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Archives for December 2021

Climb Every Mountain

December 29, 2021 By admin

Mount Taylor summitI saw an article recently that heralded the fact that you’re never too old to climb a mountain. It suggested that we pay too much attention to our age. Then it asked if we start to feel a bit low in the run-up to our birthdays or do we plan ahead for what we hope to accomplish in the coming year. Further, it suggested that the adage that we’re as young/old as we feel becomes more important to our overall wellbeing.

All of this got me thinking about Mount Taylor. This particular mountain was 70 miles from my home. Even on a cloudy day, I could see its profile on the horizon every time I stepped outside. It never occurred to me that I would climb to the top of it. That feat was not on any bucket list until friends related their experience of hiking to the 11,900 foot summit.

WHAT? You can hike to the top of it? Of course you can. There most likely isn’t a mountain in the continental U.S. with a summit that cannot be reached by an ordinary hike. Difficult maybe. Treacherous even, but it can be done.

So if you’re as old as you feel, and you’re feeling old, then of course you would reject the notion of climbing to the top of Mount Taylor. I wasn’t feeling old. I’m still going on hikes that are quite strenuous. Some have elevation gains of 2,000 feet or more. The Gooseberry Springs trail that leads to the Mt. Taylor summit is 6.33 miles in length and has an elevation gain of 2,126 feet. The Navajo refer to it as Turquoise Mountain and consider it one of the four sacred mountains. We stopped frequently to catch our breath and as we reached the bare slope of the summit the winds picked up significantly. On one switchback the wind helped us climb, but as we turned into the next switchback, it created fierce resistance. Stopping to rest, we saw a hiker below us climbing at a rate much faster than ours and gaining rapidly. Turns out she was a through hiker doing the Continental Divide Trail. In her 20s, she was in much better shape than us 70-year-olds but we all arrived at the summit about the same time.

It was a moment to savor and while we could admire the 20-year-old’s stamina, we took the time to congratulate ourselves for making the effort to climb to the top of an iconic peak. We were/are as young as we felt/feel.

Jay Harrison is a writer and creative consultant for DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle. You can also visit his author page here.

Filed Under: ESSAY

Writing My Eulogy

December 29, 2021 By admin

dead tree on sunset hillMy son came to visit and said, “I have an idea for your eulogy.”

That was a bit off-putting, but I tried to stay calm. “What do you mean?” I said. “I’m not dying yet.”

“Of course you’re not,” he said. “I just want to be prepared. And I think I have a really good idea: Ten Things You Don’t Know About My Mother. We can work on it together.”

Actually, I know a couple of people who have written their own eulogies and they swear it’s a great way to help you to think about your life. And I had to admit, my son’s title was rather provocative. I immediately thought of two things people don’t know about me and I have no interest in informing anyone on the subject. I said not one word to my son.

But what is there about my life that I would want people to know? The people at my funeral, presumably friends and relatives, what don’t they know? That I have a hard copy of every article I’ve written for newspapers or magazines in two four-drawer file cabinets in my garage? We’re talking somewhere between 500 and 600 and nobody is going to want them. That although I have been a writer and teacher all my life I also have a degree in hotel management, from which I learned that I never want to manage a hotel? That I played girls’ basketball for one semester in college and I liked it and was pretty good at it. This would be remarkable to those at my funeral because, presumably, they would all know that my height is five feet, one inch. It turns out there’s a method for making baskets even if you are short and I learned how to do it. As long as you are not playing against super tall players who can jump up and just drop the ball in the basket, you’re good to go.

Or how about this: If I could have done anything in the world for a career I would have wanted to be a singer. Anyone who has heard me sing knows it all worked out for the best.

I’ve got a long way to go to complete the list. I wonder what my son is coming up with. But I recommend the exercise to anyone who wants the opportunity to look at themselves in a new light. And I’m sorry I won’t be able to hear the eulogy delivered.

Norma Libman is a journalist and lecturer who has been collecting women’s stories for more than twenty years. You can read the first chapter of her award-winning book, Lonely River Village, at NormaLibman.com.

 

 

Filed Under: ESSAY

Not Gonna Do It

December 29, 2021 By admin

Retirement compassI am not ready to retire.

No, that’s not right: I’m ready. I’m more than ready. I am not able.

I meant to be rich and famous someday. Or at least rich. Or at least not broke.

I joked about it — in 2010 I said I was disappointed to learn that the Mayan calendar had been mistranslated and that the world would not end in 2012 after all. (Spoiler alert: It didn’t.) But, see, I said I was rooting for the End of the World in 2012 because my credit cards would have just about maxed out by then.

In reality, I scrimped and saved and got my credit cards back under control (the last of my five kids finishing college helped a lot in this regard). But I’m not out of debt yet… and I’m not likely to ever be completely out of debt.

Actually, it turns out that reaching retirement age is in some ways like being a teenager all over again, except without the hormones (darn it): As my friends in high school all turned 16 and got their drivers’ licenses I wasn’t 16 yet and I was kind of envious because I wasn’t yet old enough. Now my friends are all retiring and I’m not quite old enough and I neglected to get a pension from anyone.

That was poor planning on my part.

This is the ‘second wave’ of retirements in my case: Some years back, when I was coaching at what I called Bluejay Park, a lot of my fellow coaches started turning 50. That may not strike you as a particularly important milestone. But most of these dads were City workers — cops mostly, but some firemen, at least one guy in the Department of Forestry) and they had their 30 years in with the City and were therefore eligible to retire and collect their full pensions. Many did retire. Most found other jobs, too, meaning they had some pretty good earning years while I was rooting for the Mayan prediction to be true.

I had a plan about how I was going to get a pension — lots of plans — none of them practical.

So I’m still here, still pursuing plans that are unlikely to bear real fruit. But I’m more at peace now with that. And I’m prepared to muddle through.

Come sit next to me on this bench in the Blogosphere. I’ll tell some stories, and maybe I’ll even make you smile.

Or piss you off. In 2021 I suppose that seemed more likely.

Curmudgeon is a self-described dinosaur — an Ozzie and Harriet person living in an Ozzy and Sharon world. And sometimes it confuses the heck out of him. He writes a very amusing blog at Second Effort.

 

 

Filed Under: ESSAY

Howdy Doody!

December 9, 2021 By admin

Howdy DoodyIt would be hard to think of a more universal touchstone for baby boomers than the Howdy Doody Show. Say kids, what time is it? It’s Howdy Doody time!!!

There came a time when just about every local TV station had a kids show (the one I remember was Ranger Andy), but Howdy Doody got there first. And the show didn’t just entertain us boomers — it sold TV sets, cereal, lunch boxes and a lot of other products. Advertisers definitely took notice.

It all started with New York radio NBC affiliate WEAF, where Big Brother Bob Smith was the voice of a ranch hand on a show called The Triple B Ranch. He would greet the audience by saying “Oh, ho, ho, howdy doody.” Just the kind of nonsensical wordplay children love to hear, and love to repeat.

It was a short leap from there to the Howdy Doody Show and a whole cast of characters who lived in Doodyville. That named seemed rather benign when I was 7 or 8 years old, but in retrospect it sounds like a weird place to live. Buffalo Bob talked to the marionettes as if they were real, so even though we could see the strings on the puppets as plain as day, we began to think of them as real people. And what a collection of characters– Phineas T. Bluster with his flying eyebrows on separate strings, along with Flub-a-Dub and Dilly Dally. And the live characters were just as interesting. Chief Thunderthud of Kawabonga fame and Princess Summerfall Winterspring were pretty captivating. Clarabell Hornblow provided some of the slapstick and was played by Bob Keeshan, who most of you should remember later became Captain Kangaroo! He sprayed seltzer on everyone and we all laughed like the chuckleheads that we were.

I had forgotten that the show originally came on in the early evening, but I do remember that it came on just after Gabby Hayes. When the show came to an end in 1960, it was after airing 2,343 programs. It had its educational moments and teaching opportunities, but mostly I remember the slapstick, some goofy songs and the spraying seltzer, along with an unexplainable yearning for Princess Summerfall Winterspring (I began to think of her as pretty hot looking just as I hit puberty).

Who didn’t want to be in the Peanut Gallery bleachers when the Princess was in town? I guess when I was more interested in the Princess than the puppets, my Doodyville days were over, but I still remember them fondly.

Jay Harrison is a writer and creative consultant for DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle. You can also visit his author page here.

Filed Under: ARTS

About that 401K …

December 9, 2021 By admin

golden nest eggOur kitchen remodeling project is behind schedule, but they finish up today, so everything should be good to go for Thanksgiving. We have missed cooking so much and can’t wait to crank it up again.

Of course, we’re going to have a nicer kitchen, but being miserable for close to five weeks motivated us to get serious about having fun. We are out of practice.

Dale and I don’t have a big urge to travel, especially long trips by air, and COVID did nothing to change our minds. Still, we’re feeling confident we can scoot around California with moderate risk. There are so many beautiful places to see here, and we’ve done a whole lot of nothing for two years.

As it is with kitchens and travel, everything costs money. I’ll start collecting Social Security in December, and that should help fund some adventures. Additionally, we’re starting to talk about monthly withdrawals from what used to be my 401K but is now an IRA.

Although I was good at building a solid 401K, I’m less skilled when I think about draining it. I have found it difficult to make the mental switch from saving to spending. However, I may be ready. Not too many people in my family die of old age, so I’d like to enjoy what’s there.

We talked with Bob, our financial planner, and he encouraged us to get started … operating under the theory you can’t take it with you. Bob suggested we go with 4-5 percent. Ideally, your returns match or outpace withdrawals, so you don’t touch your principal. But with this market, who knows?

As a childless couple, we do want to spend our principal … just not all at once. I like the idea of “die broke.” However, I would like to avoid being alive and broke. But if that’s how it goes down, hell, yes, I would take it.

My car is 11 years old and in good shape, but I see a new one on the horizon. So, it will be good to start socking away cash for that purchase. I’m hoping my car goes another couple of years so I can see how the electric market shakes out. I’d like to go electric or plug-in hybrid. Any recommendations?

The biggest hurdle is getting over a bad case of COVID caution. Breakthrough infections notwithstanding, we’re both fully vaccinated and boosted and will most likely be just fine. We can’t live in fear forever.

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

 

Filed Under: ESSAY

Property

December 9, 2021 By admin

sticky honeyI fill my mouth with summer, lips purple from the juice of tart blueberries I pluck from the bushes. Just past the ripening tomatoes my mother bends down to harvest a perfect cantaloupe. The smell of green is heavy in muggy August air as we amble from our garden toward the modest split level we call home. I follow my mother through the screen door and into the kitchen, where the mustard yellow linoleum cools my small bare feet.

My mother places the melon in a fruit bowl and smooths black bangs off her serious face. Sensing movement outside the window she peers through the glass.

“Don’t you dare,” she whispers to them, to herself.

On tiptoe I can see above the sill and watch as two sandy-haired teenagers, maybe twins, sun-blessed and confident, stride across our yard and past our garden. On long legs they easily vault our split rail fence and land in the farmer’s field. They will ramble past the rooster, hens, and haystacks, past the old red barn to the creek, where clear cold water rushes over rocks like laughter from boys’ mouths.

My mother jolts into action and grabs her weapons: a basting brush from a drawer and a jar of Sue Bee Clover Honey from a cupboard, where it resides next to her bottle of nerve pills. Armed with brush and honey, my mother pushes hard against the whining screen door and marches outside. I follow this aproned warrior, two steps of mine to each one of hers. I follow her through our yard and past our garden to our fence, where we stop under the cloudless sky.

I sit cross-legged in the grass and watch my mother briskly paint the grey wooden slats with golden honey. She paints and paints until the honey is gone and the fence glistens in the sun. A sickly sweet scent rises in the afternoon heat.

My mother steps back to survey the work and breathes deeply, arms folded over her chest. Beads of sweat wander down her flushed cheeks. I stand up and tug on her thin cotton dress.

“Mom,” I say, “why did you put all that honey on our fence?”

Through a tight smile she tells me the sandy-haired boys will be sorry they ever cut through our yard. “When they come back,” she says, “those boys will stick to it like flies.”

Tess Kelly lives and writes in Portland, Oregon.

 

 

Filed Under: FICTION

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