Retirement

The List:

• Assemble your correspondence and transcribe it or scan to PDF.
• Do the same for medical records, to create a complete, accurate history of  surgeries, broken bones, etc.
• Fill out those darn forms: Living Will, Medical Power of Attorney, funeral plan, etc.
• Research your genealogy.
• Pick any topic you have been interested in and research it.
• Set up a portable hard drive to store shared files (music, recipes, photos, owner's manuals, tax returns ...).
• Digitize your photos and slides.
• Digitize your vinyl collection (I use an Ion turntable and EZ Vinyl Tape Converter).
• Create a catalog of your books, music, videos (I use libib.com)
• If you don't know how to do one (or all!) of the above, take a class or ask a friend.

The Reason:

This retirement thing is harder than it looks (my joke is that you never get a day off). But seriously ... when you retire you lose:

1. The site where you spent a big chunk of your day
2. The sense of purpose you got from your work
3. The gratification - or an excuse to complain!
4. A large chunk of your social network
5. A part of your identity
6. A reliable topic of conversation

That's a lot to grieve. On top of the losses, you get:

1. A narrowed focus on your spouse / partner / roommate - often not in a good way
2. Difficulty focusing on tasks
3. A sense of isolation

You can see the problems, right?

Steve and I have retired twice. The first time was in 2004, when his job moved to Sweden and left him behind. I was a self-employed graphic designer, so I could take my job on the road. We traveled a bit, I scaled back my client list, and we had some good times.

But mostly we played solitaire on our computers, bled money, picked fights and gained weight. So we both went back to work. He found a job as a delivery driver, and I found work at a copy shop. Neither of us was looking for a career (I found one, but that's a different story!).

When Steve was "let go" following a surgery that took extra time to heal, I continued working for another year. When I also retired, I'd had time to figure some things out, and realized some changes were necessary. So I was prepared to budget more carefully, plan meals more carefully, and shop less often.

I had a lot of good intentions, but mostly didn't keep them: all those ones about losing weight, exercising regularly, drinking less, saving more money: they pretty much died of neglect. I also had some health issues that made it difficult for me to commit to volunteering regularly, another retirement goal.

We have found a satisfying life together, but it's been challenging at times. Remember to keep talking, keep moving and keep learning. And tackle a new challenge from time to time, like one of those above!

Curriculum Vitae, 1968? – 1972

 In Tampa

I have a very poor memory of most of this time, so no exact dates are possible. I was living at my mother’s house, then later in a North Tampa concrete block duplex. Steve and I were living together for some of this.

I assembled sandwiches at a place called Stand N Snack. We were required to use precise quantities of meat and cheese (2 ounces, pre-packaged), making for a thin sandwich. Customers stood at the counter around the kiosk to eat their food.

I worked full-time as a unit clerk (ward clerk) at Tampa General Hospital, in the pediatrics unit. The work wasn’t difficult – mostly filing and answering the phone – but it was emotionally challenging. The head nurse was Miss Pennypacker. I was inadvertently called into an isolation room for a patient who had tuberculosis. Miss P was furious, and I had to get an extra TB titer test.

Our former next-door neighbor, Dottie Driggers, hired me to work at Tampa’s General Telephone & Electric (GTE) as a receiving clerk. My job was to open the envelopes that payments came in and verify the accuracy of the payment. I was one of several doing this task. The envelopes were pressed on edge into an 9x12 wooden stationery tray, so I believe there were 100 or more per tray. We were expected to complete several trays a day. If the check was made out to something other than GTE (“Mickey Mouse Telephone Company” for example) we were to change it, stamp it as received and put the checks in another basket for deposit. If the checks were incorrect in some way (e.g. not signed, or partial payment) they were put in a separate place. It was a tedious, drab and thankless job.

·    I was introduced to a wonderful piece of equipment: the telegraph machine. I was mostly tasked with receiving messages and sending back “ack” for “acknowledged.” I don’t remember what information was in those messages. It was probably something dull and ordinary, such as numbers of payments received. But I was gobsmacked by the technology!
·    One day I was late for work by nearly an hour; Daylight Savings Time had required us to “spring forward,” and I had missed it. Mrs. Driggers was incredulous. “Didn’t you go to church? Read the paper? Hear it on TV? On the radio?” No, no, no and no. We went nowhere; only listened to the new and wonderful “album rock” station on FM radio; didn’t take the paper or own a TV. The idea that we lived such a cloistered life was appalling (and unbelievable) to her.
• Steve came to pick me up after work one day. We were walking to the motorcycle when a young Black boy, maybe 10 years old, came alongside us and said something so quickly I couldn’t understand him. “What did you say?” I asked. Enunciating this time, he repeated “Suck a dick, lady?” I grabbed him by the hair on top of his head and slapped his face. How would you feel, I shouted, if somebody said that to your sister? Or your mother? He struggled to get away, crying and yelling, “You’ll be sorry! I’ll get my brothers!” “You do that,” I yelled back. “Get your mama, too, and tell her what you said to me!” He ran away, and Steve was eager to leave too, convinced that we were minutes away from a race riot. It was that time; riots were happening everywhere. I was filled with righteous indignation, and ready to do my part if fighting was called for, but I yielded and we drove home without incident. I never saw the child again.
• During this time, I was diagnosed with a stomach ulcer and prescribed Valium. I was to take it 4 times a day. I would take the morning pill, go to work, sit at my desk and fall fast asleep. Someone would wake me, and I would work – badly and slowly – until lunch. I would take my second pill after lunch, return to my desk and fall asleep within an hour. Mrs. Driggers would wake me, and I’d work until quitting time. It was awful.
• I left the job without notice, leaving a note in red ink on my desk: I quit. I’m ashamed I did that to Mrs. Driggers, a woman who did her best to advance me and help me be successful.

Moving to Miami

I stayed with my sister and her family in Kendall, then moved to another concrete block apartment in Naranja, a suburb of Miami. Some of these jobs I worked at the same time. The job at The Flick, for instance, was in the evenings, so during the day I worked at the local Honda shop and at The Flick afterward. After I quit there, I worked at U of M, and worked at The Flick before I went to my full-time job.

Steve and I didn’t live together in Miami. We were experimenting with being apart and seeing other people. He was drafted and went to Vietnam; I was lonely and depressed, and daily expected to hear of his death. I did see other men, but it was not a happy time. He sent me an allotment. I was supposed to save it; instead I used it to buy my bother-in-law Edgar’s CS450 Honda. I don’t think Steve has trusted me with money since. (But I loved that Honda!)

I was aunt and nanny to my sister’s boys, Martin and Jason. I love them dearly still! Martin was the first baby that I loved; he made me feel it was possible for me to be a mother. I had told Steve that I wanted a baby, but we both knew that was just hormones talking. Cheryle’s boys filled me with love and joy. I also acquired a pair of cats: a black and white female named Squeak, and an orange tabby named Charlie. They moved to Naranja with me.

I was hired as a receptionist at the Honda shop (Coral Gables Honda, maybe). It was boring, but I got a lot of fun from the job, mostly because of the guys and the bikes!

I worked at The Flick Coffeehouse as a waitress. It was a standard Beatnik-type coffeehouse: no talking during performances, the waitresses wore head-to-toe black, and everybody was desperately poor – except the customers. I had been a customer there many times before I took the job. It was amazing being around the near-famous. Steve Goodman, a Chicago bluesman, appeared there, as did Gamble Rogers (Florida has a state park named for him). I loved the music, and the tips were amazing.

• While working there, the gas tank was stolen off my motorcycle. I was furious – and had to call my sister for a ride home. (It occurs to me that maybe Steve’s brother or sister gave me a ride; I really can’t remember now!)
• I dumped a milkshake in the lap of a man who patted my ass. I apologized hypocritically, profusely. “You startled me! I’m so sorry!”

Steve drove me to apply for a job at the University of Miami, a private 4-year uni known for its beach, beer and babes focus. The job was as a receptionist in the men’s dorm from midnight until 7:30am. I was 20. I was hired. It was hard to stay awake, but it was very entertaining. I dated a guy, Bob Rhynearson (Rhino), who told me he had a motorcycle back home in Connecticut. He invited me to go see “Gawn Widda Win.” He had to repeat it several times, and explain it was the famous movie about the Civil War, before I interpreted his offer. I accepted. We had a couple more dates, but the attraction fizzled. On Halloween, an apparition came down the stairs: a red-haired young man, dressed only in a white T-shirt which was pulled over his face and head. He was making a ghostly “woooo” noise. This had to be a dare. I started giggling, and soon I was laughing uncontrollably. His skin flushed red from his neck down over his chest, and he fled upstairs. Other than that, the young men were mostly respectful of me.

• When Steve came to pick me up after my interview, I didn’t recognize him. He had gotten a shave and haircut, in preparation for reporting to the Selective Service. I had never seen his chin.
• Steve Goodman, from The Flick, came to see me there. He tried to cajole me into sex by telling me he had leukemia and would be dead soon. I was cynical and contemptuous, and refused when I might have agreed. But he did; and he was, dying more than a decade later in 1984.

Retracing my steps

After 6 months in Naranja, I moved back to my sister’s apartment. I was desperately lonely, and disliked Miami. I no longer had a job, and I was more burden than help.

Steve’s brother Charlie and his friend Frank Carrier were riding north, so I decided I would ride with them as far as Yeehaw Junction, then turn west to Tampa and my mother’s house. The trip was a mistake from the start. I didn’t sleep well, or at all, really. We started half a day – almost a whole day - late, because the guys had gotten stoned and slept really well. On the turnpike, I ran out of gas between gas stations, and the solution was found, that one of the guys would take my gas tank back to the nearest station and fill it. They did. But when I re-mounted it on the Honda, I pinched that throttle cable wide open. When I started the bike, it screamed! It took me a while to figure the problem out and find a solution. I told Charlie and Frank to go ahead – they were supposed to meet up with someone and I didn’t want to delay them any more than I had.

I finally got back on the road, but by this time I was stressed and sleepy; I had been awake about 30 hours. Highway 60 seemed to go on forever, and I couldn’t stay awake. I dozed off and woke up in a gravel patch just east of Lake Wales, with my front wheel against a telephone pole. I wasn’t hurt, but I couldn’t go on. I found a phone and called Mom. She sent her husband Eddie to retrieve me. We put the Honda in the trunk, and I slept all the way home. It felt like defeat.

Platform: Introduction and Health Care

The Peggy Party Platform:

Introduction
I'm writing these as though for a political party platform. Any reader is welcome to revise them, embrace them, excoriate them, share them, etc. Topics in my mind so far include health care, housing, jobs, infrastructure, climate change and minimum wage. If you are particularly keen on any one of these, please feel free to draft something; I'll post it here and give you complete credit. I'm not going to footnote and document these. I'm just going to write them, to start a conversation. All the research and details can come later. Cool? Cool.

Health Care
Overview
The concepts on which this is based are inclusion; simplification for citizens, providers and government; cost savings; comprehensive and complete care; and reduction of over-prescribing (opiods aren't the only over-prescribed drugs, just the most devastating). While it is important to allow choice, it is also important to restrict excessive use of resources. This is socially inflammatory and medically difficult territory. As a general rule, the system should lead with "yes." "No" should require rigorous, medically-based (as opposed to politically-based) defense. Now, to the specifics:

1. Universal
The health care pool must be universal. This concept is based on simple, foundational principles: we are one, for everybody. We are an egalitarian society. We have passed legislation guaranteeing equal access for everyone, and health care should be no exception.

When I say everyone, that's exactly what I mean. Veterans should be included, and have access to health care anywhere; dismantling the VA health care system will result in some savings. The Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) manages a health care system for the First Nations; as you may imagine, it is less than excellent. So Indigenous People must be included. Dismantling that system will also result in savings. Medicare patients select a provider for Medicare Part B, the "regular doctor" portion of Medicare, so they should also be included.

This idea should be applied to any specialized, separate health care system, including the care currently provided to members of the armed forces and to Congress.

2. Single Payer
Currently, health care in the US is a siloed system: if you are a member of Group A, you can only go to Group A doctors and must be admitted to Group A hospitals, even if Group B's hospital is just next door, and has a better reputation.

The burden of managing these requirements is shared with physician's offices, who often employ someone just to navigate the complexities of approvals, referrals and payments.

With single payer, this is removed. Hospitals may be chosen, or may be allocated based on facilities and equipment available, or where a particular specialist prefers to practice. The doctor and patient together choose a specialist; the hospital results from where that specialist practices, or equipment needed, or surgical suite available when needed.

3. Women's Health
All decisions regarding a woman's heath are between her and her doctor.

4. Inclusive, Holistic
Since dental and vision care, including dentures and glasses, cannot be separated from the health of a citizen, those items will be included. Mental and social* health care will also be covered completely, by licensed providers. This will further reduce out-of-pocket costs for patients, since these items are seldom completely covered. Prescriptions will also be covered. If requested by the primary care physician (PCP), "alternative" care such as acupuncture, massage, chiropractic, etc. will also be covered. If needed, transportation will be covered.
* Social health may be thought of in terms of questions now asked: do you feel safe in your living situation? how much exercise do you get? It may also be enlarged to include: how often do you visit friends? Do you have regular social activities such as religious meetings, clubs or hobbies? What do you need to help you enjoy these activities?

5. Payment
Nothing will be charged at any time for any services or products prescribed by the citizen's primary care provider.

6. Administration
This system is predicated on everyone having a PCP to monitor prescriptions, manage care and keep track of the citizen's overall well-being. Each citizen will visit their PCP every two years during the month of their birth; after retirement, every year. The visit will include blood work, medication review, vision check, dental check, and such tests as physical ability, EKG, Pap smear, etc., depending on the PCP's recommendation.

Medical records will be digitized and available online to doctor and patient, and for review by local, state-based medical boards, which will oversee the performance of doctors and handle any complaints. These boards should probably be elected bodies of a mandated mix of medical providers, medical administrators and general population.

In order to assure the greatest choice, higher tier services such as elective surgery, private hospitals and "rock star" doctors will of course be available, the cost to be determined by the market.

Comments?
Please comment below. Keep it respectful, please, and be aware that deriding other viewpoints is seldom helpful.

Dreaming New York

In my dreams there are several houses I may visit.* The one I visited this morning is on the banks of the Niagara River, a palatial home with park-like grounds. It has three floors, the third mostly unfinished. It is the house where my Grandfather Peck lived "with his second wife."

I arrived at this house with my sister, by a circuitous route that included a visit to some sort of medical professional (for her) and included a side-excursion to a basement room where the staff was doing some sort of installation which Cheryle insisted on helping with. Contrarily, as dreams can be, I was the nay-sayer, the cautioner, telling her of dire results if she was less than perfect, or even mildly unlucky. As in real life (sigh), she ignored me and did as she would.

The final test of the installation was conducted: a clever device that sped along on magnetic rails, ultimately crashing through to the restaurant next door, where it destroyed 20 tables' worth of china and crystal - and brought us into my grandfather's house.

We dined in the dining room (on left-over pork chops my husband actually did cook last night) and then went outside to sit on what must have been a boat launch into the Niagara River. Our heels were scraping on crusted ice, but the night was warmish (back in reality, the temperature was climbing toward the 80s). Suddenly waves washed over us, and we were drenched.

Back in the dining room, we were wrapped in blankets and clucked over. Two of the diners came toward us: Sr. Mary Sicilia, dead for years, and The Rev. Alice Scannell, still alive, if not kicking, as far as I know. They were very concerned about our getting wet; we were nonchalant. It was a lovely surprise, and we chatted, and I woke up.

For the record:

1. My grandfather never lived (as far as I know) in upstate New York. 
2. My mother, however, is buried in Brewster, NY, on the grounds of the Community of the Holy Spirit, to which The Rev Alice and Sr. Mary Sicilia also belong. Am I being haunted? 
3. While other diners were nonplussed by our bringing our own food (those chops were delicious!), the staff were okay with it, since we were at home. Sort of.
4. No, I didn't wet the bed, but the water was warm.
5. I really wish my readers could see this house. You approach through a rather nice suburb, when you are suddenly in a park, with a variety of deciduous trees, carefully spaced and impeccably groomed and cared for. There are few flowers, until you reach a turn in the path; then the park gives way to flowering shrubs - azaleas, jasmine, roses, and many more - each in its own vast bed, surrounded by graveled paths and lush lawns. Then the house: a brilliant marble facade, with sturdy pillars holding up the main floor. First is the garage/basement entrance, a cavernous space of shadows and cool concrete. Circling past it, you come to the grand staircase and the main entrance. Turning, you realize the house is built on a bluff, and below you is spread the village, the shops, and the shining river. Inside is even better.

*None of them, alas, are Manderley: https://strandmag.com/the-magazine/articles/daphne-du-mauriers-rebecca/

To breakfast

When I went out this morning, the yard was full of fat robins, prospecting for the emoluments of a weather break. I was going to a friend's house, and we were going to breakfast together. Her yard was full of crows, cawking derisively and only reluctantly clearing a path for my car.

This day was for the birds, it seems.

We were contrary, though, and went to Country Cat. We both had eggs Benedict with shaved ham, and coffee. She had a cough, and a Bloody Mary. The drink was lunch: a thin slice of jerky, green beans, an olive - I don't know what all! It was an amazing drink.

But the conversation, the connection, was the best.

Like so many people I know, she's better than she thinks she is, more skilled, more gifted, more aware. She knows herself better than she likes to admit.

I sometimes wish these old eyes could be shared
so you could see yourself as I see you,
your shining intelligence, your passion, your heart.
Maybe then you'd have the courage
to reach for the job, the partner, the life
that would bring fulfillment, peace and joy.

What I did in writing class

The writing class I have begun is called "Writing from the Heart," and I believe it will be a good class for me. I'm an undisciplined writer, and this class creates a sort of "free discipline," if that makes sense. We critique the words, not the writer, and that will be good as well (I'll maybe learn to be less judgy!).

We started with a 2-page guidelines document, followed by a 2-page "inspiration" document, with poetry from Mary Oliver. (If I can, I'll insert them at the end of this.)

These are the two pieces I wrote. I may not post everything I write every time; some of it may be too personal, and some of it may simply be too awful. But here you go:

Writing 1

Death will come for you, I told my husband, my love, in 5 years or 10 years or 15 years. But it will come, and sooner than you expect, because death is like that.

He thought I had called him lazy or incompetent. I had not. I was just frustrated with his idleness when I asked for his help.

I’d had my own telegram from death, you see, a mere six months before. He knocked on the door and delivered the message:

            “All lives are as the grass.”

I retired so I could decide for myself how those weeks? months? years? could be used. I no longer wanted to sell my days for dollars.

I’d rather be hungry and free, because I have been hungry before, and not free.

I’d rather be cold, and free, because I have been chilled before, and not free.

Being a wage slave to a distant master makes for a narrow life, and I want a life that is as wide as prairie, as tall as sky, mobile and graceful and relentless as water.

So when death delivered that telegram I paid attention. I wish I’d done it when I was younger, but I didn’t, so I must do it now, before I’m older.

Here’s a wave at death, here’s a nod to mortality. Here’s a step into the wide prairie.

Writing 2

I remember a house with a hole in the wall. On the other side of the hole was a cousin.

The next house I remember was home – open, airy, wood floors, fine furnishings. It was my mother’s dream, a small suburban dream that turned dark. His tax fraud, her polio, my birth – it’s hard not to think I was the final, third thing that brought the end to all good things.

I try not to think that way. I try not to remember the men inventorying our possessions, taking our home.

The next home: a smaller, darker suburban dream, one with no daddy, except as a sporadic visitor. Almost as soon as we moved in: a hurricane (Donna), the floor tiles floating up, and my personal catastrophe, Raggedy Ann with mildew freckles, lying in the garbage can. How daunting it must have been for my mother, her new beginning flooded and ruined.

She resurrected it though, with new flooring, white, instead of dark brown; new furniture, light instead of dark; and more windows, more sunlight. We never had another disaster in 15 years of living until her health failed.

Then I inventoried our possessions, sold or shipped the goods, and brought Mom to my home. It was an old house, large and dark, but her room always seemed full of light, the children drawn to it like moths to candles. She lived in pain, but always tried to stay in light as well. Sometimes she failed, but she always tried.

I owe her that lesson: the dark can’t win as long as you seek the light. She never taught me how to be married, though – I learned that for myself. Home now is small but light, brimming with love and sunlight.

This "Retirement" thing I'm doing

"So, how's retirement going?" I've had several people ask me, so I thought I'd try a recap.

It started with a truly great party on Saturday, 1/14, thrown by the best boss I've ever had, Jeff. It wasn't as well attended as we thought, because there was a monster ice storm/deep freeze/snowpocalypse in Portland. But a good number of dear friends struggled in, and I felt all the warmth of their friendship. And scotch. Can't forget the scotch!

On Monday, I entered into what may be an endless, ongoing ground war with Medicare. I haven't prevailed, but there appears to be a chance that all will be well. Maybe.

The first week (1/15-21) was housekeeping: a mammogram, a doctor visit, two trips to the dentist. For fun, there was Theology Pub, where we had as a guest a woman who had assisted with the translation of the Bible into the Hawaiian pidgin language. The week was topped by brunch at Salty's with Teddie and Martin, where we drank prodigious amounts of mimosas and enjoyed some wonderful food and conversation.

The second week (1/22-28) began with us hosting coffee hour at church. One of my favorite things is feeding people! More medical followed during the week: the eye doctor, this time. And Steve and I began the delicate negotiations around space, time and chores. (This was also my week of Twitter & Facebook political hysteria.) Then Steve fell ill, so some of my outside activities were constrained; he needed my help. But he was well enough by Friday that I could go host the car campers at our church, St. Anne's in Washougal (stanneswa.wixsite.com/stanneswa). We open the church's fellowship hall every day for 2 hours, so our guests can come in, wash up, cook dinner and socialize. We have 2 or 3 car campers and 3 tiny houses ("homies") on our property. Steve and I will share hosting most Friday evenings.

Now, in the third week (1/29-2/4), I have begun living my true life. I started going to a book group, where we're reading 1984, and I began attending a writing class, "Writing from the Heart." And I've returned to this blog. I've also recognized how important homelessness is to me; it seems to rise to the surface every day, in one way or another. I may have found my "cause."

The book group, the writing class and the car camping program are all connected to my church, but are not "religious" activities. If you are unchurched because church has nothing to offer you, you may want to reconsider. Yes, some of these obligations are a pain in the ass; but many feed my spirit in vital ways, ways I couldn't easily access without the benefit of congregation.

So that's how retirement goes: like any new venture, good days and bad; idle days and busy days; active days and days for introspection.