Category: memories

20% Off

Now our group of 10 is down to 8, 20% off. But the loss is much greater. Covid deprived us of the comfort of mourning, the sharing of casseroles and memories.

 

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

—
Mary Oliver

He died

Anticipated but heartbreaking. Word is received that our friend Roger passed away quietly in the night. The peaceful passing stands in contrast to his final years battling an array of cancers and therapies.

Initially rejecting treatment for cancer, he gave in to his family’s pleas to attempt recovery for their sakes. Younger daughter clinched the argument sharing her dream for him to walk her down the aisle at her wedding.

The wedding took place just days after Roger’s death. His wife, four adult children and spouses, and grandchildren mourned as they celebrated. It would not surprise me if Roger had made his presence known.

In our group of 10, Roger, like Frank before him, took more than his share of 20% of personality. His presence was enough, full of warmth and humor. He kept us laughing one evening as he tested Amazons’s Alexa: who is the smartest? Who is the funniest? Tell us a joke.

Never loud, he nonetheless commanded attention without dominating the conversation. No wonder that he was admired in the world of teaching, honored with awards of which he didn’t boast and likely did not seek. His eyes revealed his honesty: he was interested in you. He wanted to hear what you had to say.

Willing to tackle almost any remodeling task, he stepped aside when becoming ill to tolerate his wife’s passion for painting every item in the house and those found on the curbs. I fully expected to see Roger on Facebook covered in mineral fusion paint. A different color each week.

Now our group of 10 is down to 8, 20% off. But the loss is much greater. Covid deprived us of almost two years of friendship as, not wanting to risk infection, we could not visit both Frank and Roger during their illnesses. Covid deprived us of the comfort of mourning, the sharing of casseroles and memories.

This is hard to write, as tears fill my eyes. I am in sorrow for the loss of wonderful friends, but I am also angry at those who will not do what is needed to control this pandemic.

But I end on a note of love. Roger positively impacted the lives of hundreds of children. He and Frank both left remarkable families. And friends. How lucky I am to have known them.

Lifelong friends

Inseparable is not a word I would apply to our friendship. Removing the thread of our relationship would not untangle my life, but it would certainly leave a gaping hole.

Betty, myself, Gary, and my Big Bro Joe

We did the math. Betty and I have known each other more than 67 years, longer than I have known my own sister!

Betty and I do not recall life without each other. We grew up at opposite ends of the oil and cinder paved block in Moline, Illinois. Our birthdays were one week apart at the end of the year, making us along with neighbor Gary, three of the youngest students in the class.

We were opposite: she tall, lanky, and blond. I was short, full but not yet plump, and brunette. Our parents were older than other parents and promoted similar Midwest values of hard work, church, and humility. Our childhood was spent sharing houses, vacations, and families. Whenever she ran away from home, she ran to our house. I knew better than to run to hers. Betty bemoaned adolescent difficulties stemming from her adoption as a child. I bemoaned similar angst as the result of not being adopted.

In a coincidence of life, we lived in Germany for a short time when our children were young. Her son threw up in my car as he came to visit us. Betty came and sat with my younger daughter when my other daughter was hospitalized for an emergency appendectomy.

Now we both live in Arizona although several hours apart. This past weekend, we met in Flagstaff. Our husbands endured our recall of shared experiences and family quirks. We laughed, compared stories of aging, and explored our mutual interest in writing.

Inseparable is not a word I would apply to our friendship. Removing the thread of our relationship would not untangle my life, but it would certainly leave a gaping hole.

Thanks, Betty. Love you!

How did this happen?

It is a cliché to say that time speeds up with age. My own theory of relativity of time states that the time appears to move more quickly relative to the number of events and memories experienced. I wonder if I can get a Nobel for that idea.

In the blink of an eye.

Where are the boys?

It seems rather absurd that we can go days with only infrequent glimpses of the boys. They are at school weekdays followed by golf practice and disappear to their quarters or go out on weekends. Our schedules often preclude supper together. Noises coming through the ceiling from upstairs are the only evidence of their presence.

Each time their paths cross mine, I am astonished. How did they grow up so quickly?

Milestones

This week Blue Boy turned 17. The family is celebrating today after which the kids will head out for paintballing in the desert. On their own. Weird.

Ironically, my Baby Bro turns 60 today. 60!!! I still remember the family going to the drive-in movie the night before his arrival to view Pollyanna. My mother said, as she did every day, “Maybe Tom will come tonight.” (He was named before he was born, in the day when the gender was revealed at birth.) We pointed out that she said that every day.

The next morning, the family chalkboard bore the message: Went to the hospital to get Tom.

Going on 11 years old, I was more than excited and woke Big Bro to share the news, who insisted on reading the message for himself. We called everyone in the family and waited.

I like to remind Baby Bro that I changed his diapers.

What makes us feel old?

My mother once said that she felt old when her children started taking social security. I am discovering that many milestones remind me of my age. My Baby Bro’s birthday for one. My own children are aging so quickly that I have to do math to calculate their ages. Admiring my grandsons and their growth is another awakening.

Theory of Relativity per me

It is a cliché to say that time speeds up with age. My own theory of relativity of time states that the time appears to move more quickly relative to the number of events and memories experienced. I wonder if I can get a Nobel for that idea.

Scrap that idea–for now

Our plans have been scrapped. We are willing to travel, but a trip to Nashville for a group of music lovers anticipating extraordinary music in crowded bars would be wasted. We are not willing to take the risk. We will consider something more isolated.

Well, that won’t work.

On the road again

The plans were taking shape, the spread sheet filling with details of mileage, events, sites, and reservations. We were joining our Chicago travel buddies (SOAR) on a road trip to Louisville (distilleries) and then on to Nashville (music), celebrating the opening of society following 18 months of COVID isolation. This would be cathartic, our group of six now down to five.

We had watched the COVID numbers decrease as the vaccine took effect in millions of people around the world. We were hopeful. Society was opening up. SOAR was ready to hit the road and celebrate Life and friendship in honor of Larry.

We managed these past 18 months patiently and bravely, meeting via Zoom, limiting travel until safe. Tragically, Larry succumbed to COVID, leaving us numb and heart-broken.

Reminding us that death and disease do not consult our calendars, another good friend, healthy and robust 15 months ago, quickly became thin and weak because of non-COVID health conditions. And glioblastoma took Frank’s life.  

Not

The vaccine holdouts surprised us, allowing the deadly Delta variance to take hold. While the numbers rise dangerously, we are more than a little annoyed at people who refuse the vaccine out of ignorance, jeopardizing the health and quality of life of their neighbors.

Our plans have been scrapped. We are willing to travel, but a trip to Nashville for a group of music lovers anticipating extraordinary music in crowded bars would be wasted. We are not willing to take the risk. We will consider something more isolated.

Restlessness overwhelms me

I have always been restless. I recall many times in my life when I felt as if I were waiting, shackled by health, family, or social norms that restricted me. Miraculously, opportunities offered fulfilling experiences to carry me through the years.

RestlessRetirement.com was born from an internal drive to fill my retirement not with busy-ness but with meaningful endeavors. Although the isolation of 2020 offered me opportunities to stretch some creative wings, I remain restless, as if I am to begin something new, as if my work of 2020 was a holding pattern.

What if there is nothing new?

I need to keep my finger on the patience button a little longer.

Ode to Frank

It is meant to be comforting to say that he lives in our memory. The reality is that he isn’t here, and our hearts are broken.

The news was exciting: our friends Frank and Sharon had won the lottery to select a lot on which to build their dream retirement home. Within months the beautiful residence was ready for them to host family and friend get-togethers and prepare for upcoming retirement.

Although happy for their good luck, I mourned their move from our neighborhood. But we have cars. We are retired and have time. We can see them just as often, we reasoned.

We had to decline their invitation to dinner that year, promising to meet up sometime soon. Then COVID hit. We have yet to see their new home.

Now Frank will not be there. Although he was not a victim of COVID, our mourning of his loss was. His death came as one of several close friends this past year. There were no hugs. Tears were shed in seclusion. Unable to share stories, we relied on our personal memory. We mourned in isolation.

But let me write about Frank.

Always pleasant, positive, ready with a witty comeback, he added to the spirit of our group that had planned graduation night festivities many years ago and continues to meet today.

He was father to his children and step-children alike. He coached our boys in sports with a calm and humorous hand.

He was ready to accept a spontaneous invitation to go out for happy hour or dinner, greeting me with a bear hug whenever I saw him.

His suggestion to meet at Top Golf, however, went unfulfilled. I think of him every time we go there.

As I bemoaned that I needed a hip replacement, I was aware of the irony of complaining to one who had endured multiple orthopedic surgeries. With a smile he preached, “just get it.”

To be honest, I think we were close on our personal counts of surgeries.

I looked forward to seeing Frank and Sharon in their new home. But the news came of a glioblastoma. Having lost family and clients to that diagnosis, I knew the prognosis was grim.

Sharon reports that Frank kept up his positive spirit to the end, easing and exacerbating his family’s own pain.

Frank was one of the good ones, gone too soon from a world that needs people like him.

It is meant to be comforting to say that he lives in our memory. The reality is that he isn’t here, and our hearts are broken.

I wish I had asked

I admit to forcing childhood stories upon my children. Not so they know me. But so that when it is too late, they won’t wonder: why didn’t I ask?

That night in my sister’s bed, I stared at the ceiling and felt the true loss of my father. Not his money or his house, but the man I sat next to in the car. He had protected me from the world so completely that I had no idea what the world was capable of. I had never thought about him as a child. I had never asked him about the war. I had only seen him as my father, and as my father I had judged him. There was nothing to do about that now but add it to the catalog of my mistakes.

The Dutch House: Ann Patchett

Who are these people?

Retired and laid low by the pandemic, we cleaned out closets and scanned photos. Who are all these people in my mother’s albums? Snapshots expose moments of our parents’ lives of which we were unaware. Guilt overtakes me as I realize how little I know about my parents’ childhood. There were no grandparents to share stories. I am guilty because I never asked.

This I know

Two facts I know because I asked:

  1. although my father grew up on a farm with work horses, he had wanted a pony.
  2. he was stationed in England during WWII and repaired guns.

He related that the coldest he had ever been was the Christmas Day when the horse-drawn sleigh overturned on the way to his grandparents’ home. He disliked having to stoke the furnace on cold Iowa mornings. And was happy to have indoor plumbing. My aunts enjoyed styling his hair.

That’s my paltry awareness.

He was my father, gentle, with few words. Only once did I hear a profanity:  a sotto voce “damn” in response to an uncooperative car frightened me in its singularity.

My favorite memory is the sensation of leaning on his chest as he read aloud the newspaper comics, his laugh reverberating throughout my entire body.

Many memories, but they revolved around me.

I am not alone

Friends and family of my age share my regret of ignorance. Why didn’t we ask?

I observe my children as they adopt adult roles, allowing me to forgive my younger self for its self-centeredness. Modern life is complicated, requiring a great deal of energy and attention for physical, emotional, and spiritual survival. The needs of children increase the demands exponentially. What young parent has time to regard their parents’ childhoods?

Why didn’t we ask? Perhaps it is not so much that we didn’t view our parents as individuals. Rather, our own experiences of life appeared mundane, and in our ignorance, we assumed the same of theirs.

Incidents are unique when they no longer exist.

My childhood playtime in the woods near our house, picking flowers for bouquets, playing in the creek was the neighborhood norm. Only when I knew my children would never have that opportunity did I realize its value.

I admit to forcing childhood stories upon my children. Not so they know me. But so that when it is too late, they won’t wonder: why didn’t I ask?

Preparing for the next adventure

Are the photos the remnants of a broken relationship? Evidence of a disturbed mind contemplating anarchy? Or the deeds of a couple celebrating a full life while preparing for the next stage, unencumbered by the past, saving their energy for the future?

Senescence…a fancy term for getting old. We have watched friends and family age unto death. Nothing prepares you for the personal experience.

ME

Mike and I

… have been on the road since March 20, almost six weeks. Although much of that time has been spent in SD’s basement in Chicago, we consider ourselves nomads. The basement is actually garden level, fully finished, with lovely views of the street. SD and MBP are cheerful and accommodating, making us feel welcome.

Mike and I stroll the lush neighborhood, contemplating living here part time. We would be close to two of our children and their families, including our newest grandchild, LLJ.

The weather

…reminds us of one of our reasons for leaving. Many people aggrandize Chicago. No one boasts of its weather. Yesterday was 80 degrees, sunny. Today is 50 and gray. The vacillation discourages routine except for the hardy. The cold gray humidity provokes my headache and lethargy. I am not hardy.

Summer can be wonderful or miserable, depending upon the humidity. It can change within the hour. No one boasts of Chicago weather.

Home

… is Peoria, Arizona. ED and her boys wait for us. Okay, they don’t wait. The boys barely notice our presence or absence. But much of our love abides there. We have good friends, family. And most of the year, glorious weather without headache.

We are preparing

…for the next stage, whatever it is. We are committed to house sharing until Mowgli graduates high school, another four years. Now in our eighth decade, Mike and I understand that much can happen in that time, mocking any plans we make. It is not the time to decide on where we will spend our elder years.

But we simplify our lives. Family heirlooms are distributed to younger loving hands. Knick knacks requiring care without sparking joy are donated. Photo albums are emptied, their contents digitized.

Mike brought several albums on this trip and has spent downtime scanning photos. We have a good time recalling long-forgotten people and events. We feel a little guilty when we realize that we have lost a memory completely.

Before discarding the photos, I glance at them. I snap shots of my beloved deceased cousin to send to her widower. Forty plus year old photos of neighbors are shared on Facebook. The photo of our family skinny dipping at the lake goes into the family chat.

Then they go into the trash

…for the hotel housekeepers to find. What do they think? Are the photos the remnants of a broken relationship? Evidence of a disturbed mind contemplating anarchy?

Or the deeds of a couple celebrating a full life while preparing for the next stage, unencumbered by the past, saving their energy for the future?

Broken relationships

The photo is the proof that at one time we shared life, molecules interacting, changing the course of history. The photos show laughter and love. Erasing these faces from the photo alters the event. Viewing the photo triggers memories of overwhelming struggles.

Leaving cavities in our hearts.

The photos

The images are clear. The beloved faces return my gaze. The people they represent are still alive. But they have left our lives, leaving cavities in the heart.

Cleaning out

Mike is scanning all our photos including many taken by our parents. It is fun to sift through them, discarding scenes of landscapes better viewed on Google. We do our best to distinguish the inferior quality photos faded and blurred over time, choosing to file most of them in the trash bin.

Reliving

We relive celebrations, holidays, vacations, and daily antics. I snap pictures of pictures on my phone to share with family and friends for instant laughs and warm fuzzies.

We mourn for those whose remains are buried in this earth but whose souls have moved beyond. Recalling the love they shared calms and joys me.

Where did you go?

Then there are those people who entered our lives through relationships with our loved ones for a limited amount of time. Our hearts took them in, loved them. Bonds broke, and they left. They haunt us in the photos of shared life events. Where are they?

I can’t change the past

And what do we do with the photo? I don’t want to forget these people, what they meant to me and our family. The photo is the proof that at one time we shared life, molecules interacting, changing the course of history. The photos show laughter and love. Erasing these faces from the photo alters the event. Viewing the photo triggers memories of overwhelming struggles.

Go with God

I see a photo of happy family and friends. I recall the good times. I am thankful for everyone who shared that moment and pray for those lost to us.  

The Clampetts

We spend the first half of our lives accumulating things and the second half discarding them.

Oh my

Preparing for the second half

We spend the first half of our lives accumulating things and the second half discarding them.

anonymous

Mike and I are in the second half. The future shortens, and we prepare by cleaning.

Supporting capitalism

Family growth naturally resulted in the amassing of possessions as interests and needs changed. Objects unique to our younger minds (e.g. cooking gadgets) become space wasters. Mike and I kept life simple as a necessity, either moving frequently or living in limited space. The longer we stayed, the more we collected.

Time to downsize

Our most recent move to a larger space to share with ED and the boys allowed us to downsize our personal life. Fortuitously, ED is approaching the discard stage of life.

Now Mike and I find ourselves on a leisurely cross-country trip, ultimate destination Chicago and the birth of a new grandchild. We grasped the opportunity to load the car with items to distribute along the way. I am reminded of the old TV show The Beverly Hillbillies.

Gifting our memories

In Burlington, Iowa, we will donate an antique sleigh crazy quilt and child’s sled to the historical society. We used the 14.5 pound quilt for years when we traveled, making up beds on the floor for the kids if needed. The quilt holds dust from Europe.  

The quilt recalls my father’s story about the coldest day in his life, when the family sleigh flipped over on the way to Christmas with the grandparents. The quilt holds my father’s skin cells and those of his family.

The sled displays my father’s initials; I imagine him as a child, carving them into the wood. I am thrilled that I can leave these items to be appreciated by many people.  

SC now lives in a spacious condo: time for her to decide how to store possessions so meaningful that she hasn’t looked at them in 20 years.

There are boxes labeled C-boy’s baby. A few items of sentimental value and limited practicality that he and P-DiL can decide to use or not.

No, thank you

My mother pushed items onto me because . . . they had been in the family, so and so loved this, this is valuable. If any of those reasons were true, I pondered but did not express, why were the items sitting in someone’s basement? I resolved to let my kids honor their own memories.

Life to live

So, we hand over these objects with love. We will take time to recall the memories together but trust that the items will have served their purpose if no longer needed. Then whoever holds the object can decide what to do with it.

I have Life to live.

Dated

I can pretend that my mind is sharp, when in reality it is only as sharp as Google. I credit myself for coming up with the questions.

Those phones lasted forever!

Instantaneous

There is that moment, a remark is offered, my mind sparks, and I am dated.

Our pastor, close to my daughters’ age, challenged us to recall the address and phone number of our childhood home.

She recited her home address effortlessly. And included the zip code.

Oops. I know the address but regard the zip code as an addendum, recited only when requested.

Telephones

My childhood phone number will be remembered as five digits. I recall the apprehension using the two-digit prefix to call my cousin just to see if it worked. Some city friends recall exchange codes: BE lmont 5.

Needing a ride home from my friend’s party, the party line forced me to wait while the neighbors gossiped.

Living on a farm, my mother’s friend had an old wall phone which she seemed to ignore when it rang. When asked why, she said it wasn’t “their ring.” It took me a few years to learn to distinguish the rhythm of the long and short spurts of sound.

Impossible to remember it all

Kids have a lot to remember now. Ten-digit phone numbers are the norm, and the post office would appreciate our using nine-digit zip codes.

How many presidents to memorize? Forty-six? We were on number 36 when I graduated high school and could stop counting.

There were 48 states when I learned their capitols. My fifth-grade teacher shared the excitement of leaving the country for a vacation–Hawaii. 

The periodic table of elements is up from 102 in 1968 to 118. Thank goodness I didn’t have to learn those.

The Declaration of Independence, preamble to the US Constitution, Gettysburg address, Emancipation Proclamation, Bill of Rights, how many amendments? US Supreme Court justices, cabinet members. History is not getting simpler.

Do students memorize any of these details? Or do they simply Google?

Thank you, Google

Personally, Google helps me to keep mind alert. When I can’t recite the order of the first five presidents, I can Google, sparking the neural transmitters (I just had to Google for a word), hanging on to that information just a little longer. I can pretend that my mind is sharp, when in reality it is only as sharp as Google. I credit myself for coming up with the questions.

ED purchased a car this week for Blue Boy to use since we live outside the high school boundaries. To my observation that I had never enjoyed just a quality car at his age, he replied, “They didn’t make cars like this.”.

Dated. That’s me.