don’t miss it. In fact, I was thinking the other day about what I do miss from work, and it was hard to even make a list.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

Room service! A tiny moment of pure joy after a long day of business travel and painful encounters with disagreeable executives. So, yeah, I miss room service, but I could probably get Dale to pretend.

I only set an alarm if I absolutely positively have to be somewhere early, and these days, that usually means golf. Alarm clocks are also good to make sure you don’t overdo it on a nap.

Donna Pekar is an aging badass (for real) who lives in California and writes Retirement Confidential.

Filed Under: ESSAY

Labyrinth

May 30, 2019 By admin

A man and woman from Nebraska celebrate the husband’s recent retirement by traveling to Spain. They think Spain is a unique choice over other possibilities—Caribbean cruise, tour of the Holy Land, National Parks by RV. They are somewhat surprised to arrive in Barcelona and find so many tourists and pseudo adventurers from so many parts of the world also visiting Spain. They form great herds of trudging pedestrians stampeding down Las Ramblas and shoulder-to-shoulder in the narrow labyrinthine streets of the Gothic Quarter pushed along past shops of Moroccan leather bags, jewelry from India, textiles from Persia, pastry shops, tapas bars, and paella restaurants, not to mention the recent immigrants from Syria, Africa, and Romania squatting on sidewalks and streets, vending key chains, brushes, combs, wallets, and knives on tablecloths spread over cobblestones, some standing forlorn, destitute, and disappointed.

The couple from Nebraska hold hands for the first time in years as not to get separated from each other as though holding hands might keep them both from getting lost or falling prey to gypsy tricks or refugee desperation. They follow ever-moving crowds of tourists through the ancient streets of several medieval cities, through palaces, castles, churches, and cathedrals where they are not surprised to be charged ticket fees to enter.

In the inner gardens of the Royal Alcázar in Seville they deliberate over taking the time and energy to walk into the labyrinth of cypress hedge some sultan seven hundred years ago ordered built for meditation for the mind and exercise for the body. It remains intact, maintained, trimmed and pruned all these years even as the rulers and religions change. They waiver indecisive for long moments over whether to enter the labyrinth or not.

From outside the paths between the tall cypress hedge, the intricate course of walkways can’t be seen. They see curious expressions on the faces of tourists coming out of the labyrinth and don’t know how long they might have wandered or lingered inside. There is laughter from children chasing and hiding from each other inside, but the laughter eventually stops.

The man from Nebraska is already tired from the hour they stood in line before buying tickets to enter Seville’s spectacular cathedral where they roamed for two hours following audio explanations through headphones. There had been another line for an hour outside the Alcázar so the husband is weary of going inside the labyrinth, this maze whose meaning and purpose he neither cares to enter nor understands.

The wife, however, insists, and pushes her husband, like she so often does, to do things he is reluctant to do and go places he is reluctant to go. This causes a begrudging silence between them as the wife takes her husband’s hand and leads him into the Sultan’s garden labyrinth; and the husband, once inside, releases his wife’s hand and all the accumulated dread and fear unfold.

James Miller Robinson is from from Huntsville, Alabama

Filed Under: TRAVEL

Be Right Back

May 16, 2019 By admin

You’ve probably heard the story of the man in New York City who told his wife he was just going out for a newspaper and it’s been twenty years since she last saw him. My reaction to the story has always hinged on the kind of people they were. I mean if he was a rotten bastard, then I say she’s been better off without him. On the other hand, if she was a shrew, then I say good on you mate, you’ve escaped.

But let’s look at this logically. Where the hell did he go? One theory that we can discount fairly quickly, is that he was abducted by aliens. We are certain that can’t be true, because aliens favor midwesterners and have almost no use for a jaded New Yorker.

Next theory is that he met up with friends, sat in on a poker game, and lost track of time. When he realized how late it was, he was too embarassed to call home or show up with his tail between his legs, so he started a new life in Albany with all the money he won at poker (good thing he had brought his wallet with him).

Speaking of wallets, another possibility is that he went down to the news stand with just a few dollars and no identification. He was then hit by a cab (happens all the time in New York city) and suffered amnesia. No one knew him and since there was no ID, the police had nothing to go on. Now here’s where it gets interesting. What if his wife didn’t miss him. I mean she knew that he didn’t come back, but she took it as a message from God that it was a good time to continue her life without him. Since he never went to a dentist in his life and worked from home, they had no way to identify him, and despite the repeated printing of his photo in the newspaper, no one could (or WOULD) identify him.

An interesting variation on this scenario is that he bought the paper and while reading it on the way back to his apartment, he stepped in an open manhole. It had been raining heavily all morning and the heavy current carried him to the East River (drowned by that point) and ultimately into Raritan Bay bound for the Jersey shore.

Another theory that many people like is that he had been planning this escape for quite some time. He had stashed away money in a separate bank account and had his passport and everything he needed to make his getaway. The plan was to take a cab to the Port Authority, get a bus to Newark, catch a flight to Buenos Aires, and from there he became a gaucho on a cattle ranch. I saved this theory for last because it is my personal favorite. Walking away from a life and a wife to become a gaucho? I like to think that one day he woke up and realized that herding cattle in Argentina was his destiny, and he had to heed the call. Vamos amigos!

Jay Harrison is a graphic designer and writer whose work can be seen at DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle. You can also visit his author page here.

Filed Under: ESSAY

Drive

May 16, 2019 By admin

Everyone said just wait until retirement, when you’ll be spending all your time together driving each other nuts. There’s some truth to the prophecy, but we’ve been working our way through it and doing quite nicely. The driving part is where we get into trouble.

Much of our marital success can be attributed to spending time away from each other. Our love of food and cooking puts us in the kitchen a lot but not usually together. I do most of the housework, so there’s a fun solo activity for me. Dale tends to the yard, barely, but I’m still giving him points for keeping me out of it. I play golf and am sucked down that shame spiral two to three days a week.

All that aside, we are emotionally attached at the core and cannot imagine the day when one of us has to go it alone. But the truth is, we actually don’t need much togetherness. Maybe it’s the secret to our 40-year marriage. We each have our own interests, sometimes they align, and if they don’t, we meet up for happy hour in the living room and swap stories.

But then there are the together days. A trip to the market, the library or a local winery. Road trips. This is where driving issues emerge, and I’m the first one to admit I’m a huge part of the problem. It’s not that I’m a better driver, it’s that I’m a terrible passenger seat driver.

Why would you park in that spot when there’s a better one over there?

Slow down! It’s not a race.

Are you sure you parked inside the lines?

Watch out – there’s a car in the next lane!

Something’s going on up ahead – you’d better slow down.

Oh, don’t turn left here. Go up to the next light, where there’s an arrow.

I do trust Dale’s driving. It’s mostly my neurosis at play, but wheeee goes against all I stand for when it comes to interacting with a motorized vehicle. Still, I have worked hard to zip it, and Dale agrees I am much better. Now, if I start to say something, I catch myself and stop. Unless, of course, it’s a speak up or die kind of thing.

This morning’s paper had a column on driving with one finger on the wheel – one of Dale’s signature moves. I use one finger, too, but it’s the middle one, pointed straight up.

I hate being a harpy, but then I believe every bridge, every overpass, every onramp, is an invitation to death. I marked up the article when I was done with that section and left it there. Came upstairs and sat down at my computer, when I heard this big laugh. I said, “What’s so funny?” He said, “Oh, the subtle message. Thanks.”

You’re welcome! That’s retirement, I thought, just trying to live through it.

Donna Pekar is an aging badass (for real) who lives in California and writes Retirement Confidential.

Filed Under: ESSAY

We’re Back

May 16, 2019 By admin

On a warm March day, Felicia and I drive to Kathy’s new house for lunch. We used to live in the same town, but Kathy recently moved twenty miles away. We used to be a solid threesome, unlikely friends in some ways yet consistent in our joys and affection. Then Kathy cut herself off, pronouncing us trivial, gossipy, hypocritical. She recently moved to mend the split, apologizing and explaining it was all her fault, her stuff.

Arriving at her house, we hug and admire the new place. We enjoy the burritos she made and the brownies we brought while catching up on our families, and our plans for the coming months. After lunch, we set out on a walk of the neighborhood. Sixteen years ago, our hikes were daylong treks in our nearby National Forest that would include lunch, and maybe champagne. We would joke about duct taping handsome men to trees so we could have our way with them. But on this day, it’s just the neighborhood we want to explore.

We walk past houses built in the 1940’s and 50’s. We see goats in one yard, purple and pink crocuses in another. We come to a busy thoroughfare and walk back down through a park. We pass a woman who exclaims we have beautiful hair. She must mean the varying shades of silver mixed with the brown, our windblown strands catching in our mouths.

Back on the street, we walk along a fast-flowing creek. A cyclist speeds down the hill, causing us to scurry out of his way. We enter a greenway, muddy in places, and pass joggers, other walkers, and kids smoking pot. We talk about books, our children, our men, and how hard it is to get old and see your friends die off.

“It will happen to us,” Felicia says. “One of us will die first and the other two will be left to deal with it.”

“Yeah, but studies show that friendships keep us healthy and more likely to live a long time,” I add.

The afternoon gets late. Our hair smells like the wind and our jeans are mud-spattered. Circling back to Kathy’s house, we hug again and part ways.

Backing out of Kathy’s driveway, I turn to Felicia. “It’s good, isn’t it? We have it back.”

“Yes,” she agrees, as we pull away and give Kathy one last wave.

Lee Stevens is from Hendersonville, North Carolina

Filed Under: ESSAY

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