Archives for September 2019

About to retire? Want to know what your next job could be? Have you considered being a crossing guard? Seriously. You get to tell children what to do and they have to listen. You carry a big red sign that says STOP.

According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, the growth occupations that will have a large percentage of older workers are real estate appraisers, technical writers (yeah, we still know how to write a sentence), tax preparers (and we can add and subtract), property managers (pick up your stuff off the floor!), building inspectors, crossing guards (I SAID STOP), and clergy (??).

These are jobs that are projected to have openings for those 55 and older through the year 2026. The best pay? Technical writers can earn $71k explaining to the rest of us how to set up a local area network or operate our new espresso machines.

Why are so many boomers moving into these occupations? For many, it’s the money. They are worried they have not saved enough or that social security alone won’t cover their expenses. According to an AARP survey, about 20 percent say they just enjoy working. Almost half the three million jobs added to the economy last year were filled by persons over age 55, so there is a serious demand out there and boomers are heeding the call of the labor market.

I get the demand for jobs in the real estate sector. Doing appraisals, inspection and property management don’t necessarily require life-long skill development and boomers are so judgmental (burn!) anyway. It’s the clergy category that has me stumped. Are boomers really interested in an occupation where the trust factor has sunk like a stone. Less than 20 percent of Americans attend church regularly accord to Gallup polls and organized religion would not seem to be a growth industry. The crossing guard could have a more positive impact on a young mind than a priest (burn again!) but you can’t argue with the statistics.

On the bright side, employers continue to seek out candidates with so called “soft skills” such as positive attitude and dependability. So, we’ve got this.

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.

Dale and I were having a philosophical discussion about life’s regrets, and he asked if I had any. He might have been holding his breath as he waited for my response.

I said, “I regret not getting the coconut cake at Barbara’s Fishtrap in Princeton-by-the-Sea.”

The cake looked so perfect, but I was all holier-than-thou about sugar, so I skipped it, and I’ve been thinking about that cake ever since … at least three years. There’s a clear snapshot in my head. I remember staring at the cake display from across the room. And then someone ordered it! Details emerged, and I ogled layers upon layers of pale creamy coco-nutty whipped fluffiness that only coconut lover can appreciate.

Then it was my turn to ask about regrets, as in, “How about you?” For a minute, I thought he’d go deep and reveal a profoundly sad truth from the bowels of his barren tender soul, but then I remembered he’s from Maine.

He said, “I regret not knowing about soft shell crabs when we lived in Pennsylvania.”

Oh, man, I share that regret. We didn’t discover soft shells until we lived in Alabama and started going to New Orleans for mini-vacations. Later, we lived on the Carolina coast, where they were also plentiful. In Texas, we had some good ones in Port Aransas.

Thinking about the coconut cake made me nostalgic for a hot fudge sundae. My mother used to treat us to hot fudge sundaes when we were out and about – sometimes at the lunch counter at J.J. Newberry’s, which was in one of the original outdoor malls in Orange County, where I grew up. Sometimes at Helen Grace Chocolates, which was in a strip mall.

I still love a good strip mall!

Anyway, I ate my lifetime supply of ice cream in 1973, when I oh-so-conveniently worked at an ice cream store. I love it when a plan comes together.

The store was a Carvel, with premium ice cream and excellent toppings, which could be scooped from a bin in the walk-in when no one was looking. It was during this unfortunate period when I ate hot fudge sundaes for breakfast, and I’ve been dreaming about them ever since. Seriously.

I’m not big on goals, but I’m adding the iconic ice cream creation to my list. List of what? I don’t know … things to do, things to eat, simple pleasures. I’m grateful coconut cake was the biggest regret I could muster, and notwithstanding the art of moderation, I don’t want to say at the end, “Damn, I wish I’d had that hot fudge sundae.”

At the end of it all, I am reminded of my mother. I believe her last words were, “Is there any more See’s?”

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

 

I’m coming up on my third body part replacement next month. So far, I have a dead guy’s ACL stitched to the ACL in my right leg, and an ankle made of plastic and some sort of metal alloy. Up next is a partial knee replacement that involves a piece of metal I’m told won’t dent but will definitely light up the metal scanners at the airport.

When discussing my upcoming part replacement with a twenty-something co-worker, she excitedly told me that her grandmother had the exact same surgery! A comment met with a blank stare from me (I’m not old enough to be a grandmother, right? Also I don’t have kids). Although I’ve only just passed the double nickel milestone, I must seem ancient to her. But I am determined not to feel ancient. These body part replacements are giving me a second chance at an active life that for many years was stalled by the pain and weakness of a severe bone break turned arthritic, a torn ACL, and the hereditary joint destruction caused by arthritis that kicked in when I was 17. I’m not going to lie—recovery from parts replacements is hell but the benefits far outweigh the short-term struggle.

With my new parts, I’ve been able to do lots of things that, for years, I couldn’t: roaming 445 acres of the Iowa State Fair trying nearly every food on a stick, walking my dog, doing squats, riding my bike, wandering through junk jaunts, jumping around at concerts and music festivals, sitting during a two-plus hour plane trip, hoofing it from terminal A to terminal C in Atlanta, or taking road trips without sharp pains and stiffness. My parts replacements have been some of the best money my insurance company ever spent. Thanks, guys.

I spent my twenties, thirties, and forties working, working, and working some more to get the career, the car, the house. It was like being on a hamster wheel, and I rarely did the things I’ve done since parts replacement. But some of my parts are showing wear and need maintenance—like the car and the house. It happens; it’s inevitable, actually. If my parts replacements put me on the same level as my co-worker’s grandmother, that’s ok. I’ll gladly take the replaced parts and do things I was dumb enough not to do when I was younger.

Suzanne Guess lives in Des Moines, Iowa

The subject of hoarding can never be too far from your consciousness— after all, baby boomers have been collecting stuff since the 60s. For all I know, you’re still wearing it all too.

But now it’s time to let go. Stop hoarding and start redistributing. To help you with your hoarding compulsion, you can watch some of the TV shows that are still running or go with Marie Kondo “does it spark joy” method.

What does it say about us that there are TV shows devoted to hoarders? There’s even a Clutterers Anonymous organization plying the 12 step waters to find their way to recovery. Twelve steps seems like too many if you’re trying to reduce the clutter in your life. What about three steps? 1) Admit you’ve been making a mess of your home. 2) Get rid of all the crap you’ve been hoarding. 3) Apologize to anyone you’ve ever allowed/forced to be in your home. There—that was easy.

The International OCD Foundation (you read that right) even has a Hoarding Center. That sounds a little obsessive, but they would know more about that than me. You can go to the Hoarding In the News section and read about how too much “stuff” can cause grief.

Once I came across a Holmes on Holmes TV episode (make it right Mike) where contractor Mike Holmes was flabbergasted to find a couple who had so much crap in their home that the heating and ventilation system couldn’t work properly (the vents were all blocked!!!). It just got away from them and then snowballed to the point that they didn’t know where to start—so they didn’t. If Mike had not come along, they would probably be dead now—carbon dioxide poisoning. He and his crew carted off all the family’s junk in a convoy of four trucks.

Boomers, it’s time to get proactive. Learn to love the minimalist décor. Dump it on your kids, sell it on eBay or leave it in the street, but you’ve got to get rid of your excess stuff before the reality show producers come calling and you really make a fool out of yourself. Fifteen minutes of fame is a strong lure, but do you really want your friends and family to see you that way? There are lots of teenagers jonesin’ for your cast-offs. Let someone else take care of your stuff the second time around.

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.

Do seniors get crotchety? Do they love to complain? I’m 71. One thing I’ve noticed in my senior communities is the penchant to complain. Some seem to make a lifestyle of it. Whether the price of a meatloaf dinner or the restaurant server. The condition of a golf course or price of a prescription. The cable company or the HOA provider. Sheesh! The number of complaints seems to grow along with our age number. Does tolerance diminish? Does patience wane? What is it?

Our worlds become smaller in retirement. We have more time to focus on small irritations. We feel larger if we provide opinions and harangue.

It don’t have to be that way. I propose we strive to increase the happiness within our own lives. Given that we are living the moments that we have left, our happiness factor is an indicator of our quality of life (and those around us). Might we forgive one person each day their failings? Can we overlook the efforts of others that don’t measure up to our pinnacle? Can we extend a smile each day to someone laboring to provide service? I find that kindness really is the greatest gift. It’s uplifting. You’ll be amazed what you get back.

If you or a spouse are one of these misery sorts, and it really doesn’t love company, set anger aside, change your perspective. Extend a hand of greeting and tolerance. How many times a day do you smile? Too few? You can do it. Think of a pleasant memory. Recall a favorite phrase or song. Try a few minutes of meditation. Turn off the news. Disengage from other negative providers. If you find yourself turning to darker thoughts, turn them off. Concentrate on a positive hour, a positive day, a positive week.

Some of us have many ailments. It’s a favorite conversation topic and goes on and on. But if your glass is half full, your ailment report has a positive side. You’re still here. You’re still able to love and be loved. You’re still able to provide someone thanks and gratitude. I guarantee that your heart will be lighter.

I hope the next time we meet I’ll hear all that’s right with you, that you’re hopeful for better outcomes. I hope you’ll share these positive thoughts with others and encourage them to pass along happier moments and pay it forward.

Chris Keto is a retired human resources director who lives in 55+ community in Leesberg, Florida

“I think this is the spot where Blue Rainbow had his shack.”

“Not much left of it, is there?” she said.

They kicked at a few rotten boards with faded flowers painted on them, overgrown with sorrel and ferns.

“I guess not,” he said, “but Blue had the best view on the commune.”

“Even the view is gone,” she said. “The place is barely recognizable.” She gazed toward a row of spindly pines.

“Still pretty idyllic, don’t you think?”

They walked back to the Big House. Until recently, it was occupied by one of their old communard friends. He died a few months back, after a lingering bout of meningitis.

Hearing about his death, the Bobby and Jenean, who had lived together ever since leaving the commune after the FBI raid in 1974, decided to make a day of it, and picnic on the land. The tofu and arugula sandwiches nevertheless left a hollow feeling in their stomachs. The trip had begun to take on the morbid feeling of lingering too long at a funeral. Both of them tried to make light of it, though.

“Betty and Alice’s treehouse was around here somewhere.”

“I think that big Doug fir blew down in a storm.”

The water tank was overflowing with weeds. The Big House belied its own nickname. It was smaller now than the place Bobby and Jenean lived in, alone, back on their quiet cul-de-sac.

There was a circular platform of crumbling boards.

“Here’s Seth’s dome,” he said.

“Aw, he and I had some good times here,” she said.

Bobby turned his gaze on her. “Wait, I thought you couldn’t stand Seth.”

“No, no, you’re thinking of Steve. He I couldn’t stand,” she said. “Seth on the other hand…” Her voice trailed off in winsome memory.

“I’m sure it was Seth,” he said. “Are you telling me you and Seth had a thing?”

She lingered over her answer. “Well, now I’m not sure. It was a long time ago, after all.”

“Shit,” he said. “Every time we look back on that time, I’m hearing about another of your lovers. I thought I was your only one here.”

“You were, sweetie, you were.” She paused. “In a way.”

“Shit. I hated that guy. How could you…?”

“Come on Bobby. It was the times.”

He knew she was right. Still, he thought, Seth? Fucking Seth, too?

John Q McDonald is from Pleasanton, CA