Uncategorized – Page 39 – Terri LaBonte- Reinventing Myself in Retirement

Finding My Way

I finally made it to the beach.

One of my critical deciding factors for where I would move in retirement was that I must be able to comfortably drive to the beach. I grew up within a frisbee’s throw from Surf City, USA. I spent a lot of time in my childhood playing on the beaches of Southern California. As an adult, I lived about 10 miles from the beach. Life got in the way and I never was the type to spend hours and hours sunbathing on a regular basis. My father used to say I was whiter than a nun’s belly. Still, the beach always held an allure for me. I would usually spend a few hours there at least a couple of times a year. It was the place I felt most relaxed. It was the place I did my clearest thinking. There is absolutely nothing in this world like walking on the beach, feeling the sun on my shoulders, wet sand under my feet, and ocean breeze against my bare legs. Next to the ocean, I was always somehow lighter, freer, and happier. I even felt closer to God.

Before I bought the house in Florida, I evaluated the distance to the beach. Once I got over the whole “the ocean is to the east” instead of “the ocean is to the west” thing, I realized that it was, theoretically, about a 90-minute drive to the Atlantic coast and a 90-minute drive to the Gulf of Mexico coast. That was acceptable to me. The beach criterion was met and so I was contented.

I moved to Florida seventeen months ago. With beaches in two different directions, you would have thought I would have made it there before now, wouldn’t you?

When I first began making “I want to go to the beach” noises, it was too rainy. Then, it was too cold. Then, it was spring break. Then, there was a confluence of motorcycle aficionado clubs from all over the country scheduled to be zooming around the beach communities when I finally made a specific plan to go to the beach. Then, there was a total eclipse of the sun. Well, maybe not that one. Still, it began to feel like there was ALWAYS something in the way between me and the sea. I was sure I was never going to get to the shore.

I began to wonder what was really stopping me from just getting in the car and driving the 80 miles or so to the beach. In thinking it through, it seemed to me that the big obstacle was fear of getting lost. As I have crafted my new life in my new state, I have had to find my way across new geography many given times. After a lifetime of living in the same general vicinity and visiting the same places time and time again, it is kind of stressful to face the fact that every time I get into the car, I am running the very real risk of getting lost. Even with MapQuest, GPS, and local signage pointing the way to popular tourist destinations (like, say, THE BEACH!), I feel the juices in my stomach start to churn in a rather unpleasant way when I embark on a new journey.

I guess the same can be said for just about everything I have done in the past year and a half. I have had to find my way in all kinds of contexts- dealing with house and yard issues, taking care of my mother, living far away from the friends who are dear to me, and learning how to be active and satisfied without a job telling me I am. I guess I could deduce that my internal compass is a bit over-used and worn from all this “way-finding” and that is the reason that going to the beach seemed more like a burden than an adventure. On the other hand, I think the truth is actually that my internal compass is more sound and more finely-tuned from all the practice I have had.

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine from my old state was visiting her father who winters in a small beach town about 100 miles from where I live. When she contacted me about meeting her for a visit somewhere halfway between her father’s beach home and my place, the planets seemed to be aligned. I decided to carpe diem and told her I would meet her at her father’s condominium… which just happens to be situated on a beautiful stretch of beach.

I found the beach with zero trouble. I loved seeing my friend. I also loved walking along the beach, sliding my bare feet through the tide, and gobbling salt air. All the reasons I love the beach came flooding back to me in an instant. I found myself wondering why on earth I denied myself this pure pleasure just because of the fear of not finding my way.

It was a lesson learned. I think it is likely that, as I continue to go through life, I am often going to face situations where I need to find my way. I can go with life’s adventure and be content with where I go. I am likely to find my way. If I don’t, that’s okay, too. I’m sure to end up someplace. Yes, something truly bad could happen if I get lost trying to find my way, but the odds are against it. Realistically, the worst thing that is likely to happen is that I’ll just waste some time and energy getting back on track. In those wanderings, I may even encounter some of life’s mini-miracles… beautiful places to see, fun things to do, and lovely people to know. Who knows, I may just find a way that is better than the way I thought I wanted.

They say God draws straight, but with crooked lines. I don’t know why I worry so much about finding my way. I have a feeling that, no matter what crooked paths I take, I am going straight to wherever He wants me to be.

How are you finding your way? Are you enjoying the journey? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a wonderful, wandering day!

Terri 🙂

The White, White Rose of Home

There was a white rosebush outside the house where I grew up. It grew in a stony, rocky area between the house and garage where we kept our trash cans. Nobody paid much attention to it. I can’t imagine that the soil was particularly nourishing. We didn’t water it. It was shaded by the buildings, so it didn’t get much sun. Still, that rosebush thrived and, year after year, it yielded beautiful white blossoms at Christmas. White roses were more of a Christmas tradition at our house than poinsettias and holly.

After we moved out of the house, I made sure my mother had white roses at Christmas every year. Sometimes, it was a table arrangement. Sometimes, it was a corsage. Sometimes, the roses were artificial. Sometimes they were real. Sometimes, when I was particularly poor, it was just a Christmas card with white roses on it. No matter what, there was some form of white rose for my mother at Christmas.

In November this year, my mother announced that she did not want me to buy her white roses. She felt they were too costly, especially for something that didn’t last very long. Instead, she said, she wanted me to wait until spring when the stores were selling those sad looking dormant rosebushes (or maybe “rose sticks” might be an appropriate name) with the roots in a bag and plant her one of those.

“Oh crap, something else I have to figure out how to do,” I said. On the inside. On the outside, I smiled and said, “okay.” At least I figured I had a few months before spring to read up on rose resuscitation techniques. Who knows, maybe she would forget the whole idea.

A couple of weeks later, we were at Big Lots and a group of cub scouts were selling small plants for a couple of bucks. You guessed it. They had one small white rosebush, with a few little buds on it. My mother thought it was a sign from God that we should take it home and I should transplant it.

We took it home and I googled “how to transplant a rosebush.” There was a pretty explicit, lengthy set of instructions. Instead of trying to integrate the whole magilla, I focused on the first step, which was to wait until spring in order to prevent frost from killing the newly transplanted rose. Google-sanctioned procrastination! Right up my alley. I explained this to my mother, who seemed good with waiting until spring. On the outside. I started working up to my new project by moving the potted rosebush from outside to inside.

A couple of weeks went by and the rosebush was looking pretty rough. The term “scraggly” comes to mind. I put it back outside, hoping some sun would help. No luck. Every time my mother mentioned transplanting it, I brought up the Google instructions. Finally, though, the rosebush seemed terminal and extraordinary measures were warranted. My mother pointed out that it was unlikely that we would have frost in central Florida. Back I went to Google to refresh myself on the rest of the long list of directions. Armed with a print of the page, I went to the local home store and tried to purchase mulch, potting soil, and peat moss. When I came face-to-face with the bags of these items, I discovered that I couldn’t even pick up the smallest bag of each of them without the aid of a chiropractor. Not to mention that the cost and quantity seemed to be pretty much overkill for one tiny rose plant. As I tried to figure out how I was going to explain to my mother that transplanting this rosebush was not cost-effective and was possibly hazardous to my health, I noticed a small bag of something called “potting mix” a few shelves over from the gargantuan bags of mulch, potting soil, and peat moss. Sensing a conspiracy, I checked out the label and discovered that the $5 bag of “potting mix” contained…. mulch, potting soil, and peat moss! What a bonanza! I purchased the potting mix, feeling very accomplished. I was starting to get the hang of this gardening stuff.

Since I was on a roll, I went over to my mother’s mobile home and starting digging the hole. I followed the directions from Google and stuck that little rosebush right into the ground. Filling the hole back up, I just said a prayer and hoped for the best.

Two nights later, there were record low temperatures. And frost.

God must have sent angels to blanket that rosebush, though. Against all odds and despite my complete ineptitude, it flourished. Within a couple of weeks, new buds started to blossom. The bush is growing and roses keep on blooming!

It strikes me that this rosebush might be a microcosm of all the caretaking tasks I have taken on for my mother.

I won’t say that there are not real challenges and difficulties associated with caring for my aging parent. Cleaning and medicating her feet and legs took some getting used to. Doing her taxes wasn’t high up on my wish list of things to do. Fighting with the wheelchair to get it in and out of the trunk of the car everywhere we go wears me down some days. Navigating around crowded theme parks and stores can be very frustrating. Opening doors to restaurants using my backside is an acrobatic skill I never really aspired to learn. Cleaning her bathroom is not a pleasant task. Coordinating and attending doctors’ appointments can suck up a day like thirsty kindergarteners suck down juice boxes. Even the thought of comparing insurance companies can cause my eyes to cross. Dealing with the various contractors I’ve arranged to do work at her house at least doubles the burden involved with dealing with the various contractors at my own house.

These are all very real challenges and I wish it wasn’t necessary to deal with these challenges. I wish my mother was healthy and hearty enough to do all these things herself. Still, I love that I can do these things for her. If I can add to the happiness and freedom in her life, I want to do it. My mother has always put me before herself. Now, it is a gift to give. The time I spend with her while helping her is also a gift. We have a lot of fun together. I am learning things about her and her past that I never knew. My mom and I have always been close, but there is now a new dimension and richness in my understanding of her and of our relationship. We are playing a different kind of music together now, my mother and I, and I am enjoying the new song. Yes, there are days when I may get a little overwhelmed, but, for the most part, it is great. The real challenges involved with the help I provide are actually no big deal.

The biggest difficulty and stressor, though, is much less tangible. The biggest difficulty and stressor is my fear of doing something wrong. It feels like a big responsibility to be such a strong influence on the way someone else lives, spends money, and gets medical care. I want my mother to make her own decisions about her own life on her own terms as much as possible. I always want to do what I can to relieve her of any undue burden. I try very hard to find the right balance to preserve her independence and autonomy while also doing things to reduce any difficulties in her life. Still, I know that, more and more, she is relying on me to present her with the best options, give her good advice, and implement the decisions. The idea that I might do the wrong thing is really where the burden of caretaking comes in for me. It kind of haunts my thoughts. What if I lead her to a decision that costs her more money than she can afford? What if I recommend a doctor or insurance plan that means she gets inferior health care? What if my complete lack of mechanical ability and visual reasoning means her home isn’t as safe or as comfortable as it could be for her?

What if I can’t make her roses grow?

Yes, I think I should take a lesson from my adventure with transplanting the rosebush. Maybe all I need to do is just the best I can with all the decisions and projects that my mother needs. Continue trying, with whatever ability I can muster, to help her lead the happiest, most comfortable, and most independent life she can. Then, all I can do is trust God to take my efforts and make them blossom into roses!

Most of us believe that every day is a great time to build our relationships and demonstrate our love to those who are important to us. This weekend we have an extra special opportunity to honor our moms and those people who have been mother figures in our lives. Happy Mothers’ Day, all you moms!

So what are your thoughts? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at www.terriretirement.com.

Have a wonderful day and stop and smell the roses!

Terri 🙂

Lions and Tigers and Lizards…. OH MY!

When the realtor first showed us the house I ended up buying, she pointed towards the beautiful green conservation zone behind the house. She explained that it meant there would be no more houses built behind us and waxed poetic about the gorgeous view. Then she said,

“Terri, you’ll have WILDLIFE!”

Almost as soon as the words passed her lips, she changed the subject, as if she immediately realized that the existence of wildlife in the backyard would not be everyone’s cup of tea. She needn’t have worried. I immediately conjured up visions of Bambi and Thumper shyly inching their way to my back door, as I coaxed them ever forward with carrots. Maybe I’d even build a saltlick. I saw them giving me their trust and nuzzling against me. In my imagination, the wildlife might even have broken into song.

Well, no.

Instead of Bambi and Thumper, the wildlife consists of birds and lizards. Lots of lizards. The birds are pretty innocuous, although kind of noisy at times. We have what must be wonderful windows and insulation because it can be quiet as can be inside until I open a door in the evening. Then, the volume and variety of bird sounds is quiet amazing. The cacophony they create outside at night is comparable to a middle school orchestra tuning up. The birds are kind of cool to watch during the day and I can’t hear them at night with the doors and windows closed up, so the bird wildlife is not a problem.

The lizards didn’t really bother me, either. Most people will tell you that lizards are good to have around because they eat insects. I don’t want them in my house, but I’m perfectly happy to live and let live as long as they do their living outside the structure where I do my living. Max, on the other hand, became the great white hunter of lizards. He was completely convinced that, if we did not do something to banish the lizards from our property, they would take over the garage and house. He fretted that, once in the house, we would not be able to get them out because they are such fast little buggers. He worried that they would raise a whole colony of baby lizards and I would rue the day I ever said, “they don’t bother me.” I think he pictured them taking over the television remote control and fiddling with the air conditioner settings.

My research into lizard control told me that nothing can reliably reduce lizard population. The most common suggestion was to get a cat, which I thought might be a good answer until I realized that the cat would not necessarily get rid of lizards, just kill them and bring them to me as love offerings. While I don’t want live lizards in my house, I really don’t want dead ones either. Especially dead ones gift-wrapped in cat spit.

Another big suggestion was to use insecticides to kill the bugs the lizards eat, thereby discouraging the lizards from showing up for the buffet at our house each day. After trying several different insecticides and putting out mothballs to minimize the bugs, there might have been a slight decrease in the lizard sightings. Or there might not have been.

Max followed the lizard abatement school of thought that we should minimize (read eliminate) the foliage around the house, thus destroying the lizard hiding places. He thought we should have more rock and stone instead of dirt and shrubbery. He thought we should cut all the shrubbery down to the stumps and maybe put out some potted artificial plants. Besides being a lot of work and expensive to have someone do this, I didn’t want to do it. First, I didn’t think the homeowners’ association that objected to a small patch of discolored lawn would be too keen on landscaping that consisted of bare stumps topped with potted plastic petunias. The rules for landscaping are pretty restrictive. Second, I didn’t want an ugly yard and I have to say that stumps sounded pretty ugly to me. Third, I didn’t think anything we did was going to get rid of the lizards so I objected to taking extraordinary measures to try to do so.

While our disagreement on lizard abatement strategy waged on, Max took to looking for lizards in the front and back yard and dousing them with glasses of cold water. He’d go outside, see a lizard, come in grumbling, “fucking lizards,” get a glass of water, and throw the water on said lizard. I’m sure the neighbors were referring to him as the “crazy lizard guy.” He really believed he was going to train the entire lizard population to stay away from our house because those who were foolish enough to venture near would spread the word to the rest of them about the icy showers that awaited them.

Finally, after weeks of Max “convincing” (in other words, nagging) me to do something about the landscaping, I capitulated. I just couldn’t bear to hear another word about the “fucking lizards.” I did insist, though, that we were not just going to lop off shrubs and leave stumps in the ground. I called a landscaper and explained our goal of mitigating the lizard population. I basically let Max make all the decisions about what the landscaper should do so he could be satisfied that all possible means were being employed to eliminate the lizards. I just kept veto power to ensure that the yard did not end up looking like a bomb site. The landscaper told us he could not eliminate the lizards, but could do some things to minimize them, like taking out a couple of bushes and replacing them with a certain kind of tree that would be less hospitable to lizards. He also suggested covering some of our bare dirt with stones and ornamental rocks. Of course, none of this was cheap, but I thought it would look nice when it was done. Whether it would have any impact on the lizard population, I wasn’t too sure. Personally, I would have thought that decorating the yard with large ornamental rocks would be somewhat akin to building a habitrail for reptiles, but what do I know?

Now that the work has been done, it does indeed look nice. I’m very proud of it. Did it get rid of the lizards? The dirty little secret is that I don’t think it did. Max says it did, but I’m sure he doesn’t want me to realize that I paid a lot of money, at his insistence, to fix a problem that still exists. I still see him going out of the house with tumblers of water to throw on the invaders. The thing is, now he does it very surreptitiously and without a word about the “fucking lizards.”

So I got what I paid for.

What are your thoughts? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a wonderful day!

Terri 🙂

Moving on Up?

My mother says we have moved to a “stupid state.” She bases this assessment on the following:

The highway and traffic systems are wild, wooly, and weird.
There are more counties, with infrastructures supported by the taxpayers, than seems strictly necessary for sound governance.
The news broadcasts consist almost exclusively of predictions about when the rain will hit each particular city block.

I am aware that my mother is having some difficulty with the transition to her new living situation. She tries not to complain, but I can tell based on her frequent mentions of the “stupid state” and her abject despair whenever she is faced with any reminder that she has moved (like getting a piece of mail that has been forwarded from her old address). I suppose it is natural for anyone, much less an 84-year-old woman with chronic kidney disease, to grapple with the trauma involved with a change of this magnitude. I know I have my moments, as well. Still, I do wonder if I did the right thing in moving her to our new state.

The original plan was that Max and I were going to remain in the old state while my mother was still alive. She had a very active, happy life there. Despite her significant physical infirmities and limitations, she still worked full time during the summer. She was the queen bee of the volunteer docents at the local reservoir. She knows more about water than anyone not employed by some water district has any right knowing. She had lots of friends and acquaintances there. She was driving, something she stopped doing before moving (see “stupid state” reason number 1). My brother, who has physical and financial issues of his own, lived close by. She had access to excellent health care basically for free because of the wonderful insurance plan she has been patronizing for the past 50 years. Still, when I bought the house in our new state, there were a few things in her life that were starting to disintegrate. I thought she might want to move and it didn’t make sense to postpone our move for her sake if she truly would just as soon go, too. She surprised me by saying she thought she would like to move.

Although my mother talks about the “stupid state,” I think there are really three main reasons she has some regrets about moving.

Her health insurance plan does not operate in our new locale. This has been a constant refrain since she contemplated moving. After nearly 50 years with the same company, it is a jolt, especially since the old plan operated completely differently from any traditional health plan. Basically, it was run sort of like a privatized socialized medicine system. The insurance company actually employed doctors, ran hospitals, and staffed pharmacies and labs within their own facilities. A patient makes an appointment, goes to the facility, pays her $5 copayment, and all needs are addressed in one location. While inexpensive and very efficient, the health plan was also pretty paternalistic. Patients didn’t have to worry about finding a doctor or lab or paying much of anything. However, if a patient isn’t happy with the doctors or facilities provided by the insurance plan, she is pretty much out of luck. My mother loved her care providers and the ease of the experience, so “having to go to their doctors” was a blessing, not a problem. I’ve got her signed up for a Medicare supplement policy now, which should mean that she should not have any significant costs. Still, she is worried about a myriad of scenarios, most of which are extremely unlikely… that she will have to pay the doctors and file claims for reimbursement, that she will somehow end up paying the maximum out-of-pocket costs every year, that she won’t be able to find a doctor who will give her an appointment, that she won’t know where to go to get lab tests. I’ve got her scheduled for her first doctor’s visit next week. Hopefully, she will like the doctor and everything will go smoothly. If so, I think that some of “health insurance” objection to moving will fade. If not, the upside is that she CAN go to another doctor.

If she was still in her old home, she would have been working in the accounting department of a school district food service department during the summer. Although my mother officially retired from her job at the food service department almost 20 years ago, she has been going back as a temporary employee during the summer every year since. She loves it. She has always been a social butterfly. At the school district, she visits with her old friends. People make a big fuss over her. She does an important job processing applications for free and reduced price lunches. Everyone aids her and makes allowances for her physical limitations because they love her and she really is very good at what she does. Now, she chokes up when she talks about how she would be working at the school district if she was still in her old home. The sad truth is, though, I am not sure how much longer she could have kept up with the job. When I bring up the possibility of volunteering now, she puts me off. Since she has moved here and I am with her more, I am seeing that she is much frailer and more tentative, both physically and in making decisions, than I ever thought she was. I’m sure she would have gone to work this summer, if she had not moved, but I’m not sure it would have ended well. Maybe it was better that she “go out on top” and stop because she was moving rather than because she became incapable.

My brother remains in the old town. It is hard for any parent to leave a child. My brother’s health and, with it, his reliability to assist my mother, has been diminishing for the past five years. I know she worries about him and it was probably doubly hard to leave a child who “needs” her. On the other hand, there really isn’t anything my mother could do for him ten miles away than she cannot do 3000 miles away.

On the plus side, my mother says she feels better physically than she has in years since she has moved across country. I think she is secretly happy to have left her volunteer empire, as she expressed that it felt good to not have the stress of the timesheets and all the phone calls. The mobile home where she was living (which she bought for $6000 in 1996) was falling apart around her. It was filthy and decrepit. She always said the mobile home bothered me way more than it bothered her, but the fact remains. Now, she says she loves the new mobile home here in the great southeast and that she feels her living conditions have improved considerably. I am at her place at least four times a week and take her out often, to run errands and to go fun places. I think she likes that, even though I can’t really compete with all the activities and interactions she had in her old environment.

There are arguments on both sides of the move issue. I truly don’t know if we made the right decision. I am sure that, as Robert Frost pointed out, there is always the “road less traveled” phenomenon. Whichever decision we made, there would always be “woulda, coulda, shouldas.” If my mother had not moved, my brother might not have been able to take care of her needs because of his own medical conditions. The wiring in the old mobile home might have failed and caused a fire. She might have gone to her volunteer job one day and been unable to get back in the car.

A friend of mine once said, when I was obsessing ad infinitum about some decision or action, “stop shoulding all over yourself.” I guess that is the problem. I want an answer that is guaranteed to be the right one, with no questions or regrets. I don’t get to have that. Also, people do get to feel the way they feel. Ultimately, my mother was the one who made the decision and if she has wistful moments, that’s okay. It doesn’t mean that she thinks it was necessarily the wrong decision to move. I will do what I can to help her be comfortable and happy in her new home. And if she ends up deciding to change her mind and move back west, she knows I have her back on that, as well.

So what are your thoughts? Do you struggle with making the “right” decisions, too? Have you discovered any successful strategies for living peacefully with the paths you take? Share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can send me an email at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a beautiful day, no matter which road you don’t take!

Terri 🙂

A Sod, Sod Story

Shortly before we moved to our new home, I received a notice from the homeowners’ association telling me that I had a brown spot on my lawn and needed to remedy the situation. The community manager suggested resodding the area. When I spoke to the property manager who was renting the house for me, she said she would tell the tenants (who were soon to be vacating) that they needed to fix the problem since they were responsible for the lawn. Apparently, that did not go well. The property manager later told me that she thought the brown spot had been there over 2 years ago when I first bought the property and, therefore, we should not attach the tenants’ security deposit to pay for the sod. I agreed, but asked that she make sure the problem got fixed so the HOA would leave me alone.

When we arrived to move into the home a month or so later, I saw what the HOA meant. There was a small area of grass that seemed a little bit stressed. It wasn’t super noticeable to me, but I could definitely see that there was a problem. I asked the property manager about it. She told me that she didn’t recommend resodding because it was the wrong time of year and water use restrictions would impede new sod’s growth. When I shared this theory with the community manager, he was less than impressed and told me that I needed to get something done immediately or be fined.

Thus began the “sod, sod story.”

We had a fellow who was trimming a tree for us that also did sod. We asked him about resodding for us and he agreed, but said that we probably needed to get some sort of lawn treatment service or protocol in place, as he thought the dead area was likely caused by some underlying problem like bugs or lack of soil nutrients. He advised that we would want to fix that problem so that new sod would thrive.

I called the lawn treatment guy, who agreed (of course) that we needed lawn treatment. According to him, it was the evil cinch bug that was causing the lawn disaster. He also said that the sprinkler system was in really good shape, but we might want to think about upgrading in the next year or so. When he was testing it, I noticed that none of the sprinklers seemed to be hitting the brown spot. I’m surely no lawn expert (never having had a lawn before), but it seemed to me that without water, it wasn’t any surprise that the grass was dying. I pointed this out to the lawn treatment guy. He insisted it was the evil cinch bug, not the lack of water, that was the problem.

I signed a contract for lawn treatment every other month. The lawn treatment guy said to wait a couple of months after the first treatment before resodding. While I was wondering how the HOA was going to feel about that, he uttered the words I have come to know and fear….

“It’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

Now, what is that supposed to mean? What does worse look like? And how will we know if it is the “worse before it gets better” or if it is the “worse because this crap isn’t working?”

True to our new friend’s word, it did get worse. And worse. The lawn treatment technicians left us with cryptic notes and multiple flyers about every possible thing that could be wrong with our lawn, from frost to the German measles. The flyers seemed to suggest contradictory courses of action. When I read that spraying with Round-Up was the remedy for one of the possible lawn maladies, I became alarmed. Did you ever look at the label of Round-Up? It is called “GRASS and Weed Killer.” It seems kind of counter-intuitive to spray grass killer on an area of lawn where you are trying to grow… well, grass. Applying Round-Up doesn’t seem like the best thing to do when you are trying to bring a lawn back to life, does it? Still, I tried doing everything suggested in the flyers, and, also, several strategies I discovered on the internet. Nothing seemed to make a difference. At least not a POSITIVE difference.

I called the lawn treatment company and, also, the guy who mows the lawn. Both of them said…. You guessed it…. “It will get worse before it gets better.”

After the second lawn treatment, with the area of brown expanding at a rather startling rate, we started trying to get our tree trimmer/sod guy back to do the resodding. Let’s just say that he wasn’t the most responsive of creatures. Max pursued him with the tenacity of a male musk ox trying to attract a mate. After no less than four no shows and reschedules, the sod guy finally showed up. I guess he figured it was either show up or take out a restraining order.

Never having seen sod before, we didn’t think anything of the pathetic collection of mud squares with some sparse grass blades sticking out of them that our sod guy delivered. He apparently did whatever one is supposed to do to prepare the ground and then laid the “sod.” Before he went away, he told us “It will get worse before it gets better.”

Max religiously watered the resodded area every day with a garden hose because the sprinkler wasn’t hitting that area. Some of the new sod seemed to start growing, but, for the most part, the lawn just got worse. Having been advised that it would “get worse before it gets better,” I wasn’t immediately alarmed, but when the dead areas started spreading and multiplying geometrically, I decided it was time for action.

I called the lawn treatment guy again, who finally agreed to come over and check the technician’s work. When he arrived, he was shocked and appalled by the state of the lawn. Duh. Initially, he thought the problem with the sod was that we had not kept to the heavy watering protocol for new sod. This pronouncement didn’t make us very happy since Max invested hours upon hours hand-watering what was presumably dead or dying grass. We explained what we did but the lawn treatment guy still eyed us suspiciously, assuming we were negligent, non-watering sod-killers.

Eventually, after much discussion, the lawn treatment guy could see I was about at the end of my rope, so he called in a sprinkler guy, a sod guy that their company used when needed, and the lawn treatment technicians. They all decided, of course, that I needed a new $2000 sprinkler system because (wait for it) …. THE SPRINKLERS WERE NOT HITTING THE PART OF THE LAWN THAT WAS DYING!!! After I stopped reeling from a severe case of déjà vu, I started bargaining. Noting that some of my problem was that I was dealing with too many components of the same issue (sprinklers, lawn treatment, sod) and wasn’t lawn-savvy enough to know which component was the problem (or even if there was a problem because, you know, “it gets worse before it gets better”), I demanded that this lawn treatment company take complete ownership of the problem and arrange for all the moving parts to do what needed to be done and monitor the success. When they agreed to that, I figured buying the sprinkler system for $2000 (which did seem kinda necessary since even I could tell lo those many months ago that the sprinklers were not hitting the dying lawn areas) was a bargain.

But wait…. There’s more. The sprinkler installation went pretty smoothly, except for the hit to my pocketbook. Then, the sod guy showed up immediately to take measurements and quote me a very low price to install the sod to replace the first sod guy’s mud. For, when the second sod guy finally showed up with the sod (it took several reschedules, but what else is new?), it was clear that the first sod guy provided something that truly didn’t even resemble real sod. It was no wonder it didn’t grow.

Our lawn is beautiful now. It only took six months. And, just for the record, after the second sodding, it never did “get worse before it gets better.”

Do you have a sod, sod story of your own? Who knew that acquiring a lawn that meets the minimum standards of the HOA would be such a trauma? Or at least a drama? At any rate, the grass is greener on the other side of the lawn now. Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement.com.

Have a sodding good day!

Terri 🙂

Life is a Highway

Driving in my new home state is a bit of a challenge.

I learned to drive in a place where the structure of the road and highway network is pretty simple. Odd numbered roads go primarily north and south. Even numbered highways, east and west. While some highways have “honorary names,” being called after a political figure or public hero, numbered highways are almost always referred to in common vernacular by their numbers. All ten digits of the usual numbering system are used, so each highway is fairly distinctive. If the roads have actual names, those names, with few exceptions for long roads that meander through numerous cities, stay the same. Someone might give you directions by saying something like, “Take the 203 freeway north to the Snickerdoodle Road exit, turn right on Snickerdoodle Road, drive about 3 miles to Hooligan Avenue, turn left and continue on Hooligan Avenue until you get to the second house on the right, 123 Hooligan Avenue.”

Not so much in my new state. To begin with, whoever it is that decides on the highway titles is pitifully lacking in imagination. It appears mandatory that each numbered highway must include the number “2” at least once in its title. This makes it harder to remember which highway you are supposed to be on because they all kind of sound of like. If that wasn’t bad enough, the highway system actually includes all kinds of offshoots and iterations of the same highway number. For instance, there may be an Interstate 221, County Road 221, State Route 221, and random other roads labeled “221” with various suffixes like 221A, 221B, and 221C. Roads often merge together, muddying the waters still more. Then, certain communities rail against the lack of creativity and give these numbered road(s) their own names. There is one such stretch of road that I travel rather frequently. At some points, it is Interstate 221, State Route 25, County Road 21, and Lemon Tree Trail- all at the same time. Even my GPS gets confused. The other day, I was trying to find an optometrist in a town about 40 miles south of my home. I finally gave up when I realized my GPS had led me about 60 miles towards the state line…. The state line to the NORTH.

In my old state, driving is a well-regulated, tidy business. There are helmet laws for motorcycles. All passengers must wear seat belts. All but the tiniest of intersections have traffic lights. U-turns are frowned upon. If U-turns are actually allowed at the intersection, there are usually signals to govern when drivers in a given lane can make a U-turn or left turn unimpeded by cross traffic.

In my new state, traffic lights are for sissies. Turning left from a stop sign across a major highway without traffic lights is an adventure. At first, I would sometimes drive literally miles out of my way to find a place I could turn around with the aid of a signal. Now, I just take a deep breath, say a prayer, and tool across six lanes of traffic like a madwoman. The citizenry also considers regulating U-turns to be some sort of infringement of personal liberty. I have yet to see a sign prohibiting a U-turn, no matter how narrow or wide the road. On roads that are so wide each side has its own zip code, people will make U-turns from anywhere on the highway. It doesn’t matter if there is a light or a left hand turn lane or anything. Sometimes, they will come to a stop in the fast lane and just wait until there is a break in oncoming traffic to make their U-turn.

Motorcyclists wear helmets at their own discretion. I think the wearing of helmets is considered more a fashion statement than a safety measure. A lot of people around here have bumper stickers and decals on their cars that proclaim proudly, “I watch for motorcycles.” I’m glad they do. A mind is a terrible thing to waste by splattering it all over the highway.

Adult passengers in the back seat are not required to wear seat belts. When I first heard about the adult passengers in the back seat not having to wear seatbelts, I was kind of amazed. Then, it made sense. If you don’t wear a seat belt, it is way easier to reach the gun that is also legal to carry around in your car.

They say life is a highway. In this state, however, I’m never sure which one I’m on or which direction I’m going. I think I have to get used to the idea that life’s highway is all about the journey, not the destination!

What are your thoughts? Don’t let life’s highway pass you by! Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com. Have an awesome day!

Terri 🙂

Do Storks Really Bring Babies?

The “country-ish” place where we moved when I retired is a resort community for water fowl- herons, egrets, storks, and the like.

I was never really a bird person. In fact, at the zoo, I have been heard to remark “birds aren’t real animals.” For all the bird lovers out there, please do not take offense. I am sure birds are perfectly lovely creatures. They are, doubtlessly, imperative to the ecosystem. Just personally, I could never get too revved up about them. Maybe it is because my mother is afraid of birds, having been traumatized by an avian-related incident as a child. Maybe it is because my ex-husband insisted upon bringing a loud, dirty, irritable canure parrot (appropriately named Manure), into our tiny living space. For whatever reason, birds just never held the same appeal to me as furry mammals (to clarify, furry mammals like lions and tigers and bears- not furry mammals like mice and rats and possums).

When we moved here, though, I have to say that seeing Sandhill cranes roam free around the community was pretty high on the “cool factor.” There was one pair that we saw frequently when we took afternoon walks. At least, I think it was the same pair. Sandhill cranes all sorta look alike. The two in question seemed to hang out around the same street corner every day. They were always together. They claimed their places in the universe with assertive tranquility. They were not nasty when we approached them on our walks, but did not cede their ground to us either. We walked around them and everyone was happy.

One day, though, we noted that one of the cranes was missing from their normal territory on the street corner. It did not reappear over the next couple of weeks. I was unaccountably worried about those birds. What had happened to the other crane? Was it sick? Did it die? Did they have a fight and break up? Was one crane cheating on the other? Was the remaining crane lonely? Was it sad? It just really bothered me that the pair seemed to have been separated. My concern was pretty irrational, given the relative insignificance of two Sandhill cranes in my life, but there I was. Anxiety-riddled over the disappearance of a bird.

The other day, I was driving by my crane friends’ usual stomping grounds. I would say I screeched to a halt, except that you can’t really screech when you are driving at the community’s maximum speed limit of 10 miles per hour. Both cranes were back. And, with them, was the reason that the pair had not appeared together in some time. A little baby Sandhill crane, cute as it could be. It looked like a baby duckling strapped to the top of two pencils. Apparently, spring is when a young crane’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.

I can sleep again.

So, do storks really bring babies? Maybe, but Sandhill cranes certainly do!

So what are your thoughts? Spring brings change to the whole world! Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Terri 🙂

I’ve Got That Joy, Joy, Joy, Joy Down in My Heart

Easter reminds me that my race is not yet run.

When I started working, I did not select my career with my Christianity in mind. To be honest, I’m not sure I selected it at all. I had just finished college with a fresh out of the oven degree in English. I was working at my minimum wage college job. I had a brand new husband, who was a full time graduate student. He needed brand new food every brand new day. When the chance for federal employment was offered, I took the job for purely temporal reasons.

That doesn’t mean that, for the 33 plus years I worked, I left my faith at the door. While my job description wasn’t particularly missionary, I believed that God expected me to live a mission. I spent my career purposely, consciously, and genuinely trying to make each decision from a place of goodness and to be a light in the world to the people I encountered. The fuel for that light was Jesus. I often fell short. I was not always a good example or a beacon of Christ’s light. I simply trusted that, when I did succeed in my mission through the wisdom and grace God granted me, the Lord would use that work to let others see Him and His love.

When I retired, I was tired and worn down in my very soul. I looked forward to my retirement as a period of rest and relaxation, my years of work being done. I did rest and it has taken a very long time for my spirit to relax. Now, I realize my work is not done. My workplace is different and the conditions are unfamiliar, but I am sure God still has a mission for me.

I believe I am called, like St. Therese of Lisieux, to live an ordinary life with extraordinary love. There is still some life left for me to fill, using God’s grace, with extraordinary love.

I am writing about reinventing myself in retirement. This Easter season, I have been journeying towards a spiritual reinvention, or, at least, a spiritual reinvigoration. I’ve been participating in a Best Lent Ever program. It is a series of daily email video reflections. It is offered through www.dynamiccatholic.com. You might want to check it out. Even non Catholics might be interested. Really, anyone with a spiritual orientation that includes Jesus, even tangentially, might find it useful.

In working on my spiritual reinvention this Lent, www.dynamiccatholic has helped me remember some valuable lessons.

When I give in to shyness and avoid people, I put my Jesus light under a bushel and miss potential opportunities to provide comfort and extraordinary love.

When I get impatient and rushed, I miss the opportunity to be absolutely present in the moment, to cherish the joy that God gives that moment.

When my heart flashes with irritation and anger, I miss the opportunity to gain understanding and closeness.

Moving forward, I know that I will forget these lessons and will fall short. I also know that God has more lessons for me. I will try to keep an open heart and be available to His teaching, as I strive to be a carrier of extraordinary love.

The real lesson of Easter, though, is that, no matter how many times I fail, I am forgiven. Jesus saw to that.

Happy Resurrection! I know that not everyone believes as I do, but Easter seems like a great time to remind ourselves that reinvention can be sacred as well as secular.

What do you think? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com. Have a happy and blessed Easter!

Terri 🙂

Domestic Deity

I really rock at cleaning floors.

To understand the full impact of this statement, you need to understand that I grew up in a home where cleaning house meant company was coming. My mother has many, many wonderful traits, but she was a homemaker and not a housekeeper. My childhood memory of “home” is warm and loving and fun, but not clean, neat, or tidy. I don’t think anyone would ever describe my mom as a “domestic goddess.”

It wasn’t that we were too lazy to clean house. It was just that there were way too many more interesting things to do than dust, wash, polish, or sweep anything that needed dusting, washing, polishing, or sweeping. We didn’t live in squalor or anything, but having clean floors wasn’t ever a dream that seemed worth pursuing. Dog hair tended to be part of the décor. If there were too many dirty dishes in the sink, we could always use the oven to whisk them out of sight. We also were the kind of people who formed sentimental attachments to just about everything we touched, so there was always souvenirs of vacations, questionably adorable figurines, crumbling old furniture, children’s art projects, clothes worn for momentous occasions (like my first day of second grade or something), etc. hanging around creating clutter and dust bunnies.

My mother was a working mother before it was fashionable. Before that, she volunteered with the Parent Teacher Association for more hours a week than most people spend at a real job. While I think she enjoyed working outside the home, I have a sneaking suspicion that part of her motivation for getting a job was to have a socially acceptable excuse to not do something as boring as housework.

When I began living on my own, I intended to replicate the housekeeping habits of the women I saw on reruns of 1950s television shows. Unfortunately, it soon became apparent that I was failing miserably. I either missed the housekeeping gene or just never learned how to do housework in a way that would efficiently and effectively result in a clean, tidy house. Who knows if it was nature or nurture, but I began storing dirty dishes in the oven within an embarrassingly short time. I spent most of my adult life trying to do better, with almost no success.

When I retired and was getting ready to move, I was a little worried. I was going from a tiny one-bedroom, one-bathroom 600 square foot condominium to a 1500 square foot, 3 bedroom, 2 bathroom house. Since I was never very successful in keeping 600 square feet clean, how would I cope with so much more space?

As it turns out, the answer is pretty darn well. I have found that having the extra space is actually helpful. There are more places to put things. Our clothes actually fit in the closets and bureaus and don’t end up on the floor. The garage can not only house two cars, but has shelving for items such as Christmas decorations. Being retired also means that taking half an hour to clean a bathroom or an hour to dust isn’t anywhere near as onerous as when I was working for a living and really resented housework for eating up my few moments of unscheduled time.

And the floors. In my little condo, I had carpet through most of the rooms. There is very little satisfaction in vacuuming carpeting. Pretty much, the floors look the same after you vacuum as they did before. You never really know if the carpets are clean. My new home has hardwood in most of the rooms. When we first moved in, I was a little intimidated by those floors and put off doing anything other than sweeping them. Finally, I decided to just throw caution to the wind and try to do a deeper cleaning. I swept, dust-mopped, applied hardwood floor cleaner, and, ultimately, hardwood floor restorer and polisher. Those floors absolutely glowed when I was done. I felt soooo accomplished. I was taking pictures of the newly cleaned floors and sending them to everyone who knew me. I faced my fear of housework and prevailed.

The really big lesson in my journey to becoming a domestic goddess is something I learned in the workplace years ago. Quality is “fit for use.” In other words, if my home is reasonably sanitary and the air is breathable and the occupants feel comfy and happy, whatever level of housework that has been done is quality. I am the queen of my own domesticity and, if I can look out over my realm and be happy, that is the triumph.

Maybe my mother was a domestic goddess after all.

What are your thoughts? I’d love to hear your perspective. Please leave a comment and share your perspective. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com. Have a terrific day!

Terri 🙂

Should Shoulder Rolls Be Audible?

One of my goals in retirement was to get more exercise. Despite the fact that I am a middle aged, mostly sedentary, overweight diabetic, whose preferred form of exercise is pushing buttons on the TV remote control, I decided that retirement was going to be my motivation to become the picture of health- eating right, moving my body, soaking in the sunshine, and fairly glowing with righteous wholesomeness. Well, not so much. Still, I thought it was time to exercise more than just my imagination.

I joined a water aerobics class when I moved to my new home in the sticks. For some bizarre reason, I decided to begin in January. The morning temperature when I scurried from the car to the pool was about 45 degrees. The pool is indoors and heated (I’m not completely crackers), but there was still the commute from car to pool and pool to car with which to contend. The commute from the pool to the car was infinitely more difficult because, even though the temperature was an hour warmer, I was an hour wetter. The class consisted of about 6 die-hards that participated as long as the temperature was over 40 degrees at the time the class began. There is one attendee, who I have dubbed “The Woman Who Never Shuts Up,” who barely moves any part of her body except her mouth during the hour long class. Two or three other attendees sway a little bit, but are obviously there to listen with rapt attention to every story and pearl of wisdom she spews forth while the instructor soldiers on, trying to make her directions heard over the din.

For a little while, I sort of alternated between the water aerobics and a “dry land” walking aerobics class the community also offered. In the minds of most sane people, I’m sure walking around a climate controlled auditorium to music seems the more reasonable option when the temperature is 45 degrees. However, one main factor settled me finally on the water aerobics class. You don’t sweat in the water.

The class is offered three times a week. I average once a week, despite my best intentions. Still, as time marches on and the class expands (now that the temperature has warmed up, there are about 15-20 attendees), I can feel some results. The Woman Who Never Shuts Up still, well, never shuts up. It just doesn’t bother me as much. I understand now that the time goes quicker when people chat during the class. Also, now that there are more people actually exercising, I have more people to watch to learn the movements. I think I’m probably exercising more efficiently and flaying about less. I do feel a modicum of strength and endurance that I haven’t felt for some time. I feel muscles stretching and expanding as I do the exercises. When I finish a session, I feel more relaxed and healthy.

This is not to say that I am the well-oiled machine I visualized. There is one stretching exercise that involves bending a knee back behind me and holding my ankle with my hand to keep my foot firmly against my butt. This seems physiologically impossible for me. I am pretty sure I am not meant to grow a bigger butt to reach the foot and I think my days of growing longer legs to reach my butt are- you should excuse the expression- behind me.

Then there is the series of “bottle exercises.” The idea is to use an empty half-gallon milk bottle in each hand and do some exercises while floating on the water. I have a sneaking suspicion that, if one has any level of firmness in the core muscles, one will remain in pretty much the same location while doing these “bottle exercises.” After maneuvering around the whole pool numerous times while attempting to do the movements without drowning, I capitulated and started hanging on to the side of the pool behind me while doing the exercises.

And then there are the shoulder rolls. Among the stretches we do at the beginning and end of class are shoulder rolls. As I roll my shoulders in little circles to the front and to the back, I am first struck by how good it feels. Then, to my horror, I realize I CAN HEAR THEM! Click, click, click. I am pretty certain you aren’t supposed to be able to hear your muscles move. When did this happen? Maybe it is Morse code for something. Maybe something like…. This is what happens when your preferred form of exercise for 30 some years is pushing buttons on the TV remote control!

So what do you think? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Terri 🙂