BoomSpeak

Great Resignation

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employees resigningHave you been reading about The Great Resignation? Droves of people are quitting their jobs, much of it as a result of the pandemic. While lots of factors play into their decisions, including child care challenges, it sounds like workers have discovered the joys of a slower pace and aren’t going back until they find something with more balance.

You’ll notice I didn’t say work-life balance. In one job, I wrote talking points for the president of the company about his efforts to change the culture of the workplace. He asked me to “socialize” them with other executives, and one VP took issue with the term work-life balance. He said, and I quote, “Work is life.”

As for resigning, we get it, don’t we? One of the reasons I retired earlyish is because the rat race was wearing me out, too. But I was 62, and my husband and I had enough money saved to presumably last the rest of our lives. These are young people gambling with their futures … holding out until employers bend.

I’ve never understood why 40 hours a week isn’t enough. In my last job, you were expected to put in at least 50, preferably more. My boss had some sort of document readily accessible on her smartphone that could instantly tell her who was putting in the most unpaid overtime … and who wasn’t.

She would check on weekends to see if your Instant Messenger light was green, which usually meant you were online and working.

Granted, I was highly compensated, but my hourly rate was down there with fast food. Not really, but you like to think you’re paid more because you bring extra value, not because you are willing to give up having a life outside of work.

Fast food reminds me of a funny story.

We had just returned from working abroad, and I interviewed for a job at an insurance company in Columbia, S.C. They made an offer, and I countered.

I made more money than that at my last job working in Egypt.

Well, that was overseas. You can’t compare us to overseas.

I made more money than that when I lived in Alabama.

Well, that was aerospace. You can’t compare us to aerospace.

I accepted the job anyway, but when I later told the story to a coworker, he said his response would have been:

I made more money than that when I worked at Captain D’s.

Well, that was fast food. You can’t compare us to fast food.

That story still makes me laugh.

Anyway, I want the workers to find their bliss, but I can’t say I have much hope. I suspect they’ll enjoy some time off, run out of money and once again be at the mercy of the man.

It’s a tough predicament, and I have no love left for what’s become of the workplace, but I have some amazing memories and am still exceedingly grateful for all my experiences.

And the money. Oh, and retirement. Definitely retirement.

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

What Do They Want?

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yard sale itemsAARP Magazine had an article recently about what millennials want from their boomer parents. As you would expect, it doesn’t exactly match up. Boomers want to unload a bunch of stuff that their offspring does not want (picture furniture, silver, knickknacks, books, etc.).

But all is not lost. The millennials do want some stuff after all. So here goes. Listen up.

They want photos. Not all of them, mind you, just the family pix that interest them. Okay, that wasn’t so bad was it?

They want knickknacks, but once again, not all of them. They only want some small mementos, a serving dish perhaps, not the entire set of dishes.

Then there’s toys. A cherished stuffed animal or favorite game are things they can pass on to their own children, so there’s a few keepers.

When it comes to actual assets, millennials are not expecting a large inheritance. But if you want to give them one of your cars, or better yet, how about a house, they are all in on that deal.

Grandma’s collection of recipes is something they might cherish. Likewise, with vinyl coming back into vogue, millennials would not refuse your record collection. Face it, there’s some seminal music in there!

Tools are on the list of desirables as well. Hand tools and power tools (if they are in good condition) make the list because it’s quite a savings to have them handed down rather than purchased new.

Jewelry that has special meaning is also on the millennial shopping list. Not the costume stuff, but signature pieces such as one of grandma’s rings or a pendant.

Artwork they made as children is on the list along with items they can repurpose. Using an antique chest as a coffee table or some other purpose appeals to them.

Bottom line: If it’s something that feels like it will weigh them down (the big ugly recliner or a 112-piece set of silver service), you can bet they don’t want it.

Best idea: Ask them now what they would want so you can set it aside and they know it’s there waiting for them. Better yet, if you’re not using it, give it to them now.

What happens to everything else? Do everyone a favor and stipulate that it be donated to people who need and will be grateful for your generosity.

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.

World of Pain

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man with back pain1
It’s as if countless barbed arrows have pierced my back. Every step I take just pushes the arrows in that much deeper. In the kind of rising panic one usually only experiences in dreams, I phone my health care provider. A recorded message says my call was important to them. Ha! Fifteen minutes later, I’m still waiting for an actual person to pick up. Playing over the phone the whole time has been an excerpt from Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons,” music I wearily recognize as Winter.

2
I was reclining on an exam table fully clothed. A nurse, her attention focused on the tablet computer in her hands, asked, “On a scale of 1-10, with 1 being the lowest, how severe is your pain?” “Ten,” I said, and she tapped the screen. “On a scale of 1-10,” she robotically repeated, “with 1 being the lowest, how severe is your pain right now?” I could feel the small bones in my hands and feet wriggling like worms under my skin but was too intimidated to mention it. The nurse looked up from the tablet. Her eyes were the color of dirty slush. When she left the room, she banged the door shut behind her.

3
The voice in my head that used to calmly offer advice has grown shriller and shriller until finally it’s become indistinguishable from the general noise. Today I actually found myself envying the pharmaceutically blessed seniors leading a rich, active life in a drug ad on TV. My own constituent molecules have weak bonds and wobbly orbits and, under even the best conditions, rattle. About the most active thing I dare do these days is lean way out over the railing to see if the Alp at the end of the street is still there.

Howie Good is the author most recently of the poetry collections Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing) and Famous Long Ago (Laughing Ronin Press).

 

For Love

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competing paper airplanesFor most, a job forces us to be competitive, whether we like it or not. We crawl our way to the top of the pile to make more money, validate our self-worth and provide for our families.

Sometimes it’s hard to differentiate between competition against others and competition against ourselves. When all is said and done, there might not be much of a difference – a standard of being better than someone else or better than you can ever hope to be?

And then you retire, and you still have this competitive drive all dressed up and nowhere to go. We may channel that energy into sports, hobbies, side gigs or travel, and like so many others, we often compete for attention on social media. We want to be good at something. We want to be seen.

I’m beginning to think the holy grail of retirement – or maybe just aging in general – is choosing to become less competitive and more mindful. While competition can be motivating, it’s all too easy to judge yourself harshly. I’ve always been way too hard on myself, and at this point in my life, I’m trying to focus on enjoying the experience more than the outcome.

For example, golf is one of my passions. I play in a women’s league at a local club. The rules are quite persnickety and the prizes are meager, yet competition is fierce. Bragging rights, I guess. I took pride in suggesting I didn’t care about winning, although I freely admitted I didn’t want to be DFL – dead fucking last.

What a surprise to wake up and realize if you care about losing, you care about winning. Even striving to be in the middle of the pack is its own little contest.

All that said, I’m not suggesting people abandon competition completely. It’s not about giving up. I still like the idea of challenging ourselves to do exceptional things. But I definitely think retirement is the right time to moderate our expectations and find new ways to feel rewarded.

Try to forget about winning or losing. Be kind to yourself no matter where you rank in the hierarchy of achievements. Focus on the pleasures of the game itself, your interactions with people, sharing your work with others or the creative process of making art or putting a business project together.

At the end of the day, whatever drives you, ask yourself this: would you do it for love?

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

 

What Is It Near?

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woodlandThe college town where my husband and I lived was never dark at night. People were always coming and going. When we moved north to New Hampshire, there were adjustments to make. The supermarket was half an hour away. The town had three streetlights, and went quiet after dark.

In time, we found our own fun. The neighborhood families played kick the can until it was too dark to see, and in the winter card games next to the wood cook stove in someone’s kitchen passed snowy nights.

We eventually bought a house where a young forest was all we saw from windows on any side. If a car passed by after nine at night, we sat up and looked at each other. This was what we wanted. But a guest from the college town questioned our choice. Standing at the top of our driveway, she looked around asking, “But, what is it near?”

That was decades ago. When the pandemic shut down life’s usual activities, many people discovered what we already knew. Our home is near a richness of life in its many forms, and we have only to look outside, or walk the trails near the house to appreciate it. In the gardens outside our house, butterflies and hummingbirds enjoy our flowers as much as we do. Flying traffic makes the bird feeder a busy avian airport, and we mark the seasons by the species that flutter in and out. Then there are the chipmunks, who scurry away with dropped seeds and chatter at our cat.

Down the road, geese land in a marsh where they can feed and rest on their migratory journey. They arrive as the dense canopy of oak, birch, poplar and maple leaves turns color and floats earthward. Then the snows arrive. The teeming life so nearby has gone dormant or disappeared underground. Before the snow is deep enough for snowshoes, it reveals the tracks of visitors who don’t want to be seen. Raccoon, fox and deer live not far away. We even hear an occasional owl.

As years accumulate, I know we are closer to the time when the luxury of immersion in a wild environment will no longer be safe or convenient. We can only hope our final home will be near at least a fraction of such a rich, engaging habitat.

Chris Hague’s poems and stories have been published in various literary magazines. She has written an arts column for the Weare Free Press and other weekly newspapers.

An Open Window 

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barking dogsLoud music filled the room, making it hard to hear anything else. But then again since I am deaf in my left ear, hearing anything has its challenges. Also, I had the volume full up to drown out another loud sound, the curse of the neighbors barking dogs.

Even with my semi handicap, I find that symphonic music sooths the troubled soul. Today I was hoping a Mozart’s Symphony would bring a bit of peace to me.

The cacophony of barking dogs in my neighborhood recently has me worked up into a murderous rage. I am looking for Wolfgang to unrage me. I am wasting too much time googling how to put poison into raw meat, fanaticizing about shooting despicable dogs with an arrow from a passing car (borrowed from a Wal-Mart parking lot with fake plates). Enjoyable to think about but non- productive as even my most ingenious plans for canine demise is handicapped by lack of follow through on my part. One thing I did look up on the magic computer: “mafia hitmen for animals’’. The search came up almost empty, there was one entry for a guy with an office next to the city dump in Des Moines, but his name Vermin Smith. He sounded like someone I definitely did not want to meet.

The deeper theological question is why did our good Lord put them there to terrorize me in my old age. Was it to punish me for some unforgivable sin from my youth? I am pretty sure I never had the pleasure of an unforgivable sin in my youth, but with my memory the way it is at the moment, who knows? Was it to punish me for the unkind things that I have said abut my various neighbors and their families over the years? Ouch.

Those barking beasts keep destroying my naps and my supposedly quiet times on the back patio in the morning, an integral part of my mind set for the day as I prepare for it with coffee and the paper.

My wife says that the fact that barking dogs bother me is my problem. I disagree.

The other day poetic justice rang out. I received a call from the neighbor who harbors the howling dogs complaining about the volume of my CD player featuring my man, Mozart.

Kenan Bresnan likes Mozart more than barking dogs.

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