Terri LaBonte- Reinventing Myself in Retirement

Florida Woman

As of last week, I have been a Florida resident for ten years. An entire decade of my life. I am having a tough time wrapping my head around that fact. It seems like just a moment or two has passed since Max and I encountered the sudden jolt to our systems of moving and turning our world upside down… and sideways.

Just a second ago, we were preparing to celebrate our first Christmas in the South… without family, without friends, without even a Christmas tree. My mother considered this situation to be the eleventh circle of hell. She sent us presents (even though we celebrated an early Christmas at Thanksgiving, before we left California) because she could not bear the idea that I would have nothing to open on Christmas morning. I was 55 years old. She also had Amazon send me a small, pre-lit Christmas tree. It stood, forlornly, in a corner with no ornaments or any additional decoration amidst the boxes and piles of unpacking still taunting me. I remember bracing myself for that Christmas, expecting to hurt and feel bereft to the bone. It ended up not being so bad. Max and I had been so busy and stressed since the end of November, it felt kind of nice to take a “silent night” or two.

In all, it seems surreal to think that time was ten whole years ago. On the other hand, I can look at all the major life events that have happened since we moved to Florida and wonder if there ever was a life before the one I am living now.

I had new, meaningful experiences with my mother that built beautiful memory castles in my mind.
I celebrated ten additional anniversaries with Max, maturing and enriching our exquisite relationship. We lived through so many shared experiences and so much mutual vulnerability in our new surroundings.
I walked with my mother for 13 months on her end-of-life journey after a catastrophic stroke.
Four close family members died.
I lived through multiple hurricanes.
There was a worldwide pandemic.
I released three books.
I published 412 blog posts, totaling approximately 452,000 words.
I’ve petted, fed, and swam with an entire menagerie of land and sea creatures.
I’ve healed from past trauma in a way that I never dreamed possible.
I lost and gained weight about 1,468 times, give or take a few hundred.
I vacationed approximately twenty times, including visits to places I have never been before- New England, Charleston, Savannah, and Tennessee.
I revisited the first home I remember in New York and let my soul live there for a time.
I converted to a new Christian denomination.
I worked as a chaplain, vestry member, teacher, project coordinator, temporary office worker, meal delivery person, and other service positions in a new church.
I made numerous friends who I now call “family.”

Put in this context, the perspective is all cattywampus. The ten years no longer feels like an instant. How could all this have happened in only ten years? No wonder it sometimes feels like I must schedule time just to take a breath! Yes, it has truly been a lifetime since we moved to Florida. I have lived that lifetime thoroughly and well.

Have a valuable day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Do you feel you have lived your life well and thoroughly since retirement? How so? If not, what can you do now to enrich your retirement experience?

Psalm 30

You have turned my wailing into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy, that my heart may sing your praises and not be silent, Lord, my God, I will praise you forever.

-Psalm 30:11-12

As Thanksgiving approaches, I thought it would be a suitable time for me to remember the Author of all good things- the most loving Father, the most compassionate Healer, the most powerful God. People talk about miracles, but most people do not know when they have experienced one. I have and it has changed my life. It was not the kind of miracle that is readily apparent, like healing a withered limb or clearing the eyes of a blind person. Just because my miracle was not so obvious does not make its impact any less significant. God did turn my wailing into dancing and removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy.

More than 40 years ago, I encountered a situation that definitively changed me. It was not a single episode or event. It was a condition of life that, over time, tore and seared and eroded my heart. My heart was in ragged, delicate strands with some sections entirely destroyed. Oh, my heart still pumped blood to the rest of my body. It could still recognize beauty. It could still feel compassion. It could still feel duty and responsibility. It could still feel gratitude. It could also still feel longing. However, the part of my heart that lived in my soul- the part of my heart that made me me– was no longer functional.

I thought I healed from that situation, but what I really did was gather up the detritus of the “me” heart and carry it to a hidden place in my soul. I lovingly wrapped the shards and shatters tightly in filmy, bulky bubble wrap. The wrap obscured what was left of the me-ness, but it protected that preciousness from further destruction. I always carried that piece of my heart in that hidden place in my soul. I cherished it and I mourned it. I shielded it so much that even I forgot what it looked like. Sometimes a brave bit of hope would be able to exert enough pressure to nudge the contents in the prison of bubble wrap. During those times, my heart would struggle to escape its confines. However, I had wrapped those pieces of me-heart the way a child wraps a Christmas present- with enough knots and folds and tape to secure the contents from any attempt to open it, short of tearing it open from the outside.

One day, a couple of years ago, God did exactly that. He grabbed hold of that plastic- encased mess of a heart and ripped open the wrapping. He ripped open the protection, but He also ripped open the limitations. I even knew the day it happened. To be completely transparent, it had been coming for some time. Still, there was a particular moment I can identify as the moment God “turned my wailing into dancing.” I have been a Christian all my life. This was the first time I understood- in a truly experiential way- “If anyone is in Christ, this person is a new creation, the old things passed away; behold, new things have come” (2 Corinthians: 5:17) I was new. I was healed. I was liberated to become the person God created me, wonderfully and fearfully, to be.

Certainly, God is still working on me. In that one moment, He ripped enough of the wrapping so that my me-heart could emerge. He still pulls off bits of bubble wrap and gives them to me to pop. Sometimes, I struggle with that. I reach out to Him and to loving people with whom He blesses me as I grapple to continue towards perfect freedom. I expect that this process will continue my whole life. I also think that God will intentionally leave some pieces of my heart fragile and scarred, to remind me to rely on Him and to encourage me to nurture the parts of me that I need to nurture.

It is as if this process has been a redemption of my creation- the restoration of the person God meant for me to be. All the phases of the process- my attempts at protection, my refusal to completely discard the broken parts of me, the people and circumstances God used to clear the way for His work, and God’s miraculous healing- are equally worthy of praise and thanksgiving because they have all been part of God’s miracle. I know what I am saying in this blog post is weightier than my usual offerings. It feels scary to write it and post it. It is easy to see Thanksgiving Day as simply the springboard to the busy, festive, frantic holiday season, but my me-heart must praise and thank. So, today, nearing Thanksgiving, “I will not be silent.” Thank You, my precious Lord

You have turned my wailing into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy, that my heart may sing your praises and not be silent, Lord, my God, I will praise you forever.

-Psalm 30:11-12

You have turned my wailing into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy, that my heart may sing your praises and not be silent, Lord, my God, I will praise you forever.

-Psalm 30:11-12

Have a miraculous day!

Terri/Dorry 🙂

What makes your heart thankful on Thanksgiving and every day? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

PS. IF YOU ARE READING THIS, I AM SO THANKFUL FOR YOU!!!! MAY GOD BLESS YOU WITH LOVE, JOY, AND PEACE ALWAYS!

Wild Or Mild? Part 2

As our visit to Tennessee continued, I loosened up a little. As touristy and garish as Pigeon Forge is, the Smoky Mountains are definitely a place that markets adventure in the great outdoors. In an attempt to blow a raspberry at the emotional impact of turning 65, I decided I wanted to partake. In my world, having an adventure includes a tour guide, a driver, and a souvenir shop. I’m into carefully controlled adventure and planned spontaneity.

I scheduled two different pink jeep tours. I have never been on a jeep, nor have I ever gone off-roading… at least not intentionally. Both jeep adventures were fantastic. Everything was so beautiful. The trees, the rivers, the waterfalls, and the sunlight dappling the fields created an exquisitely tuned symphony of primitive perfection. We made multiple stops along the way to give us the chance to wander a bit and climb down to creek beds to get a better look. The Great Smoky Mountain National Park is one of those places that expanded my mind to a new level of beauty perception. It happened to me the first time I went to Hawaii and the first time I went to New England. I was so profoundly aware of not realizing somewhere so beautiful could exist until I saw it with my own eyes. The Smokies had the same effect on me. At the end of each tour, the guide took us off-roading on a course specifically designed for thrills and chills and no broken bones.

There was so much exhilaration in walking on unpaved trails, climbing down a slope so the guide could take our picture right next to the river, sliding my feet through fallen leaves, filling my lungs with so much crisply clean air flavored with forest, looking for bears in the trees, and giggling maniacally when the off-roading experience popped my butt off the seat and into Max’s personal space. That exhilaration made me feel young, vibrant, carefree, and wild. My mood felt unfettered. My muscles felt loose. My vital signs felt like they clicked right into optimal normal range as soon as we officially entered the park. The adventure created so much superpower in us, we could actually be in two places at once. See the pictures below showing us behind the jeep and at the front of the jeep in the exact same photograph. To be honest, I felt like a bit of a badass.

On the other hand…. I was inept at getting out of the jeep. Getting in was not too much of a problem. I could grab onto a handle and haul myself up into the back. Getting down, however… that was harder. I did not feel steady enough on my feet to dismount the vehicle and find the ground while still remaining upright without holding on to at least one other person’s hand. I am a rather short person, and that ground did seem pretty far away from the back of the jeep. Still, no one else seemed to need life support to get out of the jeep. It was embarrassing.

It was also embarrassing when a visit to an old house shone an even brighter spotlight on my unsteadiness and extreme lack of coordination. There were three steps up to the porch of the house and zero bannisters. Most people visited inside the house. I certainly had that intention. When I came face-to-face with the steps, I wisely realized that I could get up them without a railing but would be stuck there forever until bears ate me or I died of old age because there is no way I was going to be able navigate descending those steps. It was a humbling feeling for my newly declared badass self.

Another day, we took a trip to Skypark in Gatlinburg. We took a chair lift about 500 feet up the mountain. It was the coolest thing we did on the trip. I had considered ziplining but chickened out. Skypark was my compromise with myself. The view from the ski lift was fantastic and, arguably, I appreciated it much more than I would have at the breakneck speed of a zipline. It still felt pretty wild.

There were a few non-wild moments, however. When we pulled the lap bar down on the chair lift, I did not immediately realize that there was a security support bisecting the center of the main lap bar. Instead of the bar gliding smoothly over both our laps, I somehow managed to bring the security support down directly on my thigh. I was apparently sitting too close to Max and was not in my own lane. I ended up having quite a lovely bruise on my thigh after that. When we reached the end of the ride, I also found that my purse and sweater were hopelessly tangled in the lap bar. It required two quick-moving attendants to extricate me from my accessories and get me safely back on terra firma.

Once we got off the ski lift, I poured on the wild again. We walked across the skybridge- the longest cable bridge in North America, which spans the 400 feet or so from one mountain top to another. The bridge also boasts a 30-foot section where the footpath is not wood or stone or anything that feels solid. Instead, that 30-foot section is made of glass. As you traverse that section of the swaying bridge, you can look beneath your feet and see nothing between you and the ground 500 feet below. Max and I had no issues walking the bridge. We suitably impressed ourselves with our courage when we made it #PassTheGlass. I even conquered the swaying and managed to stay on my feet. Handrails, even when made of rope and cable, are my friends.

Now that the vacation is over and I have had time to reflect, I must admit that my badass self was maybe not quite as edgy as I first believed. I look back at all my adventures and feel enormously proud of myself. To be honest, I don’t think I saw any other short, pudgy, 65-year-old women braving jeeps, ski lifts, and swaying glass bridges 500 feet off the ground. Still, it is humbling to think of my wobbly dismounting from the jeeps and clutzy exit from the ski lift. It is also only fair to go back to my original point, which is that my adventures were carefully controlled, and my spontaneity was planned. So, what is your verdict? Wild or mild? I think I’m going with wild AND mild!

What do think? Am I wild or mild? Is my ass bad or good? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a wild day!

Terri/Dorry😊

Wild Or Mild? Part 1

Recently, we took a trip to the Great Smoky Mountains in Tennessee. With uncharacteristically excellent timing, we managed to plan the trip between two tantruming hurricanes. I was driving from our home in central Florida to our ultimate destination- a distance of over six hundred miles, each way. Previously, the furthest I’d ever driven was about 380 miles to Charleston. I had some trepidation about upping my motoring game that much. I know plenty of people who regularly make 600-mile trips in one day, but I ain’t one of them. To be honest, I was not convinced that I would even have the stamina to do two back-to-back driving days of three hundred miles each, but I told myself to get a grip, put on my big girl panties, and embrace the wheel. After all, God made cruise control for a reason. As a sop to my anxiety, I did decide to stop overnight in Macon, Georgia instead of driving the whole distance in one day.

At the beginning of the trip, I began to think that I had become an adventurer in my old age. I felt super comfortable the first day driving. I was puffed and chuffed about my performance. I felt very peppy and full of myself when we pulled into the Homewood Suites for our overnight respite. I was really feeling my oats. I felt confident enough to suggest to Max that we might be able to cancel our overnight hotel reservation on the way back, but I wanted to see how I felt after Driving Day Two.

Waiting until after Driving Day Two to make that decision was one of my wiser moves. The next day was much more difficult. As we inched our way through Atlanta traffic, I found out that fifty miles of northern Georgia is not equivalent to fifty miles of northern Florida. Time, as well as the traffic, stood still. Just when things started flowing more rapidly, we were exiting the freeway to approach Sevierville, where we were staying.

I should have been suspicious. The owners of the Airbnb we were renting told us that the house was about six miles from Dollywood and six miles from Gatlinburg. That information did seem to coincide with what Mapquest and the GPS (why only rely on a belt when you can have BOTH a belt and suspenders?) were showing me. However, the GPS was saying it was going to take half an hour to get to the property. This turned out to be accurate. The traffic on the main drag from the freeway to the turn-off to our house sludged its way across the miles even slower than the traffic in Atlanta. I could not believe the number of cars and the number of pedestrians walking along the Parkway.

The slow traffic did give me sufficient time to really take in the sights on the Parkway. How would I describe the scenery in Pigeon Forge? The first word that comes to mind for me is tacky. Not that tacky is necessarily a terrible thing in my book- my favorite color is glitter, and I leave a little pixie dust wherever I go. The Parkway was overstimulating even for me, though.

There was a smorgasbord of souvenir shops, restaurants, miniature golf courses, mountain coaster parks, more souvenir shops, escape rooms, bars, ice cream parlors, and even more souvenir shops. Oh, and did I mention souvenir shops? The souvenir shops touted “hand-crafted” Smoky Mountains products. I later discovered that the products might have been “hand-crafted,” but that crafting was done in China. The mention of “Smoky Mountain products” apparently referred only to the fact that they had “Smoky Mountains” printed on them.

The buildings stood shoulder-to-shoulder like people standing in an overcrowded elevator. It even felt like the buildings were hunching their shoulders to avoid touching each other, so aware of the lack of personal space. They were huge, painted in bright colors that had faded over time and weather. Much of the architecture was campy and bizarre. Every building was clearly competing to catch the eye. One souvenir shop had a huge alligator covering the middle third of the façade. That alligator was as wide as my entire house. It wasn’t even just painted on- the front of the building was molded into the shape of the alligator. I did not even know they had alligators in Tennessee. Another building had a huge bear, roughly equivalent to the height of the building, spouting from the roof. There was a large wax museum that included a building in the shape of a castle bigger than any Disney royal residence. The main building was shaped like the Empire State Building, complete with King Kong hanging on its side. That King Kong sculpture had to be four stories tall.

As we turned off the Parkway, the roads got narrower and curvier. Thankfully, they also got less populated. As we meandered into the outskirts of the city, I began wondering if we were on the right track because there was not much around except trees. Max began to express concern emphatically that we were out in the boondocks and were overly isolated.

As we reached the last mile of our trek, the concern level elevated. As did the road. I knew I was renting a “mountain cabin,” but I guess I didn’t realize just how much of a mountain I was getting. After living in Florida- the flattest state in the union- for nearly ten years, I’ve apparently forgotten what mountains really look like. I’ve also forgotten what the “roads” up the mountains feel like. I navigated one hairpin turn after another up a steep 2-way road that was only wide enough for about one and a quarter cars. There were no guard rails on either side, so a misstep would mean plunging to our death in the valley below or ramming into the wall of a mountain.

One of the reasons I chose this location is that it sounded like it was part of a community, which felt safer than being out in the wilderness completely alone. The cottage was part of a community, but there were only three or four houses built together before the road curved off into some new curlicue. Even once we located the community, finding our cottage was a challenge. Part of that challenge involved making several wrong guesses. This required driving up multiple blind steep hills and some death-defying U-turns. It also required me to drive in Reverse, which is always death-defying in my case.

When we finally got to the house, I was tired, hungry, anxious, and felt like there was a steel bar between my shoulders. I was also pretty testy. The house was very nice, though. The view was lovely. It was cozy and quiet. There were a couple of neighbors, which made the drive seem less terrifying. After all, if the neighbors could navigate that road on a regular basis, surely I could do it for a few days.

My adventure in the Smoky Mountains certainly started in the “wild” category. Between changing lanes on the freeway through Atlanta without having any idea of what lane I needed to be in, traveling through the Pigeon Forge fever dream of a landscape, and navigating the mini-road up to the cottage, I felt quite the thrill-seeker. I even ventured out back into town to get some dinner, which necessitated coming back up that mountain after dark. The mild part? We cancelled any thought we had of evening entertainment on this vacation. After making that trip in the dark, I decided discretion is the better part of valor. Besides, what is a vacation without several hours of YouTube videos each evening?

Have an adventurous day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

What is the most adventurous trip you have ever taken? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Terri Years

You know how they say that one dog year equals seven human years? I understand that this axiom is not particularly accurate. Calculating a dog’s aging process is more complicated than that. It seems, with a dog, a year is not a year is not a year. Some years are more equal than others.

I think the same is true with humans. At least, it is for me. I am not talking about the various and sundry health issues that seem to jump out from behind a curtain and gobble me up rather than nibble away at me gradually over time. If I am honest, those health matters do creep up over time. The only thing sudden about them is my sudden inability to live in denial about them. The more striking example of some years being more aging than other, seems to be my appearance.

Now, most of you know that I have never been any great shakes to look at. The one good thing I could say about my appearance is that I floated through year after year without seeming to change much. I probably spent 15-20 years looking almost exactly the same. We sometimes look at old pictures and it is difficult to date them by my appearance. If we look at old Thanksgiving photos, there is really no way to tell if we are looking at Terri 2002 or Terri 2012. In the last three years, though, I’d say that aging has been making up for lost time. The last year, especially, seems to have been hard on my constitution. I just compared some recent pictures to ones from the same event last year. I am now depressed.

I noticed a year or so ago that my jawline was starting to sink. And, believe me, I cannot afford to give up any space between my face and my shoulders. My father always called me the neckless wonder, given the fact that my chin nearly touched my boobs even when I was young. Now, it is a complete mystery whether or not I do have any neck at all because I have sagging jowls. My skin used to be oily and acne prone, but at least it glowed. It is now a peculiar shade of dull. I never used to have dark circles under my eyes. I now look like I am wearing glasses even when I am not wearing glasses. I don’t even have bags anymore. The indentations under my eyes are now twin steamer trunks. I could be sailing to Europe on the QEII with this much luggage. My hair looks even more tired than I feel. The grey roots seem to appear overnight about two and a half weeks after a trip to salon. It grows out, rather than down. As I have tried to embrace my curls, I find myself looking increasingly like a brunette Bozo the Clown… or like there is a family of cats living on my head somewhere in the chaos.

Maybe I am just having a bad self-image day. Maybe I am just overcritical of my appearance. It wouldn’t be the first time. Even given that I can be somewhat delusional about my looks- or at least some people say so- I cannot help but believe that some years age me faster than others.

I do want to be fair. I did have those 15-20 years of time standing kind of still. I suppose it was bound to catch up with me someday. I am grateful for the years of looking young. My self-image was no better in those days. In fact, it was a good deal worse. I am not sure I could have handled feeling ugly AND old all the time. Over the past several years, I have been working hard to rewire my brain. I can get through a day or a week or even a month without feeling ugly and repulsive. When I do feel ugly and repulsive, it is a mood or a moment, not a state of being.

Despite the progress I have made in seeing and appreciating myself as I actually am- physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually- my appearance has aged way more than one year in this past year. I accept that, presuming I don’t get run over by a bus, it is likely that I will encounter this phenomenon of “ultra-aging” more frequently in the next years. On the other hand, I am happier and more at peace than I ever have been in my life. I am gentler with myself and others. I am more comfortable living my life as it comes. I am more excited about growth. I am more trusting of God.

I guess I can put up with cheeks that are closer to my esophagus than my eyeballs, skin the color of old tissue paper, hair that looks like cats live in it, and luggage for a transatlantic voyage under my eyes if the pay-off is self-value and joy.

This is going to take some getting used to. In the meantime, I definitely think I am going to stop going anywhere near a camera without make-up!

Have a youthful day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Do you think that some years age you more than others? How do you come to terms with the changes age makes to your appearance? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

I’m Not Marooned On A Mountaintop

The best laid plans of mice and men and Trrri sometimes actually do turn out to be the best-laid plans. Last week, nestled between two hurricanes, Max and I went on a scheduled vacation to the Great Smoky Mountains. My understanding when I moved to Florida was that the hurricane season ended with September. I should have gotten that in writing.

As we drove towards Tennessee, it occurred to me that I was driving practically into ground zero for Hurricane Helene. Luckily, where we were going did not have too much damage, but there were storm ravages in nearby areas that were now inaccessible by vehicle. Two of our tour guides volunteered with the relief efforts. In their case, “volunteering” meant hiking up into isolated sections of the mountains with 35 pounds of basic essential items on their backs. That was the only way to transport life sustaining items to help the people stranded by the storm’s damage to the roads.

While we were in Tennessee, Hurricane Milton fought his way across a swath of central Florida. We were safe 600 miles away, but we were concerned for our family of friends in Florida and, of course, for our house. The hurricane hype trailed us two states north.

I’m happy to report that we arrived home safely, about three days after Milton’s temper tantrum. All our friends are safe and very few experienced any significant damage. We came home to traffic lights floating at weird angles because the hurricane winds had warped them off their normal balance perpendicular to the pavement. We had some yard debris and we lost approximately six roof shingles. The street sign where we turn to approach our house is a bit more difficult to read than usual because it is now lying face-up on the ground. Neighbors inform us that the power was powerless for about 12 hours before the electric company was able to get it restored. We didn’t lose any groceries.

All in all, I’d say we fared pretty well. After all, I could be marooned on a mountain top in Tennessee waiting for some kind, physically fit volunteer backpacker to bring me peanut butter.

Have a peaceful day!

Terri/Dorry 🙂

What is the worst weather you’ve had to face? How did you handle it? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. On the alternative, you can email me at terriretiremet@gmail.com.

Follow The Bouncing Birthday

I turned 65 on Monday. It didn’t suck.

Some of you know that this birthday was kicking me with a high wattage emotional jolt. Becoming officially “old” according to the United States government caused me to re-evaluate the ways I think about myself. I’m usually the youngest in the room. I’ve always had a rather child-like persona. I see myself as young. Clearly, by sending me a Medicare card, the United States government is suggesting that I might be delusional in that perception.

Well, I re-evaluated but have decided that the United States government is wrong in its perception of me, and I am right. I am me, with all my quirks and oddities, all my failures and frailties, all my childishness and hyper-responsibility, all my creativity and stability, and all my playfulness and wisdom. In short, I am the wildly wonderful, bizarre buffet of attributes that God combined with inscrutable intentionality to design who He wanted me to be. That design is ageless. In God’s time, I am young… and always will be.

My birthday celebrations certainly make a strong case that the number of years of my age does not define the youth of my soul.

Things started strong with a birthday box I received from my precious sister by selection in California, Judy. The box contained a variety of gifts that spoke to my value in the world. One of these small gifts that housed great value was a small sign that proclaimed that I have been loved for 65 years (and every variant possible of “65 years.”) Another was a little zippered pouch that proclaims that I have been making the world a better place since 1959. Such simple thoughts, but they packed such an emotional wallop. They forced me to tap into my spirit and find a place that values myself in these ways. It is wonderful that my Judy has these sentiments, and it is even more wonderful that she reminds me that I have them deep inside me, as well, and it is important to honor them.

I told you I had plans to visit a ranch called Beautiful Creatures Animal Sanctuary but was concerned that Hurricane Helene would dispose of those plans. Fortunately, the weather cooperated, and we spent a FABULOUS day with Candice at the ranch. I fed Dolly the sloth. I took the mini-horse Casper for a walk. I played with Betty the porcupine. Mountjac deer Prongs and Clary gave me kisses. I gave toddler kangaroo Hopper his bottle. I served dead meal worms to rambunctious lemurs. I wrapped myself in a corn snake. I hugged a hedgehog. I fell in love with a French bulldog puppy named Hiram. His custodians referred to him as “Darryl,” but I have it directly from him that his name is Hiram. There was so much more that I could say. This brief paragraph can’t even begin to describe the surprises and delights!

Candice, one of the owners of the ranch and our guide for the day, was another reason my experience was so joyful. She made me feel so special. It is not like me to take precedence over other people. I like being generous and doing things for other people. It is very unlike me to “go first” or be the one to ask for an opportunity if it means someone else won’t get one. Candice went out of her way to make the day all about me. She made it extremely easy for me to be “selfish” on my special day. Maya Angelou said that “People will forget what you do, but they will always remember how you made them feel.” Candice made me feel awesome.

On Sunday, my friend and pastor preached a sermon that seemed to be especially for me. It was one of those sermons that bore some careful holes into my heart so God could reach me at a deeper level than usual. It felt like a warm, encouraging validation of worth. I am not so self-absorbed to think that the sermon was all about me. I am sure it spoke to many others in the pews as well. I don’t even know that I entered into the inspiration phase of the sermon, but I am so thankful that I could receive it in the way that I did.

On Sunday and Monday, friends and family showered me with birthday wishes. One friend stopped by with flowers and a balloon. On Monday morning, I slept until 9:00am. Since I usually crave sleep the way a crack addict craves cocaine, this was a fantastic way to start my actual birthday. When Max gave me my card, he commented, “I am so happy you are the love of my life.” My heart just melted like the ice cream with the birthday cake that someone left on the counter.

Much to his relief (he has been trying to get me to open gifts for months now), I finally broke into the presents. I was delighted because I had forgotten every single one of them. Max tends to buy my presents at random times during the year and only when I am around to concur with his choices. This means that there is often a backlog of gifts. If the backlog gets long enough, I forget what we chose. It is a win-win scenario. Max does not need to stress about perhaps buying something I won’t like, and I get a surprise because my memory is not that long.

Max and I went to Orlando for a birthday dinner at BJ’s Brewhouse, which was delicious. Finally, just when I thought the birthday was basically over, the doorbell rang. When my mother was alive, I used to buy her a gift every year on my birthday. I figured she did all the work. All I did was show up. This year, this very special birthday, I ordered a floral arrangement of white roses (my mother’s favorite flower) and pale peachy pink roses (my favorite flower. It is a fitting celebration of both of us and the path that she set us on 65 years ago.

On Tuesday, there was a bit more bounce left in the birthday ball. At our Alpha course session, there was birthday cake and ice cream to celebrate me and my dear friend who partners with me in producing Alpha. Her birthday is today, so please everyone repeat after me….”HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BABS!”

I don’t know how a girl could feel anything but loved and valued and joyful with family (by birth and selection) and friends like mine. I am a very, very blessed lady.

Please remind me of this the next time I fall into a pit of darkness!

Have a celebratory day!

Terri/Dorry 🙂

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

Sog And Sag

It is late September, and this summer is slinking by like a sloth stuck in saran wrap. I am tired of it. Granted, I was tired of it in May. At least in May, I could tell myself that the miserableness of the atmosphere was simply summer and would pass in time. I have reached that point in the sog season now where I firmly believe I will never be cool again. For the rest of my natural life (which may end in a tragic air-drowning accident), my body will continue to stick to every surface imaginable. A layer of sweat and humidity will glue every random object that I touch to my body. I don’t feel comfortable. I don’t feel clean. I don’t feel cute. Actually, most of the time, I feel disgusting. And it is never going to end. Don’t try to talk me out of it. I know this is a permanent condition.

Friends of mine spent part of this summer in Scandinavia. They kept posting pictures of the Arctic Circle, reindeer, huskie farms, and people wearing long pants and sweaters. Personally, I think it is sadistic. I was in possession of her plants, watering them while she was away. They required three or four kettles of water a day to keep them upright. All those pictures of frost-friendly Scandinavia caused me to contemplate plant-icide in retaliation.

The Florida summer rain is getting to me, too. Usually, it rains heavily for a fairly short time period each day, maybe a couple of times a day. However, it is also hurricane season. When I first moved to Florida, I learned that it can rain any day of the year in Florida and sometimes it does. I finally got to the point where I did not despair and suddenly change plans when a forecast several days in the future called for rain. First, those forecasts for a “future” beyond three hours from now are completely unreliable. … Just because tomorrow’s forecast says it will rain, one shouldn’t contemplate changing plans. It is very likely that, when one checks the weather by hour the next morning, there is a good chance rain will no longer be part of the mix- and, if it is, it will likely be pretty self-contained in a one-hour block of time.

This year has been different, however. We have had activities rain out because the weather did not cooperate. In fact, that is why I am writing a second summer rant about the weather. Normally, I limit myself to one whiny post a year about how annoyingly oppressive and completely bizarre the weather is in Florida. This year, however, something has happened that really must be addressed.

My birthday. Of course, I have one every year, but this September 30^th is my 65^th birthday. Not to put too fine a point on it, but this one seems fairly momentous. One could argue that, along with the 18^th and 21^st birthday, 65 is one of the most significant milestone birthdays in a person’s life. Many people retire at 65. Medicare kicks in at 65, suggesting that the United States government proclaims one officially “elderly” at 65. Typically, I have always been the youngest in my friend group and in the workplace. Even though I retired nearly 10 years ago, I have been able to avoid thinking of myself as “old” because of context. Most of the people I knew were older. However, that is changing. Every year, there is a new influx of people newly retiring into my community from points north. There is no doubt about it. There are now numerous people around me who are younger than I am. That, along with the United States of America seal of approval on my “elderly” status, has sent my brain careening into “old” with all the subtlety and finesse of electroshock therapy.

Anticipating that this was going to be a tough transition for me and also wanting to celebrate myself on this landmark day, I have been thinking for months about what to do to mark the occasion. I particularly planned vacation around my birthday this year. The past couple of years, we have been traveling to or from a vacation on my actual birthday. I wanted 65 to be special and I wanted to focus all my energy on my birthday on celebrating me. I had several ideas, but nothing was really singing my name. Finally, I found something that had me written all over it. I planned a trip to an animal sanctuary ranch about an hour away from home. As part of the experience, I planned to interact with a sloth, pet a hedgehog, and take a miniature horse for a walk. There was a catch. The owners were planning to be out of town beginning on my actual birthday. If I wanted to do all the elements of the experience, I would have to visit on the Saturday before my birthday. This was not my ideal plan, but I finally decided to do it.

Our visit is planned for this Saturday. Yesterday, the governor of Florida declared a state of emergency because of Hurricane Helene’s approach. She is expected to make landfall on Thursday. The storm is extremely slow-moving and may still be raging on Saturday. Even if Helene has passed by Saturday, it is likely that she will leave a wide field of damage in her wake. It seems more than likely that I will not be slothing or hedgehogging or mini horsing around on Saturday. And I blame Florida weather for this travesty.

Of course, this is not a giant problem. I am blessed that Helene will probably not cause much damage in my neighborhood (knock on wood) and safety is the main thing in a hurricane. It seems very callous to even complain about my birthday celebration when people will be afraid for their lives. Even people in Helene’s path who are physically safe will be way more inconvenienced than I will be. Losing power is a bit more tragic than losing the opportunity to walk a miniature horse. I am still sad that the storm may keep me from having the birthday celebration I planned. And really peeved at the weather. I mean, is it not enough that I am turning “old and saggy?” Do I really have to be soggy, too?

Have a storm-free day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Have you ever had your plans for a “special” birthday derailed? How did you end up celebrating? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Still Employable- Although Maybe Just Barely

A couple of years after I retired, I published a blog post called Employable (Employable – Terri LaBonte- Reinventing Myself in Retirement.) I discussed what it felt like for someone to offer me a job at that point in my life. I sorted through a great quantity of feelings related to the offer, but my bottom-line response was that I didn’t want a job- even though it was nice to be asked. I had not considered starting a new career in retirement before the job offer. I certainly have not considered it since then.

Recently, a situation arose at church that involved a major re-juggling of administrative staff. Our parish administrator of nearly a decade planned to retire in mid-September. I initially agreed to help in the office one day a week to reduce the strain on our parish ecosystem while we transitioned to a new office organization. There were a few of us who were teaming up to cover basic processes for a couple of months. As the situation unfolded, however, increased complications bombarded the well-intentioned plan, demanding a more permanent and cohesive solution.

The church’s administrator (secretary/financial systems manager) semi-retired a few months ago. In her semi-retired status, she was concentrating solely on the financial systems. The parish hired a part-time secretary a couple of months before the church administrator was due to change to her part-time schedule. Unfortunately, as soon as the administrator officially started coming into the office only two days a week, the newly hired part-time secretary resigned.

Our parish administrator agreed to return to a full-time schedule while we found a new person to take on the entire full-time parish administrator job. We did find someone, but she had some pre-existing commitments that would limit her availability during part of the transition time. Our retiring administrator devised a plan to transfer skills in both the secretarial and financial administrator arenas between June and September. This succession plan also involved training me so that there would be at least one other person with a pulse who knew the mysteries of the church’s financial software.

I love plans at least as much as the next person. There are those who would argue that I take planning to an absurd degree. However, I also have my own little motto- “Terri proposes, and God disposes.” Such was the case with this transition plan. Despite our best efforts, there were a series of disastrous events that caused the plan to crumble beneath its own weight :

The retiring administrator fell and smashed her elbow into a million pieces, requiring extensive surgery.
As soon as the retiring administrator recovered from her surgery, her husband was hospitalized with COVID.
One of the stalworth volunteers who had been helping to keep the train on track went on a boating trip and got stranded in the middle of some body of water somewhere due to mechanical problems.
The rector was on vacation.
The photocopier possessed (or is possessed by) some sort of evil, vindictive genius. It stopped working for nearly an entire week- probably in protest against the excessive number of revisions of the Sunday service bulletin documents that we copied the week before because we kept finding errors. It turns out that cutting and pasting changes into five or six separate documents is not as easy as you would think.
I learned that my eyes are spoiled by the 27” computer monitor we have at home. The 23” monitors in the church office are just not cutting it for me, especially as I sit behind the new hire and try to coach her through different processes.
The retiring parish administrator, overwhelmed by trying to keep the parish office operational, train new workers, and care for her husband, suddenly declared she was moving her “retirement full stop” date up by a month. Instead of disentangling herself from us in mid-September, she decided to leave in mid-August.
Certain key passwords retired along with our outgoing administrator. One especially important system required that I get a new password through snail mail. I am glad our government is concerned about protecting privacy, but this particular system has the clunkiest password parameters I have ever encountered. .

During this period of limbo, I tried to use what I learned in the approximately 7 hours of training the original administrator was able to give me on the financial workings of the parish before destroying her elbow. It made me nervous when people kept saying, “Terri knows the financial stuff.” Terri knew the foam, not the root beer. My claim to fame was that I was putting money in the bank and paying bills. Beyond that, I was uncomfortably aware of the limited depth of my knowledge. People kept telling me, “At least you are getting something done- anything you are able to do is better than nothing.” I am not so sure that is true. After 30+ years working in a financial-related field, I am all too aware that a person can easily know just enough to be dangerous.

As time has passed and I have had the opportunity to complete the routine financial operations several times I feel much more hopeful. The retiring parish administrator was able to come back to work for a few weeks after her surgery rehab, so I was able to reality check some of the things I did in her absence. Despite my misgivings, I had not done anything lethal to my church’s financial system. The original administrator was able to resolve the hanging chads of work I had left over from the prior couple of weeks. I managed to expand the number of hours I was in the office while she was still working so I could sop up every last bit of knowledge from her brain cells. Learning from her tutelage increased my feelings of accomplishment and confidence.

When the retiring parish administrator was in the office, I did not get involved with the Sunday service documents. This was probably a huge relief to everyone involved, I know it was a huge relief to me. I was even able to take a day off and go to the beach with a friend. I called from a beach cabana to see how things were going and if they needed me to come in and help the next day. In my book, if I am calling from a beach cabana, things are good. They told me all was well and there was no need for me to come in the next day.

I think I needed to “act my wage.” My wage is 10 times more than most volunteers. However, 10 times 0 is still 0. That would imply that I should be investing $0 in worrying about or taking responsibility for any of this. Still… it is hard for me not to give my all. Predictably, it is also hard for me to give my all and not reserve anything for myself. When a friend texted me on Friday night to report that the bulletin did not reflect the correct person giving the sermon, I wish I had been able to react with more understanding, urgency, and courtesy than I did. Sadly, I may have “acted my wage” during that encounter.

Now that our former parish administrator is officially retired, the new hire and I have been on our own. I am continuing to train the new hire in the financial administration duties. This has often been of dubious benefit since I was only about a half step ahead of her in knowledge. I found myself confusing her because I still had so many missteps. I took a week or so to just do the work so that I could more clearly direct her. It is truly a case of the “partially sighted leading the blind.” That axiom takes on a whole new meaning when the “partially sighted” person is trying to read tiny print on a tiny screen from much further away than her eyes can accommodate. We spent half an hour of mucking about yesterday because the field I thought said “date” actually said “deposit.”

Despite the struggles of the past few months, we are making great strides, and I am proud of our little administrative team. While I do not believe we have yet produced a perfect set of Sunday service documents, they are getting better each week. The new administrator is picking up the financial tasks with agility. A volunteer who has helped in the past with the secretarial part of the job has kindly offered to take over some of the work for a few days so that our new administrator can concentrate on solidifying her knowledge of the financial aspects of the job. We are all working well together. We treat each other patiently and kindly. We ask for grace as we learn, from each other and from our “customers”- the God and parishioners we serve. People are more important than perfect procedures. We pray a lot.

You may ask why I tangled myself up in all this. Is it my inability to say no that has expanded that “helping out one day a week” to 20-28 hours a week? I don’t think so. I believe that we have the right long-term solution for the future administration of our parish. The process of transitioning to a new office staff has been wracked with many unanticipated complications. With God’s help, we can resolve the complications and move forward. Because of that, I am willing to invest in the solution.

However, even if I am employable… I still don’t want a new job.

Did you take a new job in retirement? How has that been for you? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a productive day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

“Writing Blogs” Is Not The Same Thing As “Writing A Blog”

I expect that you are thinking that it has been uncharacteristically quiet in TerriLand recently. It is rare for me to go so long without new content. Truth be told, I am not sure that this really counts as “new content” either. It is more of a letter of apology or excuse… depending on how charitable you feel.

I try to make my blog posts relatable and genuinely honest. My goal is that the posts authentically demonstrate my real self and my thought processes. I believe my blog posts do reflect the state of my brain, which could be a very scary thought. Most of the time, the effort I put into examining what is on my mind and writing about it tends to resolve the general disorder and messiness of my interior world. Without this process, it would be much scarier to live inside my own head than it already is. By the time you read the blog post, I have pulled out that awful junk drawer inside my brain, carefully examined its contents, decided what to keep and what to throw away, and organized the remaining items. In my blog posts, I am able to show you the newly neat results of this effort to tidy my mind. Of course, just like with a junk drawer, my mind does not stay tidy for long, but my blog posts often reflect that one brief, shining moment in time when my brain does not look like the den of some demented squirrel.

Recently, though, I have not been able to declutter and organize my brain. There are so many ideas and analyses running amok in my gray matter and none of them will sit still long enough for examination. It is not writer’s block. I have no less than 5 blog posts in various stages of development. Problematically, “various stages” include “embryonic,” “infantile,” and “prepubescent.” None of these potential blog pieces are anywhere close to “adult.” It turns out that teasing around many blog posts doesn’t necessarily result in completing one publishable piece for the entertainment and edification of my readers- all three of them. Rather, the confusion in my brain that writing usually helps to order and inform is simply more cluttered with these bits and pieces of drivel. These wannabe blog posts are just more brain junk that needs to be moved out of the way when I am searching for something in there.

So while today’s post may not rise to the level of “content” and is certainly not my best work, there is an honesty about it. Today’s blog does authentically demonstrate my real self and my thought processes. It is just that recent life has fed my real life and thought processes lollipops for breakfast and then scrambled the whole mess up in a blender on “pulverize.”

Send help. Pray for me.

Have a clear-minded day!

Terri/Dorry 🙂

What do you do when you know you need to slow dawn and calm down in order to gain perspective? Please share your ideas by leaving comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.