A different sort of a mix

A while ago, I wrote about “a day in the mix”—a tour through the assortment of things that filled one day of my particular version of retirement. Today was a different sort of mix, so I thought I’d share its ingredients, another sample of this conglomeration called retirement. 


Then I'll get back to the interrupted saga of a few days ago.

I began the day right where I'm finishing: with this blog. I started a post last night about a chance meeting with a canine friend, and I wanted to get it posted today. So I was still thinking about the coyote, especially about how very presumptuously proprietary we humans are. I was thinking about the impulse that allows us to move into animals’ territory and then regard them as pests, worthy of extermination. And by only a very small step, I was thinking about that same process, invoked against other people. Not a joyous theme to start the day. 

Shaking off that mood, I moved on to breakfast with a friend who's a fellow retiree and social change activist. This woman is a steadfast straight ally to the LGBTQ community, and I've worked with her on a variety of projects around LGBTQ issues. Today, we were just reconnecting as friends. We wanted to put aside all the tedium and tension of event organizing and just hang out over breakfast. Call it a relationship-maintenance moment. I'm aware that I get so task oriented around program planning and problem solving that I forget there are relationships here that need attention. That's a work in process.

Then, I headed to today’s volunteer gig. Formally, my role is as a volunteer “buddy” through the county’s aging services division. In reality, in this role, I get to hang out for a couple of hours with a friend. This relationship has been very uplifting to me. My friend is a remarkable person who wrote herself a very good life and is now dealing with the realities of human frailty. She is witty and irreverent, open and willing to be vulnerable. She is a teacher to me, though I don’t think she recognizes that.

After I dropped her off, I went for a walk in the open space where I went yesterday. No coyote today, but I did spot about 20 pigeons all sitting close together, side by side along a power line. Why so many? Why there? The wire was in the sun on this cold day, but so were plenty of other power lines. Maybe gathering in a large group helps them stay warm. Maybe it’s just a variation on “birds of a feather” with a Congo-line theme.

Back home, I tackled piles of paperwork and emails and then took on a bunch of travel arrangements. I hate booking flights online. My track record for completing them without a hitch is pitiful. I once made a mistake in booking a trip and arrived at the airport only to learn that I had missed my flight—by 24 hours. Another time, I booked my partner and me to the wrong city. But hey, Portland and Seattle are both in neighboring states, right? Picky, picky.

Then I headed out again for a research meeting. My partner and I are working with two students at the university on this great project. Short version: We are trying to understand how a major community institution moves from one social/political position to its (apparent) opposite. Great, thought-provoking discussions with thoughtful folks. And to think some people actually call this work.

We considered, but decided to skip, the women’s basketball game afterward. It would have been really convenient—right across the street from where we’re meeting—and we like to take in an occasional game. But we decided to just grab some dinner and call it a long-enough day.

A different mix from last time, but some themes that begin to sketch my retired life: Lots of movement and change. This is very good for me; boredom is my worst enemy. Some volunteer stuff, in the words of Alice Walker, my "rent on the planet." Some time to walk. I’ve always been physically active, and most forms of that have been curtailed by assorted “conditions.” (This is the difference between youth and aging: when you’re young, you have illnesses or injuries that can be treated and healed. When you’re old, you have conditions that are managed.) Walking, though, remains an option, and I cherish it.

A few things in this day were different from the other day I described. Some actual social activity. Although my post just yesterday was full of social outings, most of my days are pretty solitary; usually, this is totally fine with me. Also, bit of professional/academic work thrown in. Partly, this is keeping my thumb in the pie of my professional life. Partly, it's curiosity about particular topics (like this one) and the enjoyment of really thoughtful intellectual discussions. And totally missing from this day was my online editing. I took the day off because I had so many things on my calendar. A luxury of freelance work.

So it’s been a lovely day, happily rounded out by fiddling with this blog. This is great fun, whether anyone else reads it or it just floats off into the blogosphere, echoing dimly among the many others.

Who cares? It’s a voice.

I know what you’re thinking … the tree in the forest.

On my walk yesterday

Canis latrans

Better known as coyote, prairie wolf, trickster. Found throughout Central and North America, from Panama to Alaska. 

And in the open space near my home.

Once, on a bike ride through Yellowstone, I was followed by a coyote. I watched her in my bike mirror, just off my back wheel. She was beautiful, running. Then she disappeared into the woods. A fellow cyclist who had come from LA to do this bike trip described this as being "chased by a wolf." I described it as a gift.

Coyotes have a bad reputation around these parts. They've become too accustomed to humans (as you can see ... why isn't she keeping an eye on me, or better yet, running away?) This puts them at risk because they scare children (and sometimes adults), and they tend to like small animals for dinner, like cats, bunnies, even very small dogs. Here, she's watching for a prairie dog snack, but kittens on the porch are less work. You get the picture.

I feel blessed whenever I get to see one, but I worry about them. I probably shouldn't, in the large picture. Coyotes have thrived despite countless efforts to eliminate them. Heck, people can't even reduce their numbers. They have actually increased in number and in range since humans arrived on their scene.

But still, I worry about them individually. Like this one. I'm reminded of the story of a man on the beach seen picking up starfish and throwing them back into the sea. Someone asked him why. "You can't possibly save them all," they told him. Tossing a starfish into the surf, he replied, "Maybe not, but I saved that one."

I'm not saving coyotes, not even this one. She's in her element right where she is. It's we who are out of place. I do worry about her, though, even if her species seems to be safer than ours is.

Writing a good life

A well-written life is almost as rare as a well-spent one. – Thomas Carlyle

I am so struck by the ability some folks have to write the life they want and then find a way to live the story.

By process of free association, this reminds me of something I once heard. A colleague, who had left her professional job to work as a diversity trainer and advocate, explained, “I had to quit my job to do my work.”

There’s something here about the difference between making do and making a life, between finding a job and finding your work, between trudging through and dancing through life. Between writing your life and just reading it. And maybe between having a dream and having a bottom line.

Over the weekend, I spent some time with several people who have found the time, the courage, and the persistence to write their lives well and then live them accordingly. One is a concert pianist who spent her working life as an accountant, accompanying community choruses on the side. In her retirement, she is free to pursue her love of music, gently wrapped around the other things her life holds. I’ve watched (as much as heard) her play, and the joy she takes in her music glows. Her partner spent her working years doing a variety of work, much of it having to do with sign making (which, it turns out, is way more complicated than you might imagine). Now retired, she is free to pursue her true passion: painting … not signs, but pictures. She’s especially fond of gritty, funky fishing ports, and you can see in her paintings how she loves them.

We joined them for dinner and a Cheryl Wheeler concert. Cheryl is a singer/songwriter whose love for her work rings in her songs and leaks out in her on-stage banter. So do her wit (consider the song, “My Cat’s Birthday”), her love of nature (“When Fall Comes to New England”), and her social consciousness (“Don’t Forget the Guns”). I know none of these folks well, but I know they have found their work, they’re living well-written lives.

Then, we went to a farewell party for friends who are leaving town. One of them has found the job of her dreams: directing a summer camp on an island off the coast of Washington. We have heard both of them talk about their “dream job”—it would have something to do with nature, something to do with organizing leisure fun, something to do with creativity: music, art, play. While they searched for that dream, they worked at non-dream jobs. The new camp director has been “applying” for this job for nearly a year. When it came through, it was easy to see that they had found a way to live their dream. Her partner, whose heart lives in the northwest, will do programming at the camp. She’s going back to her cherished northwest to do the work she loves, too.

None of this is world-shaking … at least in the usual sense. But what a gift, to find your work, to live the story that you write in your dream moments.

This doesn’t require a job at an outdoor camp, a life as a musician, or that long-awaited retirement. Some folks find it in the work they do every day. Many years ago, I came across this quote: 

“Blessed is he who has found his work; let him ask no other blessedness.” 

When I read it, I thought it described my life perfectly (with a little editing to remove the sexism). I had the great good fortune to have found work that I loved. I could ask no other blessing; I couldn’t have written a better story. And of course now, I have a chance to write another one. Interestingly, this quote came from the same person as the one at the top of the page about a well-written life. Thomas Carlyle. I think he was onto something.

Rachel Maddow … I knew her when

OK, back to volunteer tales. Which is to say, back to Rachel Maddow (as promised a few days ago) and other adventures. 

After New Hampshire, we moved to Northampton, MA, home to Smith College. Smith is one of five colleges within a 10-mile radius, so there is always something going on. Northampton is also a hub for live music, especially of the folkie sort. This plays into the Rachel Maddow story.

When we landed in Northampton, I began my process of scanning the world for volunteer gigs that sounded fun. I found lots of them, and I was going to tell you about them all. But when I got to Rachel, I realized that this is a story that takes a full entry by itself. So, I dedicate this post to Rachel. The other ones will wait.

It all began with a clock radio. We used to waken to a local radio station, WRSI, "93.9, The River." They played great music, a fun mix of genres, including lots of world music and folk music. They also had fun and often challenging contests where they gave away prizes—frequently, these were tickets to local live music. So the mix of music was perfect to waken to, and we also enjoyed the morning DJ. After a while, we started really listening to her, and we liked her more and more. She was very smart, very funny, and, we soon realized, very “out” as a lesbian. We loved her about as much as the music. She called her show “The Big Breakfast.” Her name was Rachel Maddow.

One day, Rachel said, “I need a news intern. If you’re interested, email me.” My partner said, “You should do it!” (She has since admitted that she was thinking “Comp tickets! Comp tickets!”). I figured Rachel was looking for a college student (see “five colleges,” above), but I was persuaded to email her. She invited me in for an interview. It was Halloween day, so I went in a mask. She laughed. I met her at the radio station, a cramped studio in the basement beneath the bagel shop. She said she’d received about 50 applications. That scared me, because by now, I really wanted to do this. We chatted a bit, and she picked me!

And so began my year with Rachel. It was a remarkable experience working with her. She is so smart and knows so much. And she worked so hard, whether she was preparing to do the hourly news, about 2-3 minutes long, an occasional “long” segment of about 3-4 minutes on a specific topic, or an interview. So, say she wanted to cover a hot headline—remember, this would be one item in a newsbreak that lasted 2-3 minutes total, including local, national, international news plus weather. She would have me find three good articles—one from the local press, one from the national press, and one from the international press. She would read those while the music was spinning, digest them in that high-speed mind, and write a script that condensed it all into a rich summary of the news and its implications. I was amazed watching her.

Besides playing music and planning news, we also did some great organizing. The state’s Supreme Judicial Court was due to rule on whether same-sex marriage would be legal in Massachusetts, but we didn’t know when the ruling would be announced. We did know that it would probably come down early some morning—during her show, we hoped. 

So we cooked up this plan where we would have everything in place for a rally on the steps of city hall. Rachel would announce the ruling as soon as it came down, and the rally would happen that same night. I set about posting flyers all around town (and nearby towns) about this event—sort of a “Don’t mark your calendars, but plan to come” heads up. Rachel announced this plan on her program daily. When the ruling came down in support of same-sex marriage—early one morning, during her show—we put everything in motion. That evening, we had hundreds of folks celebrating in the street in front of city hall, complete with banners, police traffic control, the mayor, and television coverage.

We did wild and silly things on her show, too. She once had a contest where folks had to find Dick Cheney, who was (of course) hiding in a secure, undisclosed location. I was moving around town with a sign around my neck that said, simply, “Dick.” I’d call in occasionally with clues, and folks who found me won a prize … probably tickets to live music. (By the way, we did get those comp tickets my partner was hoping for, and saw some great live music). On another occasion, Rachel was doing some sort of promotion in front of the apartment building where Dar Williams used to live. This was probably 7:00 a.m., in the winter, in Massachusetts. It was cold! Being an old jock, I figured everyone needed help staying warm, so I led them in aerobic exercises. Seemed like the thing to do.

Sometimes, we also hung out together “after hours” (i.e., after 10:00 a.m.). We met weekly to plan contests (some time, I’ll tell the story of a contest where the prize was shoes), plan interviews, and discuss other program stuff … and just stuff.

And occasionally, we just hung out. I remember sliding through the Massachusetts snow in her pickup, headed for breakfast at Cracker Barrel (my choice, definitely not hers) one morning. And then there was the time when a bunch of friends, including Rachel, spent a fun and sometimes silly evening trying to get a good view of Mars through my telescope.


Then, one day she asked me to help her make contacts with national media organizations. She was ready to move on. I did that, even though I felt pretty sure that once they met her, heard her on radio, she’d be gone. And sure enough … New York City, here she comes! And the rest, as they say, is history.

I’ve watched her meteoric rise (speaking of watching the stars) with a sense of awe—both because she is truly a remarkable woman and because I knew her when she was the morning DJ in the basement studio of a local radio station. Now we have the Rachel Maddow show on msnbc, an msnbc-hosted Rachel Maddow blog, a Rachel Maddow fan site, and, maybe the most telling achievement, a dedicated Rachel Maddow page at Huffington Post. What I have trouble wrapping my head around, given what I know about how hard she works at what she does, given what her schedule must look like, she also has an upcoming book.

Gradually, we lost touch … although I do have an email subject line that I still believe would get a response from her personal email. I used it only once (and it worked). I like to think it would work again … so I never try.

And I still have a big ol’ coffee mug with the “Big Breakfast” logo on it. 

Wondering about TIME

Check out these international versions of the cover of TIME magazine for Dec. 5, 2011.  

The left is the USA edition .......................... European edition ......................... Asia & S. Pacific editions.

I could just say “no comment,” the title of a great page in Ms. Magazine. But I guess that’s not in my nature …

So I’m wondering, what does this difference say to us?

• Does it mean that readers elsewhere are interested in the dramatic changes happening around the world, but people in the US are concerned only about their personal levels of anxiety? “Don’t worry your pretty little heads about this ‘revolution.’ Think, instead about whether a little bit of anxiety might serve you well in business or in school.” The idea of Americans as obsessed with their personal well-being isn't new. Self-fulfillment and personal growth are buzzwords for a massive industry that thrives even in hard times.

• Does it say that folks in other nations can handle the images of war in the streets, whereas Americans are accustomed to an information stream that is sanitized so as not to make people too uncomfortable? This sanitization is made easier, needless to say, when a few companies own most media outlets.

•  Or does it say that these revolutionary changes are only happening “over there,” so there’s no need to focus on them “over here”? Obviously, this ignores the “Occupy” movement that began in NYC and has spread across the country. And what about the talk that those events could foretell a revolution right here in US? The TIME cover story is about Egypt. The headline asks whether the renewed activism might put the “Arab Spring” at risk. It’s interesting to wonder who, exactly, would be at risk if the “revolution” were on the front page of TIME. Honestly not talking conspiracy theories here … just wondering.

• Or is I the timing? Is it that this is the holiday season, when joyous greetings, joyous songs, and joyous spending are virtually compulsory? Surely, we don’t need ugly pictures of street conflict on the cover of the Dec. 5 issue.

•  Or does it simply echo the claims that the US population is “dumbed down” by education that’s far behind other countries and by the absence of serious media coverage of difficult topics? Dumbed down enough that we pick a cute cartoon about anxiety over a disquieting photograph of revolution in the streets.

Likely, it’s several of these, and probably others. Whichever, it’s troubling when one of our major mainstream “news magazines” frames “news” so differently for US readers than for readers elsewhere around the world. It makes me wonder …

Random musings … or, mental clutter of the happily retired

I’ve been collecting a pile of assorted musings that is getting unmanageable, and it’s time to unload some of them.

So, I interrupt this tour of my assorted volunteer gigs to bring you a change of pace. I know you were anticipating tales of Rachel Maddow this time, given my teaser last time. But sometimes, I gather stuff in my mind—funny things, odd things, things that pique my curiosity, things that shake my understanding of the world—and I need to unload it occasionally. So, this blog is now my unloading dock, where I can lay these things out for inspection, yours and mine.

Some of these are totally without substance, just matters of  curiosity that are fun to share. For instance … Yesterday, I took my walk in the local shopping mall because the weather outside was frightful. I slopped and slid my way from my car to the mall and arrived wet footed. The crowds were sparse (see “weather outside” above), so I was doing a bit of people watching without fear of collision. I noticed a young couple walking in front of me, also just coming in from outside. File this one under “Proper footwear for snowy, slushy, icy days”: the guy was wearing flip-flops, and the woman had on spike heels. I had only one thought. Why?

Some of my musings are about the world and the folks in it. Like this … Recently, I spent some time in the town library, where I had a chance to watch the librarian, a woman of about my age, past middle age for sure. I was thinking about how very much libraries have changed in recent years/decades. Card catalogues (remember those?) were replaced long ago by computerized catalogues, and those by online search engines. But the goal was still to locate printed material—including, often, books that sat on shelves somewhere. Now there are a million ways to find information, and a million forms that information might take. A smaller and smaller slice of that information is in books that sit on shelves. In this small town library, I saw very few books and a whole lot of computer terminals. The folks who were there were mostly staring at a screen rather than scanning the shelves.

So, imagine how much a librarian’s work has changed. Yet, here was this woman, old enough to recall (at least from her childhood) card catalogues. Old enough to have entered her field well before computers commandeered libraries. How much did she have to re-learn? How hard was that for her? How exciting was it? How is it to provide help to youth who grew up on computers? Might this be a second career that she entered because she loved what libraries have become? Or was this a life-long occupation, and she chose, by will or by necessity, to stick with it even as it changed almost beyond recognition? I wonder about these things.

Or, here’s a very cool window on cultural differences. I have a friend who just visited Asia. During her time there, she came to realize that in many Asian cultures, the main course of a "good" meal is rice (or sometimes bread). Other dishes—like fish, eggs, vegetables, etc.—are considered "side dishes," sort of trimming for the main course, rice. I find this fascinating! What we take as “side dishes” are the most important part of the meal in these cultures. I'm not talking here about whether rice should be considered a main course. Just observing that it is absolutely, unquestionably the main dish for many people. For our part, we would be equally certain that fish and eggs are main dishes and that rice or bread is a side dish. We might even have some quick and firm judgments about these folks’ perspective on what counts as a "good meal." And I imagine they would consider our choices equally misguided. Just think, I said to myself, if our assumptions about rice are so different, what else might we be missing?

Then, sometimes I find myself surprised by what goes on my own mind. Here’s an example … On a recent walk, I passed a home with two rainbow windsocks flying from the back porch. I’ve seen this house before, but have never seen anyone there. I’ve taken the windsocks as a sign that LGBTQ people live there (not certain, but likely). On this particular day, sitting on the porch near the rainbow windsocks was a rather large, silver-haired man.

My instant befuddlement alerted me to a gremlin in my own mind. My (unwanted, unbidden, unwelcome) stereotypes had just been tweaked. I had completely imagined that this home belonged to two gay men, who would obviously (because they were gay men) be young and totally buff. I had no room for the man I saw. Of course, I have no idea who this man was, including whether he lives there or whether he is gay. The important thing to me was my surprise. I have done a whole lot of thinking about stereotypes, and I like to believe that I had this one, at least, pretty well managed. But here it was. On some level, hidden just beneath my righteous hostility toward stereotypes and people who hold them, here was mine, looking me right smack in the eye. I smiled to myself then. I like catching myself in those moments. It reminds me that I still have work to do—and I’m glad when I notice that I do.

And finally, another senseless bit of humor … Back in the mall, I was striding along, pretty oblivious to the Christmas music playing over the loudspeakers. And then one line caught my attention. The song was “Little Drummer Boy,” which is actually a lovely song and a sweet story. The song was telling us how the little drummer boy asked permission to play for the baby Jesus. Then it goes, “Mary nodded ... The ox and lamb kept time …” I smiled out loud. The ox and lamb kept time? Really? Isn’t that a great visual? Tapping their hooves in time to the beat, maybe nodding their heads with the music? I love it!

 

Volunteer travel log: New Hampshire

Today, I spent a couple of hours on one of my current volunteer gigs, working through a local aging services program as sort of a “buddy” to a senior. I delight in this relationship, and being there got me thinking: It would be fun to talk a bit about the assortment of volunteer jobs I’ve had during my retirement. It’s a great example of sampling “the mix.” So here goes ...

For several years after I retired, we moved around the country. This was a grand adventure, but it was tough to find my footing in new places (5 of them over the course of 6 years). I wanted to get involved in volunteer work, but I didn’t know the communities well enough to know where to start. So I adopted a pattern of waiting for something to show up—a process I use to this day. I listen to conversations, pay attention to chatter on the radio, read the local paper to see what was going on, talk with folks I meet, generally stay open. My job in this is not to search frantically but to pay attention, to be alert. Before long, something always bubbles up, something that says “This! This would be cool!” One of the best things about retirement is the availability of time. I have the time to wait, watch, listen … and when a fit comes along, I have time that I can commit to it. What a gift!

So, let me tell you about some of the volunteer gigs I’ve found this way and a bit about what I learned from them. First, a teaser. Among my volunteer gigs have been the following:

• Sorting stuff and grinding glass in a rural recycling plant
• Assisting the chef and generally helping in a community kitchen
• Traveling from New Hampshire to Oregon to work against a ballot issue
• Doing grassroots organizing with the American Friends Service Committee

• Volunteering as a news intern for Rachel Maddow (Really!), who was at that time the morning DJ in the basement studio of a local radio station 
• Blogging for a major western Mass. newspaper (blogging some mighty interesting events!)
• Delivering Meals on Wheels
• Acting as the (supposedly) responsible adult in an LGBTQ youth drop-in center
• Working on a presidential campaign  (once finding myself alone to run the campaign office because of football!)
• Teaching literacy in a program for folks in legal trouble trying to re-enter society
• Supervising a phone bank for an LGBTQ political action group
• Staffing health education booths for the Department of Public Health—street fairs in San Francisco!
• Becoming friends with a senior through a respite and companion volunteer program
• Helping a 13-year-old with special needs to manage the complexity of middle school
• Serving on a coalition that works to make schools safe and welcoming for LGBTQ folks and their families.

All of these gigs came from listening, watching, waiting. Ah, the luxury of time! All of them have tales attached—funny, poignant, thought-provoking, joyful, a mix. So, now that I have your attention with the Rachel Maddow story, let me start at the beginning of our wandering years. Small town New Hampshire …

I heard through a friend about the local community kitchen, where they needed someone to help make dinners. Back-stage kitchen work. This may seem odd after my rant about invisibility, but this sounded perfect! I really enjoyed the chef who ran the place, which made it extra fun. Here, I learned how to cut vegetables correctly with a butcher knife, and I learned for the first time what “shepherd’s pie” is. I also found out about eggplant. I came to realize how many grocery stores overstock and how many farms overplant eggplant. This, I am convinced, is the only vegetable that can rival zucchini as the bunny rabbit of plants. However, as far as I know, zucchini just shows up everywhere in the fall. Eggplant is around all year. I'm still not much of a fan of eggplant.

Then, one day, I was dropping off stuff at the local rural recycling center and the guy running it said, “why don’t you volunteer some time, join your neighbors?” I heard this whisper: "Cool! This will be fun!” I started the next week. It seemed perfect: with the community kitchen, this made both ends of the food chain. Here, I learned three valuable lessons: 

1. Never leave a dollop of milk in the bottom of your milk jug and then deliver it to the recycling center days later. The stench is deadly to volunteers. 
2. The machine that grinds class is a total kick to operate! This may be partly because you have to earn your stripes as a basic recycler before being invited to do it, so it has a gold star on the forehead quality to it. Lesson 2b: Always wear ear protectors, goggles, and heavy-duty gloves whenever the rules say you should. I had some close calls with fingers and eyes; the ear protection saved my sanity. 
3. This lesson applies if you live near the border with another state and your state doesn’t pay a deposit on cans. Here’s how you make money to run the recycling program: pack up a load of those return-deposit cans, truck them across the river, and cash them in. Do not tell anyone I told you this. 

The other great thing about this job, not a lesson really, was that I got to wear those cool brown, flannel-lined, full-coverage overalls like construction workers (and serious recyclers!) wear. After all, it’s cold in NH in the winter, so I felt compelled to get myself some. I was grinding glass and all. I felt like I had arrived. 

My last volunteer job in New Hampshire was in Oregon. I flew from NH to Oregon to work against an anit-LGBTQ initiative there. I got to spend 2 weeks with some amazing organizers, talking with voters on the street and on the phone. I learned a huge lesson here. I had trouble approaching people and asking them to sign up to volunteer for phone banking—hours of cold calls about a controversial issue. Then, the leader of our organizing group pointed out something really profound. You came all  the way from New Hampshire to do this work, he said. Why? Because it’s important, I answered. I wanted to have a chance to help make a difference. Exactly, he smiled. You're giving other folks that same opportunity—to make a difference. He had me. We all worked hard for those 2 weeks, and by golly, we won!

Lots of fun, lots of good folks, lots of lessons learned. Some were really important life lessons (give other people a chance to do good in the world). Some were metaphors for important life lessons (don't leave sour milk for the other person to clean up; when life gets dangerous, wear protective gear). Some were just for laughs (grinding glass in overalls is a kick!).

New Hampshire was just the start. Next stop, Massachusetts—which  by the way, is where I worked with Rachel.

Did I mention Rachel Maddow?

Successfully solving the wrong problem

Have you ever had a moment when you realized that you had struggled to solve a problem, only to realize it was the wrong problem? I had one of those recently.

With the change back to standard time, we were dutifully changing the batteries in our smoke alarms, as recommended by the fire department. One of them had some sort of electrical short, so we called the fix-it shop to order up an electrician. (I love to “fix” things, but I draw the line at things that throw grown men from the tops of power poles.)

The electrician persuaded me that it would be wise to install some new alarms. (That's another story). I agreed, he installed, and all was right with the world. Until midnight, when we were startled awake by this loud noise that we took to be the smoke alarms. After all, they were new, so who knew whether they might be faulty. I scurried, bleary-eyed, to the garage to grab the ladder. With my partner spotting me, I climbed the ladder and removed each alarm from the very high ceilings (which I can barely reach  on a good day, never mind at midnight, hence the spotter). I unplugged each unit from its connection to the electrical system and then removed the batteries.

I had achieved my goal: all of the smoke alarms were completely disabled. The problem was solved. Unfortunately, it was the wrong problem.

We continued to hear this oscillating roar. I paused, thought it through carefully, methodically considered all the ways I might fix it … and then called the shop. I got the dispatcher, who got the electrician, who called me. After a puzzled conversation, he said he’d come over. (“I’ll be coming in civilian clothes,” he’d said. Note to customer: “I am off duty”).

Only after I hung up the phone did I process that this was the wrong sort of sound for a smoke alarm (especially from one that is unplugged and battery-less). It sounded more like the alarm on a clock radio. Bingo! I have an old clock radio in my study that I never use except as a clock. Never as an alarm. I hurried to my study, punched the button, and voila! The noise stopped. The problem was never the smoke alarms. It was the clock radio!

Fortunately, I had the electrician’s cell number on caller ID and caught him before he had dragged himself out of bed, into some clothes, out to his truck, and through the night to our house. I'm glad I caught him, but I'm certain we'll be the laughing stock of the home-repair shop this week.

So, laughing about this ourselves, my partner and I thought about how often we humans struggle mightily to solve a problem, only to discover that the solution doesn’t help because we solved the wrong problem. Samples:

• I once knew a woman who walked around all day in uncomfortable shoes (just one of them, but that was bad enough). She promised herself she’d throw them away when she got home. She was headed for the trash can when she noticed something rattling in the bottom of her shoe—and retrieved her contact lens case. She almost solved the wrong problem.

• We have a north-facing garage, so the driveway is always shaded. Also, we live in a town home complex, and our driveway is located so that a vast expanse of lawn and road drains right to our driveway. It was a very snowy winter (2006-7) when we moved in, and I struggled to keep the packed snow and run-off from becoming a lethal hazard. I tried chopping it with a shovel, but to no avail. I tried salt. No help. I finally bought an edger, which served pretty well as an ice chopper, and spent many hours chopping through 6"-thick ice. The next winter, various events led me to consider the possibility that the problem wasn't my ice-removal strategies. It was poor management by the HOA. Turns out they're supposed to clear the driveways. So, instead of investing in a full-sized road grader, I emailed the HOA and got them on the task. Our driveway is now kept clear. I'd been chopping away at the wrong problem.

• I also got fooled by this process when I was teaching. I recall struggling with how to get my students more engaged in my latest academic fascination, only to slowly realize that the problem wasn’t them. It was me. I needed to be working out my latest edgy ideas in a different venue. I had been trying to solve the wrong problem.

• On a larger scale, we once heard a governor promise to increase the percentage of state residents who had college degrees. The guv said nothing about improving education or making the educational system meet students’ needs. Too few degrees! That was the heart of the state’s problems! The truth is, it wouldn’t be hard to solve that problem. You could just lower expectations, lower requirements, give everybody degrees. But I’m pretty sure that would be solving the wrong problem.

• I guess this blog is another example. I'd been feeling out of sorts, cranky (restless, irritable, and discontent, as some would say). My solution was to disappear farther into my crabby recluse mode. If the problem is that the world is dissatisfying, then hiding out would keep me from having to deal with it. Problem solved. Except that I was still cranky. My partner encouraged me to consider the possibility that maybe the problem was not the world but my disconnection from it. Redefining the problem changed the game. Now, here I am, resisting being gone. I blog, therefore I am! 

Our smoke alarms now work fine. The clock radio alarm is no longer set to go off at midnight. All is well in my world once again. But I'm sure I'll get caught in this trap again. And chances are I won't recognize what I'm doing until I finish solving the wrong problem. 

On fall leaves and variable weather

Watching folks clearing the fall leaves has set me to thinking about a profound matter: how differently fall leaves are managed in different locales. This may seems trivial, but bear with me a minute.

A brief prelude: After living for many (many!) years in Colorado, we moved around a lot, living in five states in the space of 6 years. That experience was really enlightening in many ways. One of the things I learned is captured in the saga of fall leaves.

As a kid growing up in Colorado, I learned what to do with fall leaves: you rake them up, bag them, and take them someplace. When we moved to New England, I was met with curious stares when I asked where bagged leaves should be deposited. I learned to rake them into the woods. When I asked friends in Michigan how folks dealt with leaves, I was met with the same curious stare. I learned to rake them into the gutter, where some truck would scoop them up. In each place, folks were dumbfounded by my question because they couldn’t get what was so hard to understand. It was incomprehensible that anyone would not know what to do with fall leaves. To them, it was so obvious. It was unimaginable that there might be several possible ways to deal with leaves.

The message, of course, is not just about leaves. We have regional “knowledge” (just as we have personal knowledge) that is totally taken as given. It’s not that your everyday New Englander, Michigander, or Coloradan has considered a variety of options and concluded that this is the best way to handle fall leaves. No. Options other than the familiar one, the one that seems so self-evident, are simply not considered—or even imagined. Maybe you’ve heard the saying that a fish doesn’t know it’s wet. We are all that fish.

A variation on this theme: My parents lived in Louisiana for a few years. Once, they were telling friends there about a road that had washed out in Colorado. “Why don’t they just put in a shell road?” their friends asked. Their friends were totally clueless that their suggestion was based on assumptions that would make sense in Louisiana but were meaningless in the land-locked high dessert that is Colorado.

The second intriguing observation from these travels was about how folks understand the weather. In this case, people everywhere did something virtually exactly alike, but in each locale, folks thought it was original to them. So, wherever we lived, we heard people saying, “You know what they say about weather in ________ (fill in the present location). If you don’t like it, wait around a few minutes. It’ll change.” I’d heard that my whole lifetime in Colorado, and I took it to be a clever—and accurate—commentary on Colorado’s variable weather. Then I heard it in New Hampshire. And in Massachusetts. And in Michigan. And even in San Francisco. In each place, folks thought, as I had, that it was a witty, and accurate, description of their own weather. It was an announcement of how special their weather was: “Unlike weather in other places, our weather changes all the time!” 

Now, I’m not sure what the message is here. This pronouncement might be common because the weather truly is variable, everywhere. But why do we all make it about our own location? “You know what they say about the weather here…” Maybe it speaks to everyone’s need to feel special. If we live in a place that’s special, where the weather is remarkably variable, then aren’t we a little special? Or maybe it’s another version of local “truths.” Maybe I became convinced that Colorado’s weather is unusual in its variability. Maybe I never consider other possible understandings of the world—like that the weather is variable everywhere.

I’m still working on what I can learn from this one. But it strikes me as fascinating anyway, sort of like the unique variability of Colorado’s weather.

Where were you?

Yesterday, I was catching up on some magazines and got around to the Nov. 21 issue of Time, where a photograph caught my eye. The photograph shows JFK , instantly recognizable from his profile, his stance—at least to people of a certain age. He is standing  on a platform in what looks to be a parking lot in a working-class neighborhood. 

When I first saw this picture, what struck me immediately, almost viscerally, were the people standing on the balconies of a nearby building just beyond Kennedy’s profile. I didn't even process this rationally. I was stunned. Not by the image of Kennedy, although looking at it today brings back memories of where I was on November 22, 1963. No, I was stunned by the people on the balconies. Everyday folks, women in skirts or dresses and men in white shirts, their sleeves rolled up. Standing on open balconies and leaning from windows within a stone’s throw of the president! 

Kennedy, in turn, looks completely exposed, completely vulnerable—and complete unaware of the danger that I sensed instantly. No bullet-proof Plexiglas shield, no hint of a protective vest under his suit (remember the pictures of Bush walking across the White House lawn after 9-11?), no standard-issue Secret Service agents in stiff suits and sunglasses, with little curly cords running down into their collars.  The caption identifies the city as Pittsburgh and the date as sometime in 1962. The year before Kennedy was shot.

The picture brought home how much has changed since the photo was taken. The remarkable changes in how important people move in the world are accepted, expected, ingrained in us all. So ingrained, in fact, that my instant response to this portrayal of how things used to be was an automatic one, not a logical one. It happened on some primitive, gut level: “This is terrifying!” The automatic reaction (from a pacifist!) was that Kennedy needs more armament around him, fast! Where are the tough guys? Where are the police and the National Guard? While we’re at it, where is the Air Force?

Kennedy’s assassination in Dallas 48 years ago today, about a year after this photo was taken, was only one of many assassinations in the US and around the world in the 1960s. In part because of those events, we’re not  likely ever to see a photo like this of a president again.

The photo we’d see now would not show everyday people gathered on neighboring balconies. The balconies would be empty, the buildings “swept” hours before by the Secret Service. There would be no crowds milling about just feet from the podium. Instead, there would be a wide empty perimeter around the stage, multiple Plexiglas shields to protect the president from all directions, a notable bulge in his or her suit, extensive and visible police presence, and plenty of guys (and now women) in sunglasses.

And If I saw that photograph, I would not even notice how I felt. It would simply seem “normal.”

At one level, these changes are good. Protecting the president is important, and these horrific events probably changed forever how we'll see "safety" for the president. But then, 9-11 shifted the target. Not just heads of state but everyday folks, like those standing on the balconies, are in danger. This was always true in some parts of the world, but not here. So the wish to protect shifted, too. To the Secret Service, we added TSA and x-ray machines at building entrances. To the perimeter around the president we added body scanners and bomb-sniffing dogs at airports. Now, I start getting worried. [Naomi Wolff worries, too]

There’s no doubt that the world can be dangerous and that we are all vulnerable. But I worry that we’re forgetting to think about how we respond as we try to fashion complete safety from an unsafe world. I worry that fear can make us accept changes, step by small step, that we wouldn't tolerate if they were imposed all of a piece. I worry that fear gets the best of us. I’m not saying I’m any good at this. Heck, my reaction to this picture was visceral before it was logical. That tells me that in situations like this, my first response is not that I think. No, I fear.

Benjamin Franklin famously said, “Those who would give up essential liberty to purchase a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty not safety.” It seems important that we realize how easily we slide into this place where we are driven by fear for our safety.

This picture reminded me of how much things have changed. I'm glad the current president has more protection than Kennedy did. But I worry about how thoughtlessly we got where we are. And I worry about where we might go from here.

[An earlier online issue of Time included a photo gallery that will take you straight back to “Camelot,” accompanied by a story about the photographer, Jacques Lowe.]

A day in the mix

So, I’ve been going on about how my version of retirement is a mix of things. These things have nothing particular in common, but together, they make for a delicious day. Today was a good example.

I started my day, as I usually do, with breakfast and coffee, which I enjoyed with the news … online, of course. (Yes, this means I eat at my desk. I know folks have thoughts about that. Feel free to add yours.) Reading the news with breakfast is an old habit. I remember doing it when “The News” arrived just once a day, on the doorstep or in the driveway, or for some of us, in the box down at the corner. It was called “the paper” (and it was), and you had to order a subscription, unless you lived someplace where you could pick it up at a newsstand. You could tear out articles you wanted to keep, it got ink on your hands, and it made a great surface for muddy boots. Now, “the paper” (which isn’t) is available 24/7, you download or print out things you want, you can’t handle it or tear it, and muddy boots have to find someplace else to land. I miss the inky reality of the newspaper. But you can still eat your breakfast while reading the news. I know this for a fact.

I folded the paper and laid it by the door (OK, not really), and then spent a few hours with my freelance editing job. I edit journal articles written by people whose first language isn’t English. The articles are written in what I call “English-ish.” The words are mostly English, and it’s usually  possible to discern some meaning from how they’re put together. But their precise meaning is often more than a little obscure. I totally love the puzzle quality of it: “Just what,” I ask the author in my mind, “are you trying to say here? What could you possibly mean?” I also love that I get to read articles in fields I would never enter under other circumstances. For instance, today I edited articles on the following topics: 

• tinnitus (ringing in the ears) associated with forced eye closure syndrome
• herbal remedies for memory loss in Alzheimer's
• glacial geomorphology studies
• the distribution of sea grasses and algal beds
• environmental improvement from a water quality perspective
• stimulus-driven attentional capture. 

Really! Except for the last one, I would never read these things—I’m a psychologist, for Pete’s sake! But with this job, I get glimpses into topics I’d never know squat about otherwise. Besides, I get to do it in my sweatpants, on my own time, at home, with a cup of tea at my elbow. And they call this work?

Long's Peak

Then, I took a very fine walk. The trail I chose is one of my favorites because it offers wonderful views of the Rockies. I can see as far south as Pike’s Peak and north beyond Long’s Peak toward Wyoming. That’s a stretch of maybe 100 miles of the foothills and front range. The high peaks are snow covered now, and while I was watching them, Long’s Peak disappeared into a cloud, which it often does. Looking up that direction, I thought about how cold it must be up there. And that reminded me of times I’ve backpacked in these mountains. One time in particular, I opened the tent door to go out around midnight. The moon was casting sharp shadows in this thin air, and the ground looked so bright, I thought  it must be lit by the moonlight. My hand was firmly planted on the ground before it struck me that  the brilliant white was snow, not moonlight. I packed up a wet tent that day and hiked out dodging clumps of melting snow falling from the evergreens. On my walk (today, not the frozen-hand day), I met a rescued greyhound and a golden retriever, who was certain that I had come out there to pet him. I obliged.

My next stop, the grocery store, is worth a bit of attention if only because it’s such a kick to shop there right now. They’re remodeling and staying open while they do so. This means that automotive supplies are to be found, quite logically, next to bread. Bandaids are near yogurt, and Christmas ornaments are next to OTC drugs; the pharmacy is on the far side of the store next to the coffee shop. Of course! The store is so crowded and the lanes so narrow that corner collisions are a matter of course. The employees have clearly been told to keep it upbeat through all this. I know this because trying to empathize with the checkers has led nowhere—and I’m usually pretty good at that. I'm sure they're pestered all day with questions and complaints, but they never utter so much as a “Yup, pretty crazy” when I comment (in a friendly, we're-all-in-this-together way) on the mess.

Back home, I settled down at my computer to work on one of my volunteer gigs. For a few years now, I have belonged to a safe schools coalition in my school district. This group works to make the schools safe and welcoming for LGBTQ kids, parents, and staff (LGBTQ means lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer… in case you missed it before). My job is to keep the website up to date, lively, interesting, hopefully “sticky.” I don’t do the techie stuff. I just feed material to our volunteer web maven. Thankfully, she takes it from there. Because I have been very involved in LGBT issues for several years, I have access to a lot of material. My partner is even more tuned into these issues, and she passes stuff on to me, too. I funnel all that to the website and hope that someone, somewhere looks at it and finds it marvelous. Much like I hope for with this blog. In case you’d like to be that someone, somewhere, check out the safe schools website.

And now, it’s early evening. I finished up the website stuff and started working on this blog. Next, I’ll dig into my “read immediately” pile of magazines. Smithsonian, Discover, and National Geographic are my favorites, but I'm rarely able to keep up with them. Whoever worried about being bored in retirement?! Later, I’ll go meet my partner for dinner when she gets off work after a very long day. It’ll be nice to stop for a bit and just enjoy being tended to. Unless the wait staff does that “honey” thing I mentioned in my last post.

There's the mix: morning news and reminiscences (about newspapers, of all things!) ... a half day of work that's actually great fun ... a walk wrapped around scenery, memories, and dog visits ... shopping as a contact sport ... volunteer work guaranteed to change the world ... all finished off with casual reading and time to chill out. 

What a great mix of a day, huh?

'All about the title' - part II

In my last post, I started explaining why I called this blog “Retirement in the Mix: Resisting ‘Gone.’” That post explained the “maze and the mix.” This time, I’ll try to make sense of the “Resisting ‘gone’” part.

On resisting being “gone”:

Over the years, it has become way too clear to me that being “invisible” is a big issue for me. I’m sure it stems from my childhood (to borrow an old phrase). But I really would like to have gotten over it by now. I haven’t.

Of course I don’t mean actually invisible. And I don’t mean unrecognized in the sense of insufficiently honored or respected or applauded. I mean feeling irrelevant, unnoticed, ignored, dismissed, trivialized, not seen. I mean those moments that we’ve all had when the conversation goes on as if we weren’t there. When our comments make not a ripple in the content or direction of what others say. When people walking toward us make no adjustment to avoid a collision, leaving the task entirely to us. When someone greets the person standing with us, but not us. When the wait staff ignores our table and serves later arrivals before us. When we are speaking and someone else talks over us, as if what we’re saying is not important enough for them to let us finish before they take their turn. Those moments, in short, when it seems that, to others, we might as well not even be there. We’ve all had those moments. They may cause irritation or disappointment for any of us. For me, they are also a source of deep sadness and loneliness.

So, given this issue with invisibility, retirement raised a real challenge. As a professor, of course, I had been able to command visibility: “Listen to me, hear me, your grade depends on it.” Fortunately, teaching wasn’t only a stage. I loved it and seemed to be good at it, and it was a perfect career for me in many ways—an opportunity to keep learning and call it “work,” a chance to do something that felt worthwhile, a way to feel competent . When I retired, I lost all those things, including the audience I had so easily counted on for 30 years. I lost the students who had filled my classes, many taking every course I taught. I lost their visits between classes and their rave evaluations. A similar thing happened as I withdrew from other professional activities. In this case, I no longer had a presence before my peers. Gone the publications, the conference presentations, the public talks. Invisibility loomed—if a sense of absence can be said to “loom.” Yikes! I hadn’t planned on this!

On top of that, retirement brought its own kind of invisibility: being old and being irrelevant. Hard enough for any of us to manage, and made harder by this invisibility thing of mine. Plus, the triple whammy: I am old, I am woman, and I am a lesbian. I belong to a group of folks who are generally quite invisible in this society. It’s a familiar story: women don’t matter as much as men (despite decades of feminist progress). Old people don’t matter as much as younger people. In fact, old people pretty much don’t matter at all. And old, non-heterosexual people are not even part of the conversation. That places old lesbians firmly among the very unimportant, the VUPs.

Snapshots of the invisibility of old women: Wait staff in restaurants and clerks in stores call me “honey.” This is obviously not because we have an intimate relationship. Instead, it’s because I am fair game for trivialization of the sort that comes with a patronizing, even infantilizing tone: “Can I help you, honey?” “There you go, sweetie.” And in case the irrelevance of my actual experience of such treatment isn’t obvious enough, they genuinely believe that they are being kind and that I’ll appreciate it. On the upside of this invisibility, I can do about anything I want to do because no one will “see” me enough to notice, or certainly to care.

My invisibility as a lesbian is more familiar, since that’s pretty much been true all my life. But now it takes on another face: I am invisible as an LGBTQ person in the broader world (that stands for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer—I’m guessing I’ll use this acronym a lot). And  I am invisible as an old member of the LGBTQ community. Everywhere I go, I encounter the assumption that everyone, especially everyone old, is heterosexual. (“What does your husband do?” “Do your children live near you?”) And wherever I look in the LGBTQ community, I find the assumption that there are no old LGBTQ people—least of all lesbians! (Check out the LGBTQ magazines, where you will see approximately zero old LGBTQ people featured.)

So, another thing I hadn’t imagined about retirement was the specter of this profound sense of irrelevance and invisibility. The sense that I am, simply, gone. This is a familiar place for me to be, but not, shall I say, the healthiest. So, one theme of my retirement has been a commitment to resisting the invisibility that “they” (whoever that is) expect of me. That’s also one major reason for writing this blog. Rather than disappear, rather than be “gone,” I plan to have a voice, to remain in the mix, to keep stirring the pot. Hence, “resisting ‘gone’.”

So that’s the naming story. And now, I want to get on with blogging about it all, staying in the mix, resisting “gone”—and inviting you all to join in the discussion of how we all do this.