KOA Campground
Fayetteville NC
John just got back from walking the dog in the RV park's dog run. There were a bunch of kids there. One of them said "There's not a lot to do in here." Then another one brightened up and said, "Will your dog do tricks?"
Friday, October 10, 2008
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
That Kind of Day
Cape Hatteras National Seashore
Outer Banks, NC
It’s the kind of day where you put a sweatshirt on over your pajamas for your morning coffee. You take a shower and get dressed, then put your sweatshirt on to walk the dog.
Coming back in for that second cup of coffee, you don’t bother to take your sweatshirt off, and before you know it, you’ve worn that shirt inside, outside, driving, exploring, lunching, shopping and walking the dog again.
It’s a sweatshirt kind of day.
The sky is a riot of kites. The ocean teams with windsurfers and sailboats. Parasailors launch themselves from water to heaven and back again. People with cameras litter the shores, trying to capture the pageantry. Everybody wears sweatshirts except the ones in wetsuits.
It’s useless to comb your hair. The gusts are non-stop. The sun competes with the wind for your soul: one warms you up, the other cools you off. As a result, you are neither hot nor cold. But your nose is almost icy and you find yourself sniffling a little.
It’s not a fall day, at least not the kind of fall I know. No leaves have turned, except for one variety of sea grass, so no fall colors are apparent. You don’t smell fire, or autumn decay anywhere. You smell beach, salty, clean and crisp.
You don’t wear fall clothes. You’re still in flip-flops, although you’ve traded your shorts for jeans. You’ve pulled on the usual tee shirt, but over it you’re wearing a sweatshirt.
It’s that kind of day.
It’s the kind of day you drive 40 miles just to look at a lighthouse. You stop on the way back at a crab shack for lunch and discover that the food is beyond delicious. Then you jump on your bike and look for things to photograph. You buy a new pair of your favorite sandals just because they’re on sale.
You launch your kite, only to have the wind whip it relentlessly about, and watch helplessly as it winds itself around and around the one the only lamp pole within a thousand yards of where you’re standing. And you abandon it there, because it’s kind of pretty and you think others will enjoy it while it lasts.
That’s the kind of day I’ve had. A sweatshirt kind of day.
Camp Hatteras
Outer Banks, NC
It’s the kind of day where you put a sweatshirt on over your pajamas for your morning coffee. You take a shower and get dressed, then put your sweatshirt on to walk the dog.
Coming back in for that second cup of coffee, you don’t bother to take your sweatshirt off, and before you know it, you’ve worn that shirt inside, outside, driving, exploring, lunching, shopping and walking the dog again.
It’s a sweatshirt kind of day.
The sky is a riot of kites. The ocean teams with windsurfers and sailboats. Parasailors launch themselves from water to heaven and back again. People with cameras litter the shores, trying to capture the pageantry. Everybody wears sweatshirts except the ones in wetsuits.
It’s useless to comb your hair. The gusts are non-stop. The sun competes with the wind for your soul: one warms you up, the other cools you off. As a result, you are neither hot nor cold. But your nose is almost icy and you find yourself sniffling a little.
It’s not a fall day, at least not the kind of fall I know. No leaves have turned, except for one variety of sea grass, so no fall colors are apparent. You don’t smell fire, or autumn decay anywhere. You smell beach, salty, clean and crisp.
You don’t wear fall clothes. You’re still in flip-flops, although you’ve traded your shorts for jeans. You’ve pulled on the usual tee shirt, but over it you’re wearing a sweatshirt.
It’s that kind of day.
It’s the kind of day you drive 40 miles just to look at a lighthouse. You stop on the way back at a crab shack for lunch and discover that the food is beyond delicious. Then you jump on your bike and look for things to photograph. You buy a new pair of your favorite sandals just because they’re on sale.
You launch your kite, only to have the wind whip it relentlessly about, and watch helplessly as it winds itself around and around the one the only lamp pole within a thousand yards of where you’re standing. And you abandon it there, because it’s kind of pretty and you think others will enjoy it while it lasts.
That’s the kind of day I’ve had. A sweatshirt kind of day.
Camp Hatteras
Monday, October 6, 2008
A Great Site
Memo to all my friends who are younger than I am. Which is just about everybody. Don't wait until retirement to plan your retirement. No, this is not about the money. I don't have any, so why would I know about that? Finances you'll have to manage on your own.
I'm suggesting that now is the time to take a look at some of the wonderful places to retire. Even if you'll never leave Tarrytown -- and I don't blame you -- there are some wonderful places to visit in this country, and you can find them easily by googling retirement sites on the Internet.
And just coincidentally, I'm writing a series of articles for www.topretirements.com Not the observations and musings I'm putting on this blog. This series is grownup writing, and actually contains useful information. So consider this a shameless plug, and an unapologetic and unsubtle hint to visit the site.
Look for me at t http://www.topretirements.com/tips/Adventurous_Retirements/Living_the_Mobile_Lifestyle_in_Retirement.html
Betty
I'm suggesting that now is the time to take a look at some of the wonderful places to retire. Even if you'll never leave Tarrytown -- and I don't blame you -- there are some wonderful places to visit in this country, and you can find them easily by googling retirement sites on the Internet.
And just coincidentally, I'm writing a series of articles for www.topretirements.com Not the observations and musings I'm putting on this blog. This series is grownup writing, and actually contains useful information. So consider this a shameless plug, and an unapologetic and unsubtle hint to visit the site.
Look for me at t http://www.topretirements.com/tips/Adventurous_Retirements/Living_the_Mobile_Lifestyle_in_Retirement.html
Betty
The Sickie
I’m writing this as much for me as for you. I want to document a miracle.
On September 15, after a season of traveling through deer country, starting in upstate New York and continuing north through eastern Canada, then south through all the East Coast states (we doubled back and caught Vermont after Long Island), John was diagnosed with Lyme Disease.
He had six big red circles, including a row of four on one leg, so we both thought he might have been the target of a nasty spider. But no, it was more like a deer tick. He was given three weeks of doxycycline and told to take Advil if he had pain. If? The aches and soreness kept him up at night, and during the day he would crash. In very short order, I learned to plan for solo afternoons, as John snoozed away the day, recovering his strength in order to eat dinner, watch half a TV show, then crash again and call it a night.
Nevertheless, we continued to travel, even going so far as Nashville to catch the Eagles in Concert. In fact, the concert was only three days after his diagnosis, so that must have been a real effort for him.
But Lyme Disease is certainly not the miracle.
Two weeks later, he started to have pain in one side, then developed a nasty rash around his torso. Ah, I sagely diagnosed, a reaction to the medicine. I’ve seen this before! So we made another visit to another doctor. He came out of the examining room looking stunned. I pulled away from my People Magazine long enough to catch the look of shock. “What?” I said.
“Shingles,” he mouthed.
Now Shingles hurts. It is a nasty little afterthought, a virus that hides in the body after you’ve had chicken pox. When the immune system is compromised (see above), it can flare up along the nerve pathways, often traveling from one side of the spine, around the torso, and ending in the middle of the belly. Bingo.
John is classic. Ask his friends.
Two nasty things at the same time. The miracle? Wait for it, wait for it.
In all this, John has managed to keep his good humor. He crashes and burns, but apologizes for falling asleep in the middle of … whatever. Use your imagination. He makes fun of his weakness and says he’ll do the dishes, vacuum our tiny rug, wash the buggy windshield. Soon. Not now, but soon.
He’s also gotten behind the wheel of our big rig and driven upwards of three hundred miles at a stretch, then done all the set-up when we arrived. He’s trying to keep up his part of the work. And he’s doing it all with grace and good humor.
Now that’s the miracle. A sick man who makes jokes. Hallelujah.
So I’ve decided we’ll stay longer in Cape Hatteras, spending our days at this heavenly place, sitting in the sun, lying in the shade, reading, resting, watching football and movies and eating out on occasion, until he’s decidedly better.
It’s a sacrifice, but that’s the way I am.
I know. I’m a saint.
Betty
On September 15, after a season of traveling through deer country, starting in upstate New York and continuing north through eastern Canada, then south through all the East Coast states (we doubled back and caught Vermont after Long Island), John was diagnosed with Lyme Disease.
He had six big red circles, including a row of four on one leg, so we both thought he might have been the target of a nasty spider. But no, it was more like a deer tick. He was given three weeks of doxycycline and told to take Advil if he had pain. If? The aches and soreness kept him up at night, and during the day he would crash. In very short order, I learned to plan for solo afternoons, as John snoozed away the day, recovering his strength in order to eat dinner, watch half a TV show, then crash again and call it a night.
Nevertheless, we continued to travel, even going so far as Nashville to catch the Eagles in Concert. In fact, the concert was only three days after his diagnosis, so that must have been a real effort for him.
But Lyme Disease is certainly not the miracle.
Two weeks later, he started to have pain in one side, then developed a nasty rash around his torso. Ah, I sagely diagnosed, a reaction to the medicine. I’ve seen this before! So we made another visit to another doctor. He came out of the examining room looking stunned. I pulled away from my People Magazine long enough to catch the look of shock. “What?” I said.
“Shingles,” he mouthed.
Now Shingles hurts. It is a nasty little afterthought, a virus that hides in the body after you’ve had chicken pox. When the immune system is compromised (see above), it can flare up along the nerve pathways, often traveling from one side of the spine, around the torso, and ending in the middle of the belly. Bingo.
John is classic. Ask his friends.
Two nasty things at the same time. The miracle? Wait for it, wait for it.
In all this, John has managed to keep his good humor. He crashes and burns, but apologizes for falling asleep in the middle of … whatever. Use your imagination. He makes fun of his weakness and says he’ll do the dishes, vacuum our tiny rug, wash the buggy windshield. Soon. Not now, but soon.
He’s also gotten behind the wheel of our big rig and driven upwards of three hundred miles at a stretch, then done all the set-up when we arrived. He’s trying to keep up his part of the work. And he’s doing it all with grace and good humor.
Now that’s the miracle. A sick man who makes jokes. Hallelujah.
So I’ve decided we’ll stay longer in Cape Hatteras, spending our days at this heavenly place, sitting in the sun, lying in the shade, reading, resting, watching football and movies and eating out on occasion, until he’s decidedly better.
It’s a sacrifice, but that’s the way I am.
I know. I’m a saint.
Betty
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Go Fly a Kite
Camp Hatteras
Outer Banks, NC
I have never in my life had success flying a kite. The highest kite I ever flew got six feet off the ground and collapsed, dead, four seconds later. But today, I flew a kite.
Not only that, I flew it right into the sun. On a string so long it took me almost ten minutes to reel it in.
When I was little, the kites we had were paper. They came disassembled, with their balsa frames in two pieces. You spent a good fifteen minutes trying to put them together, creating aerodynamic tension by slipping the frame into the string that was glued inside the edges of the paper, and it wasn’t unusual to break either kite or frame before you even tried it out.
More often, however, you crashed on your first or second attempt to get it airborne, and some vital part of the kite’s anatomy was forever damaged. We tried everything – scotch tape, glue, bracing the broken limb with a toothpick, but nothing worked very well and the deceased kite was abandoned to the garbage pail, not to be replaced until the next special occasion.
We were blue-collar kids. There wasn’t extra money for breakables. We shared one kite. Nobody had a personal kite unless it came on a birthday, and even then, there was a lot of wheedling and cajoling. “Please, pleeeeze, let me try. C’mon Rich. You can have half my Popsicle. Puhleeze!” Of course, that’s when you broke the kite and still had to give up half the Popsicle anyway.
The boys were better at getting the kite up. Maybe we girls were dynamically challenged, I don’t know. But my mom couldn’t do it either. My dad, of course, was a major flyer. He could even make a kite out of newspaper. It wasn’t as airworthy, but it was an acceptable substitute when we had nothing. He stopped making them after a while, probably because he was sick of the tears and drama when it would crash, as it inevitably did.
Later when I was into dating mode, a kite-flying date would present itself, and I invariably embarrassed myself with my klutziness. I’d break the kite, or fall while running, or run into the lifeguard’s stand (once) or step into a hole. I couldn’t maneuver and look where I was going at the same time. I was a lost cause.
My kids could fly kites. They never asked me to start a kite on its way. Enough said.
But yesterday I went to the Kitty Hawk Kite Shop and bought an airfoil, a lightweight poly-something kite with a baffle construction that is easy to launch because each baffle traps air and pulls it aloft. All you need is a little breeze.
It’s breezy here in Cape Hatteras – or more correctly, Camp Hatteras in Rodanthe at Cape Hatteras National Seashore. I got my kite up in approximately five seconds, and it would be up there still if I hadn’t gotten the idea to come in and shout my good news to the immediate world.
Look at me! I’m flying!
Betty
Thursday, October 2, 2008
I Used to Be President
Greensboro Campground
Greensboro NC
I am struck by the way retired people refer to themselves, and it occurs to me that one of the quirks of being retired is the loss of one’s identity.
We live in a world where we are defined by the shape of our bodies and the age we project (younger is better), the toys we can accumulate and put on display (diamonds, boats and Jaguars do say something) and not only the work that we do, but the heights we achieve in the work that we do.
What happens when we put one-third of our identity on the shelf? When we are no longer the president of, or the owner of, or the speaker on the dais, or the manager, section head, or whatever grounds us in the social structure?
It’s not easy defining yourself to the world when all your life you’ve been doing that in terms of your work. I find myself telling people that I am a writer before anybody asks the question. Then I think, “Who cares?” It’s as if I can excuse this lack of employment, this extended vacation or whatever it is that I am doing, by letting people think that the only reason I’m sitting in my motor coach and exploring the country is that I intend to write a book about it. I’m not retired. I’m on a mission.
Hoo-hah. I am too retired. I am not 45 anymore. I don’t own an advertising agency anymore. I am not the president of, the owner of, the speaker at. I’m just me and I’d better get used to it. But what is me?
That’s what we recent retirees have to discover. I suspect it takes a while, and for some of us, it will never be more than what we used to be or do. But I’m trying.
Meanwhile I’m trotting out the bling, telling people that my other car is a Lexus, and mentioning that” I used to be.” And not only that, I still am. I’m not sure I’ll ever get to the place where I can say, “I don’t DO anything. I’m retired.” It sounds too old and useless to me right now. But I sure would love to be loved and respected for who I am, not what I’ve accomplished.
So even in retirement I have a growth goal. Being. Not used-to-being. Now there’s a challenge.
Betty
Greensboro NC
I am struck by the way retired people refer to themselves, and it occurs to me that one of the quirks of being retired is the loss of one’s identity.
We live in a world where we are defined by the shape of our bodies and the age we project (younger is better), the toys we can accumulate and put on display (diamonds, boats and Jaguars do say something) and not only the work that we do, but the heights we achieve in the work that we do.
What happens when we put one-third of our identity on the shelf? When we are no longer the president of, or the owner of, or the speaker on the dais, or the manager, section head, or whatever grounds us in the social structure?
It’s not easy defining yourself to the world when all your life you’ve been doing that in terms of your work. I find myself telling people that I am a writer before anybody asks the question. Then I think, “Who cares?” It’s as if I can excuse this lack of employment, this extended vacation or whatever it is that I am doing, by letting people think that the only reason I’m sitting in my motor coach and exploring the country is that I intend to write a book about it. I’m not retired. I’m on a mission.
Hoo-hah. I am too retired. I am not 45 anymore. I don’t own an advertising agency anymore. I am not the president of, the owner of, the speaker at. I’m just me and I’d better get used to it. But what is me?
That’s what we recent retirees have to discover. I suspect it takes a while, and for some of us, it will never be more than what we used to be or do. But I’m trying.
Meanwhile I’m trotting out the bling, telling people that my other car is a Lexus, and mentioning that” I used to be.” And not only that, I still am. I’m not sure I’ll ever get to the place where I can say, “I don’t DO anything. I’m retired.” It sounds too old and useless to me right now. But I sure would love to be loved and respected for who I am, not what I’ve accomplished.
So even in retirement I have a growth goal. Being. Not used-to-being. Now there’s a challenge.
Betty
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
They Call This Camping?
Lake Toxaway, NC
Resorts of America
We’ve just spent six days in a place that could almost not be called an RV campground. In fact it is on the leading edge of a new trend – motor coach resort. This place was gorgeous. Nobody smaller than a Class A motor home invited.
Instead of gravel, bugs, a rickety table and a rusty fire grate, you get an extra-wide, extra-long slab of cement bordered by manicured gardens, trees and grass which is mowed once a week. And an incredible view.
If you’ve never experienced parking in a site that slopes to the left, leaving you to sleep in a bed that slants in the same direction, you won’t appreciate the bliss of a flat, firm surface where there’s no need to drop the levelers – and no swearing, and cursing when you can’t get that damn little bubble to stay in the middle of the level on your dashboard.
Your garbage is picked up at your door in the morning, and if you want to sleep late, the little man with the cart will come back later. We rented, of course, but we were greeted by a lovely man who helped us back in successfully, then let us know that if we wanted to buy, he was the man to talk to.
In addition to three pretty ponds, a gated entrance and a reception building that looks like Trump would be at home here, the whole place is surrounded by its own golf course, and of course you get a cart that you pay for. Which everybody does. Next door is a fabulous four-star restaurant, this in a town that considers Arby’s upscale eating. This is the mountains, people, not the big city. Nevertheless, there it sits.
Most of the people we met were owners, which meant we were in a class below them. Transients, heaven forbid! They had paid – ready for this one? – upwards of $129,000 for their spot, then proceeded to replace the perfectly good cement with slate, brick or some other beautiful paving stone, add an outdoor kitchen and enormous barbecue, high-end table, umbrellas and chairs, and of course, a nice big bar. Then they called in their own landscapers to finish off the look. Here were people who’d paid maybe $300,000 for their motor coach, $150,000 for the site and probably more than that for the customization. Then they called in the gardener! Where do people like this come from?!? Who are they anyway?
I’ll tell you. We went to a cocktail party in the Entertainment Tent on Sunday and met “I was the president of …” and his friend “I was the CEO of…” and their wives who all wore designer jeans, Jimmy Choo sandals and enough bling to light lower Broadway. One of them was named Ann Kroc, and when she told me she owned two sites adjacent to each other PLUS a home across the street on the lake, I decided she had to be that Kroc. As in McDonald’s. Ray and Joan's daughter-in-law? They were nice people, all of them, but if we weren’t outclassed, we were certainly out-moneyed. We decided to act As If.
We met a lovely couple from Florida, Chuck and Cathy Hopper, and spent a day at a local craft fair with them, another evening playing cards at our house, the next learning Euchre at theirs and feasting on key lime pie made from her own limes, then went to the aforementioned 4-star joint the next. He’s one of those presidents and she’s had a long career in civil service and they were lovely and unassuming and nice to be with. We’ll call them when we get to Inverness. I hope I can pick up some nicer clothes before then, but I don’t think they’ll care.
There are maybe a dozen of these over-the-top resorts all over the country, and we’ll try to visit more of them, just because it’s such a change from the ordinary KOA. And it certainly isn’t Yogi Bear’s Jellystone Park Campground by a longshot.
We figure, if we go to enough of these places, we’ll get used to the altitude, and maybe even be able to act like we belong alongside of the rich and famous, if even for a couple of days.
Ray Kroc’s possible relative included. Either way, a nice lady.
Betty
Resorts of America
We’ve just spent six days in a place that could almost not be called an RV campground. In fact it is on the leading edge of a new trend – motor coach resort. This place was gorgeous. Nobody smaller than a Class A motor home invited.
Instead of gravel, bugs, a rickety table and a rusty fire grate, you get an extra-wide, extra-long slab of cement bordered by manicured gardens, trees and grass which is mowed once a week. And an incredible view.
If you’ve never experienced parking in a site that slopes to the left, leaving you to sleep in a bed that slants in the same direction, you won’t appreciate the bliss of a flat, firm surface where there’s no need to drop the levelers – and no swearing, and cursing when you can’t get that damn little bubble to stay in the middle of the level on your dashboard.
Your garbage is picked up at your door in the morning, and if you want to sleep late, the little man with the cart will come back later. We rented, of course, but we were greeted by a lovely man who helped us back in successfully, then let us know that if we wanted to buy, he was the man to talk to.
In addition to three pretty ponds, a gated entrance and a reception building that looks like Trump would be at home here, the whole place is surrounded by its own golf course, and of course you get a cart that you pay for. Which everybody does. Next door is a fabulous four-star restaurant, this in a town that considers Arby’s upscale eating. This is the mountains, people, not the big city. Nevertheless, there it sits.
Most of the people we met were owners, which meant we were in a class below them. Transients, heaven forbid! They had paid – ready for this one? – upwards of $129,000 for their spot, then proceeded to replace the perfectly good cement with slate, brick or some other beautiful paving stone, add an outdoor kitchen and enormous barbecue, high-end table, umbrellas and chairs, and of course, a nice big bar. Then they called in their own landscapers to finish off the look. Here were people who’d paid maybe $300,000 for their motor coach, $150,000 for the site and probably more than that for the customization. Then they called in the gardener! Where do people like this come from?!? Who are they anyway?
I’ll tell you. We went to a cocktail party in the Entertainment Tent on Sunday and met “I was the president of …” and his friend “I was the CEO of…” and their wives who all wore designer jeans, Jimmy Choo sandals and enough bling to light lower Broadway. One of them was named Ann Kroc, and when she told me she owned two sites adjacent to each other PLUS a home across the street on the lake, I decided she had to be that Kroc. As in McDonald’s. Ray and Joan's daughter-in-law? They were nice people, all of them, but if we weren’t outclassed, we were certainly out-moneyed. We decided to act As If.
We met a lovely couple from Florida, Chuck and Cathy Hopper, and spent a day at a local craft fair with them, another evening playing cards at our house, the next learning Euchre at theirs and feasting on key lime pie made from her own limes, then went to the aforementioned 4-star joint the next. He’s one of those presidents and she’s had a long career in civil service and they were lovely and unassuming and nice to be with. We’ll call them when we get to Inverness. I hope I can pick up some nicer clothes before then, but I don’t think they’ll care.
There are maybe a dozen of these over-the-top resorts all over the country, and we’ll try to visit more of them, just because it’s such a change from the ordinary KOA. And it certainly isn’t Yogi Bear’s Jellystone Park Campground by a longshot.
We figure, if we go to enough of these places, we’ll get used to the altitude, and maybe even be able to act like we belong alongside of the rich and famous, if even for a couple of days.
Ray Kroc’s possible relative included. Either way, a nice lady.
Betty
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