Shopping

Since I’ve retired I do most of the grocery shopping. We try to eat “right” so I buy mostly locally produced organic food. Around here, that means going to a health food store in Burlington that is big enough, and with sufficient variety, that I can get almost everything in one spot.

I like it. The shelves are not in neat rows but are at angles that create the illusion of curves that defy my ability to construct a path between familiar products. Even after months of two or three shopping trips each, I sometimes have to ask where I might find a needed item. It’s something different every time and the variety of experience appeals to me.

Yesterday I was curious about goat cheese. (Who hasn’t been there?)

“What can you tell me about goat cheese?” I asked the woman behind the counter. Young, like most of the staff, she exuded a nonjudgmental aura reminiscent of the 60’s. In fact, most of the staff evoked a neo-hippy culture, with their yin and yang tattoos and novel hairstyles. It is almost as if our children – who rebelled by becoming young republicans – had their own rebels.

“I can tell you lots about goat cheese!” she replied and proceeded to show me all the products with explanations rife with comparisons to cow’s milk cheeses and adjectives like “creamy, rich,” and “yummy.” She was round faced and stocky in an almost maternal way, accented by her colorful peasant blouse and apron.

Thanking her, I selected three different cheeses that she had been most effusive about and continued to seek out the rest of the stuff on my list.

When I had finished shopping, I wheeled my cart to the checkout counter. There was no line so I began by putting the items I had selected, frozen first followed by produce and then fragile items as usual.

The young woman behind the register, a slender blond, was not someone I had seen before but with the requisite irreverent pleasantness I had come to expect. The staff does not wear name tags and I don’t want to ask so we’ll just call her Nora.

“If you give me those, Jonah will bag for you.” She said, referring simultaneously to the reusable sacks I always take and to the bearded young man who had appeared at the end of her counter.

I complied and Nora began to tally up my purchases and slide them to Jonah who placed them into the bags.

“Could I also get the senior discount?” I asked as she continued.

“Of course.”

From my right I heard Jonah say to someone behind me, “I can take you on that register down there,” leaving the counter littered with the remaining items.

“I bet you feel abandoned now,” I joked to Nora.

“Yes, well, it happens all the time, feeding my neurosis, and yet – I keep coming back.” a wry grin playing across her lips.

“Everyone’s a little neurotic.”

“I suppose.” She said as the register made a loud “Boing!” indicating that the skew on the item hadn’t properly registered.

“Can you imagine what it would be like to be completely sure of yourself? There’d be no challenges.”

Brightening a bit, “Challenges are good,” she replied.

A young woman who was multiply tattooed and pierced had materialized to replace the unfaithful Jonah, added. “Yeah, and most of those people are jerks!”

“Do you want this beer in a bag?” Nora asked referring to the six pack of Belhaven I had placed on the conveyer.

“Nah, I’m just going to drink it in the parking lot.”

“Hah,” Her laugh erupted as if suppressed just under the surface. “You’re awake for this time of day – come through my line anytime!”

Home by Another Way

Someone always knows another way to get you where you’re going. It’s always shorter, faster, less “trafficky,” or in some way better than the route you foolishly chose.

In our most recent example some people at a party in Bridgewater – nearly all flatlanders*- knew a way through the woods that would get us back to our campground in Plymouth more efficiently than the boring, albeit paved, way that had gotten us there.

At the end of the party or rather, at the point when my party gene receded, we made our good byes and humored our hosts by attempting to find the suggested road. We did this in spite of mention of a five-way intersection and promises that “you can’t miss it.”

We missed the five-way intersection; unless a couple of abandoned logging roads count. The road twisted up through a stand of hardwoods and narrowed as the height of the grass at its middle increased. At the top of a steep incline the road leveled and widened a bit and the land that abutted it changed to pasture.

Our headlights caught a pair of eyes and I came to a quick stop that drew a cloud of dust around the car. A large doe looked at us from where she had been feeding at the base of a gnarly apple tree. Across the road from her, another smaller deer bounded into the pasture and disappeared into a flash of white. The doe, transfixed by our lights, looked in our direction for a few seconds before leaping a small ditch and disappearing in the opposite direction.

We started up again and a few minutes later, the road became paved.

“This is a good sign.” I said to Renée who agreed.

Shortly after that, the road became gravel again.

I was beginning to suspect we would spend what remained of the night exploring the maze of roads that checkered the woods between Bridgewater and Plymouth. At about the point where suspicion was turning into despair a cemetery appeared at the right side of the road.

“I know where we are! That’s Coolidge’s grave.”

“I think you’re right,” Renée answered.

Buoyed by the landmark we continued down the road that I knew intersected Route 100 and that would take us to Coolidge State Park and our camper.

“Gives new meaning to the phrase “Keep cool with Coolidge,” we agreed.


*Anyone not from Vermont – even if it’s Colorado. This is only relevant because in this case the flatlanders were, for the most part, transplanted from New York or New Jersey, capital of the “another way” school.

Track Days

John sometimes jokingly refers to himself as “Racer John.” He was truly a racer in his youth, racing small motorcycles on dirt courses wherever his more practical wanderings took him. These days there is a hint of irony in the phrase as he no longer races competitively.
John keeps his hand in by attending something called “track days.” There are organizations that sponsor these events at racetracks around the country. At some point since the moto-cross days, John switched to superbikes so he usually goes to New Hampshire Motor Speedway in Loudon New Hampshire. This is a paved track. Among other things, it hosts two NASCAR races annually. It is a serious venue.
Track days are not competitive in the sense that anyone gets a trophy; however, riders are taught how to improve their times. For an additional fee there are various options like electronic timing and video cameras that attach to the motorcycles so the rider’s performance can be analyzed. Participants range from serious racers familiarizing themselves with the track or new equipment, to middle-agers whose partners gave them the day for their birthday. While they do not race each other, they all go as fast as they dare or, for the brave, the equipment will allow.
Recently I joined John for a couple of days at the track. On these occasions, my duties are simple and few: help lug tools and unload the motorcycle, time a few laps, help free him from the protective suit. (The suits, each costing hundreds of dollars, are a requirement. They are made of Kevlar, synthetic canvas, and hard rubber. Drivers conform to them rather than the other way around and, depending on the design, can be difficult to get out of.)
This time it is hot and sunny so I spend a lot of time under the cover of the garage. I am not alone as classes based on experience divide track time. As a result, only a third of the riders are on the track at any moment. For every rider there are also one or two people playing roles similar to mine. There are girlfriends and wives in the mix and there are an increasing number of women riders.
I tend to notice the women because – well I’m a guy – but also because they are a minority in this male dominated sport. One of the things I noticed is that the younger women, who invariably dress for appeal, seemed preoccupied and bored. By contrast the (relatively,) older women are involved and in many cases ride when their class is called. In one family the riders are in different classes, apparently by design, as they have two pre-teens that they take turns supervising.

I spent a fair amount of time speculating on the differing reactions of the women but came to no conclusions. It may be so simple as the relationships that last, last because the partners adapt to the interests of the other. There are almost certainly successful relationships in which the disinterested partner stays home but that is its own adaptation.

Reunion

Recently I attended my 45th anniversary, high school reunion. I knew I had been to an earlier reunion but wasn’t sure which. Someone at the reunion dinner reminded me it had been the 25th; having taken it upon herself to know such things.

I am not sure why I decided to go. I was not on the “A” list in a school that had a caste system stronger than most. (Most people feel that way about their high school but there were factors in our town related to the town’s industries that made the boundaries clear.) My fantasy of the reunion was that it would be the same, except populated by older people. This perception was fueled by the earlier reunion where the boundaries, albeit weakened, persisted. Sample exchange:

“You don’t know who I am, do you?”

“Frankly, I don’t care that much.”

I have noticed that the older I get though, the more urgency I feel to reconnect with my roots. I have recently revived an interest in genealogy. Internet social networks have created opportunities to reconnect with people to reminisce or check my own recollections of this incident or that. In that context, I suppose it makes sense I would risk subjecting myself to a bit of angst in exchange for the opportunity to revisit a milieu that had been a part of my formative years.

Renée and I decided to camp in the area and arrived the night before the reunion. This gave us the chance to attend the alumni day parade. It was a typical small town parade with a couple of bands, fire trucks and an assembly of amateurish floats. I was pleased to see that my class had obviously gone to considerable effort to put together a professional looking Chinese dragon, borne by a dozen or so classmates.

After the parade, we visited the graves of family members, taking advantage of our rare presence in the area. I noted dates of birth and death in order to facilitate likely genealogical research and clarified in my mind my relationship to the bones.

The primary reunion event was a dinner dance at a local veteran’s club. After carefully dressing to communicate a message somewhere between “I’ve done pretty well for myself” and “I’m comfortable among you.” we arrived fashionably late.

Immediately on entering the hall Kenny, an A lister, loudly greeted us: “It’s Stu!”
It would have been a surprising to be announced in this fashion by someone so far up the social ladder but Kenny and I had run into each other when we were both in the army. The army has a way of equalizing people.

On Kenny’s greeting, many people turned to see us and waved or nodded in our direction. Most returned to conversations already in progress but a couple came over and made their “helloes” before heading to banquet tables.

Barb, who had sent most of the correspondence about the reunion, provided us with nametags and gave me a hug with the comment, “I wasn’t sure I’d recognize you.” (I’m not sure she did, since Kenny had blown any anonymity we might have chosen for ourselves. I was none-the-less grateful for the greeting and began to relax. )

We mingled for a few minutes, chatting tentatively with people I recognized, mostly from their nametags, as people I had known nearly half a century earlier. After establishing the basics: What have you been doing? Where do you live now? The conversations were the same as if meeting a total stranger, attempting to find the common ground.

Someone announced that we should find seats because the staff was ready to serve. There was no assigned seating so a treasure hunt began for a table with the right number of empty seats and, hopefully, with someone that we could compatibly spend a couple of hours. We found adjacent chairs next to a couple we had spoken to earlier and some others at the large, round table. Most were classmates who I recognized or their spouses who I did not. Most of my class apparently went elsewhere for intimacy.

While we waited, there was some general conversation and a number of people seemed to be working the room. They moved from table to table chatting with anyone not otherwise engaged.

Kenny, was one of those and he came over pulling up an empty seat to face Renée and me. I introduced Renée to him and he looked at her with an earnest expression on his face.“You know when was the last time I saw this guy?” he asked.“No, when.”“I was stationed in Vietnam and just had to get out of the place. I had a furlough so I wanted to take a flight anywhere – you could do that then - any place a military flight was going just so long as you could get back in time. Anyway, the usual places were Australia or the Philippines - somewhere like that. I lucked out and there was a flight to Hawaii so I jumped at the chance.”

He went on.“So here I am at Fort Derussey, which is a recreation post for guys on leave. (Image above) It’s right on Waikiki, and I’m wandering around wondering what am I gonna do. So guess who do I run into after five years?”“Stu?” Renée replied.“Yup. It’s a small world! After that, I rented a little MG Midget and Stu was good enough to show me around the island. Went up on the North shore, over the Pali – remember that stand of bamboo, Stu - had a great time.”Shortly after this exchange Kenney stood to return to his seat as the meals had started to be served.

“Nice guy,” Renée said.

“Yes,” I said, feeling thanked.

Friday Night Vinters

A couple of months ago my neighbor Scott and I were chatting on the lawn between our driveways. He’s an IT guy but his passion is brewing so we were talking about the hops he was training to climb his garage. During the conversation, I mentioned that Renée and I were thinking of growing some grapes.

“Me too. We could make wine.” Scott responded.

Renée and I had been having the grape conversation that morning. I knew where the seed catalog was and retrieved it. Within half an hour we had decided which grapes we would get, not based on anything we knew about the wine they would produce, but simply because they were the most hardy. Living where we do it was an important consideration.

During the time we waited for the arrival of the grapes there were planning sessions.
Most of these have occurred on Friday nights in our garage which – and this is a generous appraisal on many counts – has a view overlooking the vineyard. In spite of being neighbors for many years, we haven’t spoken much beyond the “Hi how you doin’?” level so we have enjoyed getting acquainted.

During these we have carefully measured the section of lawn we had chosen to make sure we had enough room for the few plants we had ordered. We talked about the equipment we would need. We talked about the actual process of turning grapes into wine. Grandiosely, we talked about what to name the wines and label design. Often the conversation strays from wine. Joyce, Scott’s wife, is a talented vegan chef (http://www.beautifullivingfood.blogspot.com/) and she has shared some of her incredible desserts.

Because none of us is particularly knowledgeable about wines, we have sampled several – OK many – in the course of these planning sessions. We are also saving the bottles in anticipation of future need so you could say we’re multi-tasking.

Scott and I took a series of lectures at a local vineyard so we’ve been playing with the language: “Should we use high cordons or the fan system?” kind of stuff. We think it’s probably quite impressive. (More on the seminars in a future submission.) Perhaps because of the extensive wine sampling we find critical to our vineyard operation, the conversation can get –let’s say- edgy. Joyce, who is delightfully open, will reveal some foible she imagines herself to have and Scott will say, “Joyce, he has a blog!”

Truthfully, Joyce has become one of our heroes. Since we have known her Joyce has gone through some changes. Changes reminiscent of something I read about Celtic druidism being a search for inner peace and happiness for those with the courage to “see, hear, and feel differently.” (http://www.druidschool.com/ ) It has been a privilege to witness.
As Scott would say, “I’m just sayin’”

You may ask yourself...

My buddy John and I got tickets to see David Byrne. Actually, John got one for his birthday. When his daughter Annie found out I also liked Byrne she got me one too. Byrne was touring in support of a new CD, “Everything that happens will happen today.”

The venue was a large field adjacent to the Shelburne Museum. (The museum is a village of 18th and 19th century buildings moved to the site for their historical or architectural significance.) A pamphlet that came with the tickets said to bring beach chairs rather than standard models so that views of the stage, set up at the bottom of a gentle slope, would be unobstructed. We found a likely spot not too far from the stage and set up the required chairs. Mine was a borrowed wooden version that, folded differently, doubled as a backpack frame.

The concert started on time as the crowd continued to trickle in. Folks either sat, mostly in compliance with the “chair rule,” or stood at the edges as a Higher Ground (promoter,) announcer had suggested. As the concert continued and got livelier folks started to rise up out of their seats to dance, applaud, or (and this may be just me,) restore circulation to their lower extremities.

David Byrne is a veteran performer who honed his chops in the 70’s as front man for Talking Heads. His fan base includes a healthy dose of baby boomers including early ones like myself who are – let’s just admit it – not as spry as we once were. (Byrne himself is in his late fifties but still seems pretty spry.)

It had been raining the previous week and the ground was soft. The wooden chair I was in sank to its seat leaving me on the ground, albeit with a backrest. This made getting up a challenge involving rolling over onto my knees and bolting upright from there. Looking around, I saw that I wasn’t alone in that. Think: adults in sort of a septuagenarian parody of Woodstock. You know - rolling around on the ground.

Nor was the soft ground/low chair problem the only source of Woodstock reference. There was the pretty twenty-something skipping through the crowd arms extended as though attempting to take flight. There were also blankets, beer coolers, snow fence barriers, porta-potties and the sweet smell of marijuana; all enough to put one in nostalgic overload.

In short, the evening was a blast. The music was great, enhanced by a bit of effective theater provided by a small cast of dancers, and the mood of the crowd was upbeat and celebratory. Of course, there is the problem of “Burnin’ down the house” still running through my brain a week later. As Annie told me in an e-mail though, “It could be so much worse.”

This blog is about what someone does in retirement. While I may choose to reminisce about things that occurred before, I will try to constrain myself to topics of interest to folks “of a certain age,” or at least folks with some leisure time and the resources to enjoy it. The blog is not a “how to.” I have no special wisdom about financial planning, RV repair, fly-fishing or using malls as exercise venues, even though I’ve done all those things and may choose to write about them.

One of the things I do in retirement is write. You may choose music, or art, or genealogy. Because I write though, these essays may sometimes try to look into the meaning of whatever I’ve decided to explore. Sometimes I’ll try to be funny or informative or simply vent about whatever irritates me on the day I decide to make a submission.

The underlying message about all these pieces is that retirement is not about sitting around waiting to be entertained or, worse yet, waiting for the grim reaper. We all pretty much design and build our own world so, to some extent, this is about a construction job. Me, constructing the rest of my life.