Friday August 29. 2008
West Hampton NY
Joyce & Marty's House
I remember the day I realized I could read. I was sounding out the letters of Dick and Jane and suddenly realized they made sense. It was a light that blinked brilliantly on and has continued to light up my life every day since.
What a joy to read! What discoveries to make! What mysteries to uncover! What stories to experience! What thoughts to provoke! What a great excuse to get out of doing the dishes!
I was the eldest of five growing up, and although my mother was an equal opportunity employer and gave all of us jobs to earn our daily ration, it seems to me that dish duty was mostly assigned to the girls. I do recall specifically that I rarely took out the trash, but always set the table.
But our parents put schooling before anything, so I found I could bury my head in a book, tune out the world, and never hear the call to help after dinner. The dishes would be done by the time I looked up. And from the dirty looks and exasperated headshakes I was awarded, I’m sure my sisters were on to me, if nor all four siblings.
“She’s so engrossed in that book, she can’t hear a word,” my Mother would say, passing off the drying duties to whoever was closest to a dishtowel.
Was my mother aware that his was a ploy? As I was growing up, I was sure I was fooling her. Then I decided she knew, but thought it cute of me to be so engrossed I’d rather read than work.
I even harbored the conceit, for a time, that she liked me best of all of her five children, so gave me this reading time as a gift. It didn’t occur to me until I had my own children that she actually wanted me to read and read and read. As much as I could. As often as I could. She, more than anyone, encouraged my scholarship, such as it was.
My mother graduated high school in three years and was Salutatorian of her class. My father thought she was brilliant. But she didn’t go to college because her family couldn’t afford the 5-cent subway fare to NYU, where she was promised a scholarship. This was the Depression and she had to go to work. That’s how it was.
She always talked about becoming a writer of children's books. She never did try, although we always came to her for writing help with our compositions. And we usually got A's a a result. But instead of reaching for her own dreams, she transferred them to her childen.
So if it took standing another half hour in front of a sink full of dirty dishes after she’d already put in ten solid hours, her hands red and rough from her chores, and if it took darning her husband’s socks at ten at night to save money, and if it took scrimping and saving so that every single one of her brood could go to college, then that’s what it took. She was the hardest worker I’ve ever known.
And if the first of these children wanted to bury her head in a book while all this hard work was going on, then this was a blessing and a sign that her dreams would happen. Not a lazy girl. A girl with a book. And that made all he difference in the world.
Thanks, Mom.
Betty
Friday, August 29, 2008
Monday, August 25, 2008
At the Beach
Monday August 25, 2008
Smith Point Park CG
Fire Island, LI, NY
I shouldn’t share this secret, but hopefully you won’t remember it tomorrow anyway. At the very tip of Fire Island at the end of William Floyd Parkway, in a town called Shirley, Long Island, there is a lovely little spit of land with bay on one side and ocean on the other. It also has camping, although if you’re not a Suffolk County resident, you can’t reserve ahead of time, so it’s first-come, first-served for all of us outsiders.
We arrived on Sunday night, always a good time because that’s when the weekenders leave. We got a great spot, with views both ways and the most heavenly breezes. The only problem is, we were allowed just two nights. We have to leave on Tuesday. Obviously, that’s when the real people arrive. And it will be Labor Day Weekend, the last hurrah of the summer, so they definitely will be coming.
Our best hope is to get on line at six in the morning on Tuesday and hope that when the office opens at eight there will have been a cancellation and we will be first-come for the left-overs. Please sir, can I have some more?
I can’t believe that I’m going to get up that early and wait in line as if I were 16 again and hoping to get tickets for some rock ‘n roll group that will be dead by now. I mean literally dead. I just heard that Jay Black of Jay and the Americans is having a 70th birthday party. Holy good night, I thought he was still 19.
I watched one of those oldies concerts at some arena in New Jersey recently, on Channel 13, our PBS channel, and I swear I saw defibrillators at the end of every row. It was a sea of white hair, but they were on their feet, hand-jiving and hip-swiveling as if it were 1962. Good for our generation! We haven’t lost it yet. The medics can take the day off.
John and I have even promised ourselves that we will go bike riding this afternoon and explore the beach. First, however, we have to have our after-lunch nap. And then we’ll need to rest up after that. I don’t know. There may not be enough time. We’re going out for Chinese, and you know you don’t want to eat that food late in the evening or you’ll be too full to fall asleep at nine p.m.
Planning is everything.
Betty
Smith Point Park CG
Fire Island, LI, NY
I shouldn’t share this secret, but hopefully you won’t remember it tomorrow anyway. At the very tip of Fire Island at the end of William Floyd Parkway, in a town called Shirley, Long Island, there is a lovely little spit of land with bay on one side and ocean on the other. It also has camping, although if you’re not a Suffolk County resident, you can’t reserve ahead of time, so it’s first-come, first-served for all of us outsiders.
We arrived on Sunday night, always a good time because that’s when the weekenders leave. We got a great spot, with views both ways and the most heavenly breezes. The only problem is, we were allowed just two nights. We have to leave on Tuesday. Obviously, that’s when the real people arrive. And it will be Labor Day Weekend, the last hurrah of the summer, so they definitely will be coming.
Our best hope is to get on line at six in the morning on Tuesday and hope that when the office opens at eight there will have been a cancellation and we will be first-come for the left-overs. Please sir, can I have some more?
I can’t believe that I’m going to get up that early and wait in line as if I were 16 again and hoping to get tickets for some rock ‘n roll group that will be dead by now. I mean literally dead. I just heard that Jay Black of Jay and the Americans is having a 70th birthday party. Holy good night, I thought he was still 19.
I watched one of those oldies concerts at some arena in New Jersey recently, on Channel 13, our PBS channel, and I swear I saw defibrillators at the end of every row. It was a sea of white hair, but they were on their feet, hand-jiving and hip-swiveling as if it were 1962. Good for our generation! We haven’t lost it yet. The medics can take the day off.
John and I have even promised ourselves that we will go bike riding this afternoon and explore the beach. First, however, we have to have our after-lunch nap. And then we’ll need to rest up after that. I don’t know. There may not be enough time. We’re going out for Chinese, and you know you don’t want to eat that food late in the evening or you’ll be too full to fall asleep at nine p.m.
Planning is everything.
Betty
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Canine Camping
Clinton CG
Clinton, CT
One of the advantages to traveling in a motor home is that you can bring your pets with you. It isn’t always an advantage: if your pet is like mine, you will become his personal travel companion, his plush and comfy luxury seat, your lap a First Class accommodation, with the assumption that you will be more than happy to scratch from end of the country to the other. You will see the scenery along the way as if you were seated in a theatre behind a lady with a very large hat, craning your neck to see around his eager, panting (and oh, let’s not discuss the breath) and constantly moving silhouette.
My favorite moment comes when he changes positions, and before he settles in, he sniffs the place on my lap where his butt has just been. Oh spare me, please.
Which reminds me to mention that most of my fellow travelers seem to bring dogs. I haven’t seen one single cat since we started. Maybe RVers are genetically fond of dogs. Of course, I haven’t been in any other motor homes, so maybe the cats hide. Then again, maybe cat people are house people by nature, and only take vacations reluctantly. And when they do go away, they can leave their babies at home, happily peeing where they shouldn’t, as in my friend Jane’s case. Her cat Thalassa used to use the bathtub if left alone. It always made for a really fragrant return home.
Dogs, on the other hand, are easily spotted in campgrounds. They lounge, dusty and panting, outside each camper with their toys, their water and if they’re lucky, their big puffy bed, arfing, woofing and grring at anybody who might deign to trespass on their 12 feet of frontage. They are big, sloppy things, hulky, happy dogs who are good with kids, and who sport names like Thunder, Joe and Moose. Our dog has a big-dog name, Zeus, and he thinks he’s a Rottweiler, but he’s really a skinny Jack Russell and a major tail-wagger. He just wants friends, attention and food, not necessarily in that order.
But there are other kinds of animal-lovers in this world. What about the gerbil people? The rabbit fanciers? The Teddy Bear Hamster crowd? Do their owners tote little cages and exercise wheels as they travel? Do they keep these pets in the camper – or heaven forbid, down below in storage? Do rodents take to travel or do they get carsick? How would you know?
“Oh honey, let’s stop for a while. Priscilla and Rodney are looking a little green around the whiskers.”
These days, people give their kids monikers like Apple and Butterscotch, and their pets get real names, which tends to really throw you when the pets die at, say, age 8 and they mention this fact at a party, for instance. “We buried dear Carl today. He was 7½ . We’ll miss him so much.” And you’re at a party? Ooooh, cold.
But right now, Zeus is panting his fetid breath at my knee and making the squeakiest of noises, which indicates his need to be walked. So I’ll grab a plastic baggie, hook him up to the leash and take on yet another of my favorite chores: poop scooper.
Betty
Friday, August 22, 2008
Native Pleasures
Friday August 22, 2008
Mohegan Sun Reservation
Clinton, CT
One of the best things that ever happened to me was that the Native Americans got sovereignty in Connecticut. I believe that’s the right term. Anyhow, that allowed them to erect a monumental casino in a non-gambling state and make so much money with it that they erected a second casino just down the road, which is where I am at this very moment.
I would say that for me it’s a return to civilization, but you’d probably think I was nuts if you saw the crowd. That’s not very nice, but remember that I am including myself in that group.
This is not the glamorous group in ermine and pearls who frequented Las Vegas once upon a time. This is the short-shorts and tank top crowd, and that’s just the men. They come to smoke, gamble and eat, in that order. There’s not a whole lot of drinking. You want to be perfectly sober when you throw the mortgage payment and the baby-food money on that table. You want to be in your right mind when you cash in your life insurance policy and say the heck with the damn cancer as you light up another smoke.
But despite the fact that I contributed to the wealth to the tune of $100 in just under twenty minutes – blame my guilt over the miscegenation of my forebears, even though they were digging up taties in Ireland when this all went down -- I had a great time.
I paid twice the normal price for a pedicure in the spa and scraped the polish off two toes on my way out the door. I had a warm martini in a noisy bar, and went on to a lovely dinner that I could not eat because I was so full of pretzels from the martini bar.
But what made it all worthwhile was enjoying it all with our good friends Pam and Dick who were there for the Beach Boys Concert. We decided not to go, but later regretted our decision when we heard that everybody there was our age and that they were throwing beach balls around the concert hall. I always hate missing a chance to be silly.
We slept in the parking lot. (Remember, this is an RV story). And in the motor home just behind our bedroom window, a little puppy yipped non-stop for over five hours. YIP-YIP PAUSE YIP-YIP PAUSE YIP-YIP ETC. And guess whose owner decided to stay out until three in the morning? I hope they lost their shirts. Not really, but I was glad to leave the little yipper behind all the same.
Later that day, we were at Dick and Pam’s when they got the news that their daughter Sarah had just gotten engaged in California. That news was almost better than breaking the bank at Mohegan, but if I had broken the bank, I sure would have sent them a nice big engagement gift. As it is, they’ll have to be happy with a nice big card. Fixed income and all that.
Besides, that $100 I lost was the food money for the week. John will just have to learn to love Cheerios for dinner.
Betty
Mohegan Sun Reservation
Clinton, CT
One of the best things that ever happened to me was that the Native Americans got sovereignty in Connecticut. I believe that’s the right term. Anyhow, that allowed them to erect a monumental casino in a non-gambling state and make so much money with it that they erected a second casino just down the road, which is where I am at this very moment.
I would say that for me it’s a return to civilization, but you’d probably think I was nuts if you saw the crowd. That’s not very nice, but remember that I am including myself in that group.
This is not the glamorous group in ermine and pearls who frequented Las Vegas once upon a time. This is the short-shorts and tank top crowd, and that’s just the men. They come to smoke, gamble and eat, in that order. There’s not a whole lot of drinking. You want to be perfectly sober when you throw the mortgage payment and the baby-food money on that table. You want to be in your right mind when you cash in your life insurance policy and say the heck with the damn cancer as you light up another smoke.
But despite the fact that I contributed to the wealth to the tune of $100 in just under twenty minutes – blame my guilt over the miscegenation of my forebears, even though they were digging up taties in Ireland when this all went down -- I had a great time.
I paid twice the normal price for a pedicure in the spa and scraped the polish off two toes on my way out the door. I had a warm martini in a noisy bar, and went on to a lovely dinner that I could not eat because I was so full of pretzels from the martini bar.
But what made it all worthwhile was enjoying it all with our good friends Pam and Dick who were there for the Beach Boys Concert. We decided not to go, but later regretted our decision when we heard that everybody there was our age and that they were throwing beach balls around the concert hall. I always hate missing a chance to be silly.
We slept in the parking lot. (Remember, this is an RV story). And in the motor home just behind our bedroom window, a little puppy yipped non-stop for over five hours. YIP-YIP PAUSE YIP-YIP PAUSE YIP-YIP ETC. And guess whose owner decided to stay out until three in the morning? I hope they lost their shirts. Not really, but I was glad to leave the little yipper behind all the same.
Later that day, we were at Dick and Pam’s when they got the news that their daughter Sarah had just gotten engaged in California. That news was almost better than breaking the bank at Mohegan, but if I had broken the bank, I sure would have sent them a nice big engagement gift. As it is, they’ll have to be happy with a nice big card. Fixed income and all that.
Besides, that $100 I lost was the food money for the week. John will just have to learn to love Cheerios for dinner.
Betty
Thursday, August 21, 2008
The Imp Among Us
August 21, 2008
KOA CG
Middleboro, MA
I am slowly coming to the conclusion that we have a dybbuk. Or a poltergeist. Or a leprechaun. Or some other devilish spirit who has decided to go RVing with us.
I was inclined to believe that, okay, hitting the jet ski, and the boulder, and the cop car were all products of our inexperience. As were the upset of the picnic table, the little plastic figure of the child holding a flag, and several red cones on several occasions. And I accepted with my usual grace and aplomb the failure of the horn, the brake fire in our tow car, the copious leak in the corner of the bedroom, the refusal of the satellite to work, and the death of a complete set of china due to unplanned contact with the stone floor in the kitchen. I don’t even blame the pole in the closet that keeps bouncing all the clothes to the floor.
But now things are disappearing. First it was the scale, which I rely on daily to keep me honest. That stayed out of sight for two weeks, until we went to Target and bought another one that mercifully gave us each a three-pound weight loss. Unfortunately we found the digital scale and discovered a three-pound weight gain. Okay, it was five, but who’s counting.
No sooner had found the damn scale than my camera’s battery charger went missing. I remembered exactly where I had put it – not in the bag where it’s supposed to reside, but in the corner of a cabinet (another hurry-up decision, when will I learn).
When my camera died, I reached in for the charger and it was nowhere to be grabbed. Frustrated and angry with myself, I pulled every single cabinet apart. I restacked all the DVDs, books and games, none of which we’ve played yet. I refolded all the towels and washcloths, which we have used, I’m proud to say. I restacked what dishes remain and what glasses haven’t broken (I’m down from 6 to 2 wine glasses.) I repacked every single atlas, map and guide John brought along – all 62 of them. And I still haven’t found the darn charger. It’s smaller than a cigarette pack, but certainly not tiny, so why can’t I find it?
Yesterday I bought a universal charger and it took me over an hour and a half to figure out how to use all 17 parts together. Now I’m deathly afraid this too will take off for places unknown and I won’t be able to take another picture this whole trip.
Yesterday, however, sealed the deal for me. For the first time since we left, we were going out to a restaurant with another couple, so I decided to haul out the bling. I pulled my jewelry box out from its hidey-hole, and no, I won’t reveal its location, and pawed through my stash. I selected my favorite gold watch – as a matter of fact, my only gold watch – took off my $59 fake Chanel and put it in the gold watch’s slot. Then I put the jewelry box away. When I turned around, the gold watch was gone.
A complete upheaval of every drawer, every surface, every nook and every cranny was fruitless, as was a second, third and fourth search of the jewelry box, just in case. I am at an age where I don’t trust my recent memory all that much. But, still, no luck. I found nothing, nada, ninguno, nil, no, no, nanette.
Where could this favorite watch be? Hiding in a cubby with the battery charger? And are these two in communication with my errant scale, getting tips on eluding the search party?
Or have I unknowingly channeled a mischievous spirit, who is at this moment enjoying my discomfiture, charging his or her spectral camera for exactly 30 minutes according to his or her new gold watch. And all the while, smiling with impish satisfaction, because he or she hasn’t gained or lost a pound since we got in this RV.
Betty
KOA CG
Middleboro, MA
I am slowly coming to the conclusion that we have a dybbuk. Or a poltergeist. Or a leprechaun. Or some other devilish spirit who has decided to go RVing with us.
I was inclined to believe that, okay, hitting the jet ski, and the boulder, and the cop car were all products of our inexperience. As were the upset of the picnic table, the little plastic figure of the child holding a flag, and several red cones on several occasions. And I accepted with my usual grace and aplomb the failure of the horn, the brake fire in our tow car, the copious leak in the corner of the bedroom, the refusal of the satellite to work, and the death of a complete set of china due to unplanned contact with the stone floor in the kitchen. I don’t even blame the pole in the closet that keeps bouncing all the clothes to the floor.
But now things are disappearing. First it was the scale, which I rely on daily to keep me honest. That stayed out of sight for two weeks, until we went to Target and bought another one that mercifully gave us each a three-pound weight loss. Unfortunately we found the digital scale and discovered a three-pound weight gain. Okay, it was five, but who’s counting.
No sooner had found the damn scale than my camera’s battery charger went missing. I remembered exactly where I had put it – not in the bag where it’s supposed to reside, but in the corner of a cabinet (another hurry-up decision, when will I learn).
When my camera died, I reached in for the charger and it was nowhere to be grabbed. Frustrated and angry with myself, I pulled every single cabinet apart. I restacked all the DVDs, books and games, none of which we’ve played yet. I refolded all the towels and washcloths, which we have used, I’m proud to say. I restacked what dishes remain and what glasses haven’t broken (I’m down from 6 to 2 wine glasses.) I repacked every single atlas, map and guide John brought along – all 62 of them. And I still haven’t found the darn charger. It’s smaller than a cigarette pack, but certainly not tiny, so why can’t I find it?
Yesterday I bought a universal charger and it took me over an hour and a half to figure out how to use all 17 parts together. Now I’m deathly afraid this too will take off for places unknown and I won’t be able to take another picture this whole trip.
Yesterday, however, sealed the deal for me. For the first time since we left, we were going out to a restaurant with another couple, so I decided to haul out the bling. I pulled my jewelry box out from its hidey-hole, and no, I won’t reveal its location, and pawed through my stash. I selected my favorite gold watch – as a matter of fact, my only gold watch – took off my $59 fake Chanel and put it in the gold watch’s slot. Then I put the jewelry box away. When I turned around, the gold watch was gone.
A complete upheaval of every drawer, every surface, every nook and every cranny was fruitless, as was a second, third and fourth search of the jewelry box, just in case. I am at an age where I don’t trust my recent memory all that much. But, still, no luck. I found nothing, nada, ninguno, nil, no, no, nanette.
Where could this favorite watch be? Hiding in a cubby with the battery charger? And are these two in communication with my errant scale, getting tips on eluding the search party?
Or have I unknowingly channeled a mischievous spirit, who is at this moment enjoying my discomfiture, charging his or her spectral camera for exactly 30 minutes according to his or her new gold watch. And all the while, smiling with impish satisfaction, because he or she hasn’t gained or lost a pound since we got in this RV.
Betty
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Trailer Trash Talk
Wednesday August 20, 2008
KOA Campground
Middleboro, MA
We hired a guy to come to the campground and attempt to fix our satellite, which has never worked. This will be our fourth attempt and third outside person to come. We thought he’d forgotten, but Gilberto arrived at 5:30 and brought his tools with him. He’s about 4’10”, in other words, average size for a person from his part of the world, and he has a voice that sounds like Topo Gigio, the little mouse character who made the big time when Ed Sullivan brought him over from Italy. Topo was a sensation in the fifties, and didn’t quite eclipse the Beatles, who arrived somewhat later, but he sure had his following. “Oooh, Eddie.”
In the looks department, Gilberto is first rate. A lovely smile, sparkly eyes, and a disposition of azucar. He probably has seven kids and an extremely satisfied wife.
Gilberto pulled up to our site, parked his marshmallow-white truck and proceeded to assess our problem. He got up on the roof, walked around the camper, surveyed our positioning vis-a-vis Venus I guess, and informed us we were out of line. Whatever that means.
Meanwhile, our next door neighbor, a not-quite ringer for Christina Applegate, tall and blonde and wearing a bikini, with a cigarette hanging from her mouth, and with an attitude that would give the Hulk as he transitioned from human to subhuman a run for his money, decided to have a word with Gil.
“Excuse me, you,” she said. “Do you belong here?”
“I’m fixing their RV,” he replied.
“Well, you’re on our grass. This is our site. You don’t belong here.”
“Oh,” he said.
“Is that your truck?”
Well, who the hell else would have Jose’s Repair Service, TV, Satellite and Electronics, Middleboro, MA, on the side of his truck?
“Yes,” replied Gilberto.
“Well you can’t park it here. You have to move it.”
That’s when John jumped in. “It’s behind our rig,” he explained.
She hmmphed, she really actually hmmphed, then went inside her RV, shapely butt in a twist.
“I think there might have been some prejudice going on just now,” I remarked.
“You think?” said John.
I sure as heck hope Gilberto fixes the problem. He deserves a win today. As for the blonde, I hope she burns the spaghetti sauce and ruins her one pot. A nice red spot on that white bikini wouldn’t hurt either.
Betty
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
One Month Later
August 19, 2008
Beach Rose CG
Salisbury.MA
What do you know, I am actually enjoying myself. Sleeping in a comfortable bed, sleeping until I decide to wake up. Taking my time and having a leisurely cup of coffee in the morning. Reading a book in the afternoon. Watching a movie at night. And in between all these activities, doing something strenuous, like eating, drinking, and every so often, snacking. This is not a bad life. Okay, it’s a terrible life and if I’m not careful I could easily gain 20 pounds.
But I did go kayaking yesterday. For 20 minutes. And the day before, I rode my bike. For 10 minutes. That’s a half-hour of exercise. Isn’t that what the experts recommend?
The point is, I was so sure retirement – not to mention an RV adventure – would be a complete snore and would drive me absolutely bonkers in no time at all. I was so sure, in fact, that I erected the Alamo of Refusal in my mind and defended it with every bit of artillery I had for over three years.
But I have to hand it to my Taurus husband. Stubborn is as stubborn does, and he is as obdurate as they come. He was determined to yank me out of my comfortable chaos of a life and subject me to miles and miles of nature, adventure and possibilities.
I would still be in our overpriced, overtaxed house, commuting three hours every day in bumper-to-bumper traffic, to work in one of the most tension-ridden businesses there is, advertising, with little-to-no reward, all for the comfort of its sameness and predictability.
Fortunately, I have great friends, and they gave me some great advice while I was in the thick of the battle. Joyce, who said, “So you’ve already decorated that house. Decorate something else.” Now that I could relate to.
I happen to be married to a man who thinks two sets of dishes is one too many, but I am a card-carrying regular at Home Goods, the store that convinces you that at these prices you should have seven of everything. So the idea of taking on another project touched me at my core. Men may live to conquer, but I’m hard-wired to decorate. My forebears’ caves probably had Ralph Lauren paint with charming little hieroglyphs here and there.
Then there is Terri, who took me in when I was about to collapse with grief over the fact that I had successfully sold my house for more than its asking price. “You still have choices,” she told me. “You will buy something else. You have a right to be happy too.” I was homeless, but not futureless. I needed that weekend. And I needed that pasta. Among her other great qualities, Terri is a mean cook. And I mean that in a good way.
Now Carole and I have been friends since we were three years old and took pre-nursery school dance lessonss together. We still sing "I'm a Little Teapot" on request. Carole retired to Florida a couple of years ago and is now the most popular girl in the state. No surprise here, since she was voted Most Popular when we graduated high school too. You just don't meet people with her kind of positive energy every day. And she sure channeled some my way during all of this. 'Honey," she'd say, and you have to love that friend that calls you honey, "Honey, you have to do this. You have no idea how much fun this will be. I've never been happier in my life. " And for Carole to be happier than she normally is, then retirement has to be akin to winning the NYS Lottery when it's at its all-time high.
But if I needed balance, and I certainly can use balance, I could always turn to Maggie, who is not only my rock and my sounding board, she is also my real estate agent and the voice of reason no matter the situation. “Get over it,” was her basic message. “They want the house. They paid a great price. You can live anywhere. I will not abandon you as a friend.” What she didn’t say was, “You can live over my garage,” but I suspect if I asked, she’d say yes.
It happens, too, that I have a great family, the Bickersons. Oh no, that’s not their name. What am I thinking? I have two brothers and two sisters and three incredible in-laws, who I often forget are related by marriage and not blood. No matter, they are all there when I need them, and that’s a wonderful thing. Each gave me an ear, a plan and a strategy for accepting this new turn in my life’s highway, and I am more than grateful.
So here I am, more than a month later, settled in to this nomadic lifestyle, for the time being at least, and happy to have made this decision. Finally. Of course, if I had my way, I’d get rid of the tacky etched mirrors and the multi-color valances over the windows. And I’d like to get a new set of dishes to replace the ones that fell out of the cabinet last month. But we’re nowhere near a Home Goods at the moment.
Not to worry. There’s always tomorrow. And there’s always a mall just up the road.
Betty
Beach Rose CG
Salisbury.MA
What do you know, I am actually enjoying myself. Sleeping in a comfortable bed, sleeping until I decide to wake up. Taking my time and having a leisurely cup of coffee in the morning. Reading a book in the afternoon. Watching a movie at night. And in between all these activities, doing something strenuous, like eating, drinking, and every so often, snacking. This is not a bad life. Okay, it’s a terrible life and if I’m not careful I could easily gain 20 pounds.
But I did go kayaking yesterday. For 20 minutes. And the day before, I rode my bike. For 10 minutes. That’s a half-hour of exercise. Isn’t that what the experts recommend?
The point is, I was so sure retirement – not to mention an RV adventure – would be a complete snore and would drive me absolutely bonkers in no time at all. I was so sure, in fact, that I erected the Alamo of Refusal in my mind and defended it with every bit of artillery I had for over three years.
But I have to hand it to my Taurus husband. Stubborn is as stubborn does, and he is as obdurate as they come. He was determined to yank me out of my comfortable chaos of a life and subject me to miles and miles of nature, adventure and possibilities.
I would still be in our overpriced, overtaxed house, commuting three hours every day in bumper-to-bumper traffic, to work in one of the most tension-ridden businesses there is, advertising, with little-to-no reward, all for the comfort of its sameness and predictability.
Fortunately, I have great friends, and they gave me some great advice while I was in the thick of the battle. Joyce, who said, “So you’ve already decorated that house. Decorate something else.” Now that I could relate to.
I happen to be married to a man who thinks two sets of dishes is one too many, but I am a card-carrying regular at Home Goods, the store that convinces you that at these prices you should have seven of everything. So the idea of taking on another project touched me at my core. Men may live to conquer, but I’m hard-wired to decorate. My forebears’ caves probably had Ralph Lauren paint with charming little hieroglyphs here and there.
Then there is Terri, who took me in when I was about to collapse with grief over the fact that I had successfully sold my house for more than its asking price. “You still have choices,” she told me. “You will buy something else. You have a right to be happy too.” I was homeless, but not futureless. I needed that weekend. And I needed that pasta. Among her other great qualities, Terri is a mean cook. And I mean that in a good way.
Now Carole and I have been friends since we were three years old and took pre-nursery school dance lessonss together. We still sing "I'm a Little Teapot" on request. Carole retired to Florida a couple of years ago and is now the most popular girl in the state. No surprise here, since she was voted Most Popular when we graduated high school too. You just don't meet people with her kind of positive energy every day. And she sure channeled some my way during all of this. 'Honey," she'd say, and you have to love that friend that calls you honey, "Honey, you have to do this. You have no idea how much fun this will be. I've never been happier in my life. " And for Carole to be happier than she normally is, then retirement has to be akin to winning the NYS Lottery when it's at its all-time high.
But if I needed balance, and I certainly can use balance, I could always turn to Maggie, who is not only my rock and my sounding board, she is also my real estate agent and the voice of reason no matter the situation. “Get over it,” was her basic message. “They want the house. They paid a great price. You can live anywhere. I will not abandon you as a friend.” What she didn’t say was, “You can live over my garage,” but I suspect if I asked, she’d say yes.
It happens, too, that I have a great family, the Bickersons. Oh no, that’s not their name. What am I thinking? I have two brothers and two sisters and three incredible in-laws, who I often forget are related by marriage and not blood. No matter, they are all there when I need them, and that’s a wonderful thing. Each gave me an ear, a plan and a strategy for accepting this new turn in my life’s highway, and I am more than grateful.
So here I am, more than a month later, settled in to this nomadic lifestyle, for the time being at least, and happy to have made this decision. Finally. Of course, if I had my way, I’d get rid of the tacky etched mirrors and the multi-color valances over the windows. And I’d like to get a new set of dishes to replace the ones that fell out of the cabinet last month. But we’re nowhere near a Home Goods at the moment.
Not to worry. There’s always tomorrow. And there’s always a mall just up the road.
Betty
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