I love Christmas newsletters. I read them avidly even if I have never heard of the people mentioned in them. They are windows into other people’s lives and are always positive.
Deaths get announced in one sentence. A whole paragraph is given to the fish that got junior’s picture in the newspaper. That’s the way of Christmas newsletters. What’s the point of sharing misery when it’s the season of joy?
Christmas newsletters have to sound reassuring, hopeful, and friendly. The underlying purpose is to maintain the idea of the holidays as a time of family and thankfulness. They say we’ve had a wonderful year—one you might envy. The truth is that if celebrations are in order, it may be because family members have not murdered one another. For that, of course, there’s always next year.
I’ve written my share of newsletters, I must admit. I too have made them upbeat and informative. And I too have glossed over the truth.
This year I wrote in my newsletter that we had been blessed with visitors. True. But not all of them were blessed events. One couple treated me as if I were an incompetent bus driver. The husband took control of the maps and tried to direct me how to drive on roads that I knew. The wife told me I needed psychiatric care because it my job to please them. When they left, I cried tears of joy. That wasn’t in the letter. Instead I emphasized the fun when the Australian visitors came to town and I took them on the same trip. Night and day.
I also emphasized my writing and the two signings. What I didn’t go into were all the turndowns that every writer experiences. I’m an expert now on turndowns. They fall into types: The Impersonal: printed cards with no signature. The Practical: the letter of inquiry returned with scrawl on the top-“not for us.” The Apologetic: Sorry, we can’t use it. The Encouraging: Best wishes on placing this somewhere else. The Regretful: This just doesn’t fit with the rest of our list. The Blunt: There are three hundred books I would read before this one. The I’m-Having-Fun-Turning-You-Down: I find your topic repugnant and so will everyone else. The Marketer: This just won’t sell unless you permit us to rewrite it for you. And so it goes.
People want to hear about happy endings and that life goes on and will do so for ever. When my husband died just before Christmas in 1997, I wrote about rebuilding and trying to move on and not about how each day was a struggle and I was close to despair. I knew people could share courage and success with me. They could not help with the pain.
And that’s why I like Christmas letters. They don’t –or shouldn’t—include surgeries or illnesses(unless the outcome has been miraculous), or financial information (whether winning the lotto or going bankrupt), or divorces (unless very positive and even then carefully worded). They are to be read with an eggnog in one hand, in the complete assurance that no one needs to do anything more than smile and nod. The serious stuff can wait until later.
I sometimes wonder if people would be interested in writing a January letter that tells the truth: how family members rowed and walked out before Christmas dinner, how the family matriarch subtly complained about everyone, how one branch of the family mailed back still-wrapped presents because they were angry with the sender, and how the kids got overtired and cranky.
No? Somehow I didn’t think so.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Friday, December 21, 2007
The Ultimate Lay Away Plan
Somehow the mass marketing industry has found out my age bracket—don’t ask me how—and they send me what they consider to be targeted sales pitches. These tell me reams about what they think about me and what they think is important to me.
The brochures for motorized wheel chairs and hearing aids tell me that I must be on the decline. The offers of dinners to listen to some financial guru means that the marketers think I have some disposable income they can separate me from. That impression is confirmed by the time share offers, the latest one allowing me two weeks a year at a Vail condo for $250,000—for life, the brochure breathlessly says. Wow. I don’t include here the well-meaning offers from the folks at the local senior center who want to offer me ball-room dance lessons, crafts, and the occasional bus ride to go gambling. They after all are not trying to sell to me in the same way. But there are plenty of others lurking behind the banner of providing me with help whether I need it or not.
Of all these offers to help fill my golden years, however, the one that amazes me the most comes from the cemeteries. They obviously believe that I have one foot in the grave and that it will not be long before the rest of me follows.
The pitch from the cemeteries is something they call pre-need. That has to be the ultimate lay away plan. Now, I am an old English teacher, and the logic of the language requires that there be a post-need. This perplexes me. Need I can understand: I have managed to launch myself off a cliff at a ski resort and did not live to tell the tale. Pre-need I assume means figuring out in advance that I might get on one of the double-diamond runs by mistake and that my family might have to do something with what is left of me. But post-need? Does that mean I should buy insurance so that I do not get dug up after the fact either because my family can’t pay or because the city wishes to redevelop the land as it did with Cheeseman Park? The brochures do not have much to answer my questions.
The cemeteries, in fact, all send brochures designed to be soothing. After all, they are asking me to consider things that are generally left to the family. Funerals are for the families. Most of the dearly departeds couldn’t care less. But we are now told, the responsibility for our funeral is ours—not in the sense of arranging for one glorious, gilt-edged ego trip, but to “save” our families from having to make decisions when they are grieving. I’d actually be more worried about families arranging funerals when they are jubilant. But that’s me.
Needless to say, I am not a sale.
All this talk of moving on has, however, made me consider what I would like at the time of need. I like the idea of going out like a valkyrie. Load all my stuff on a boat, put me on top, set it on fire, and shove it out to sea. The Viking way. I realize, however, that there are environmental, maritime, and public health ordinances against this. Too bad. It would have been a very nice blaze.
Since I can’t go out like a Viking, I would like to say to the cemeteries that I do not want your psuedo-sympathy or your rip-off pre-planning. I do not want your eternal flames or side by side urns. I do not want the choice grave sites with a view that you so kindly offer me. I do not want memorials or cherubs or crosses. I do not want flowers. In fact, I do not want anything that will cost this poor old earth we live on any more of its resources.
If I can’t go out like a Viking just cremate me and scatter the ashes where they will do the least harm. I do make one request, however, please don’t store me in the back of a closet as the family has done to my ex mother-in-law. I’d much prefer to blow with the wind somewhere out on the infinity of the plains.
The brochures for motorized wheel chairs and hearing aids tell me that I must be on the decline. The offers of dinners to listen to some financial guru means that the marketers think I have some disposable income they can separate me from. That impression is confirmed by the time share offers, the latest one allowing me two weeks a year at a Vail condo for $250,000—for life, the brochure breathlessly says. Wow. I don’t include here the well-meaning offers from the folks at the local senior center who want to offer me ball-room dance lessons, crafts, and the occasional bus ride to go gambling. They after all are not trying to sell to me in the same way. But there are plenty of others lurking behind the banner of providing me with help whether I need it or not.
Of all these offers to help fill my golden years, however, the one that amazes me the most comes from the cemeteries. They obviously believe that I have one foot in the grave and that it will not be long before the rest of me follows.
The pitch from the cemeteries is something they call pre-need. That has to be the ultimate lay away plan. Now, I am an old English teacher, and the logic of the language requires that there be a post-need. This perplexes me. Need I can understand: I have managed to launch myself off a cliff at a ski resort and did not live to tell the tale. Pre-need I assume means figuring out in advance that I might get on one of the double-diamond runs by mistake and that my family might have to do something with what is left of me. But post-need? Does that mean I should buy insurance so that I do not get dug up after the fact either because my family can’t pay or because the city wishes to redevelop the land as it did with Cheeseman Park? The brochures do not have much to answer my questions.
The cemeteries, in fact, all send brochures designed to be soothing. After all, they are asking me to consider things that are generally left to the family. Funerals are for the families. Most of the dearly departeds couldn’t care less. But we are now told, the responsibility for our funeral is ours—not in the sense of arranging for one glorious, gilt-edged ego trip, but to “save” our families from having to make decisions when they are grieving. I’d actually be more worried about families arranging funerals when they are jubilant. But that’s me.
Needless to say, I am not a sale.
All this talk of moving on has, however, made me consider what I would like at the time of need. I like the idea of going out like a valkyrie. Load all my stuff on a boat, put me on top, set it on fire, and shove it out to sea. The Viking way. I realize, however, that there are environmental, maritime, and public health ordinances against this. Too bad. It would have been a very nice blaze.
Since I can’t go out like a Viking, I would like to say to the cemeteries that I do not want your psuedo-sympathy or your rip-off pre-planning. I do not want your eternal flames or side by side urns. I do not want the choice grave sites with a view that you so kindly offer me. I do not want memorials or cherubs or crosses. I do not want flowers. In fact, I do not want anything that will cost this poor old earth we live on any more of its resources.
If I can’t go out like a Viking just cremate me and scatter the ashes where they will do the least harm. I do make one request, however, please don’t store me in the back of a closet as the family has done to my ex mother-in-law. I’d much prefer to blow with the wind somewhere out on the infinity of the plains.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Has Anyone Seen Where I Left My Short-Term Memory?
The other day I finally found a glass mug I’d been missing. It was on a shelf behind a glass case and I must have left it there when I was dusting. I can’t remember how long ago I was dusting, but when I found it there was something growing in it that looked vaguely like a mushroom. That mug is the latest victim of my short attention span.
I began noticing things had a tendency to disappear a few years back. The first thing was my wallet. I put it down on the seat next to me at Wendy’s and said to myself I must remember this. Well, I didn’t. I got a phone call from Wendy’s not too much later saying that someone had turned it in. The manager had counted my money and searched for identification. There it all was, bless them, and they refused any reward.
If I’d done it once, I couldn’t be sure that I wouldn’t do it again, so I knew I needed a strategy. My inspiration was airline personnel who wear their name tags round their neck. I bought a lanyard from the Denver Museum of History and used it to chain my wallet to my purse. Now, when I take out my wallet, the strap snakes out with it. It means that if I drop my wallet it swings like a pendulum. But it also means I can’t lose it unless I lose my purse. One problem solved.
Losing my wallet started an uncomfortable series of thoughts, however. I checked on memory loss on the internet. I convinced myself that I was in the starting stages of some sort of terrible, progressive decline. But in my more lucid moments, I noticed that my long term memory was fine and that when I actually focused on something, there was no problem. Gradually I realized that I was not losing my mind, but I was losing my ability to multitask.
Multitasking used to be one of my strengths in a high stress job. Now I had to admit that coming into the house with arms full of groceries, my keys, and my purse was an immediate invitation to losing something. Cleaning the house with a cup of tea (or a glass of wine—you should see what grows in that!) meant that the cup got put down and became organic compost for organisms with names I couldn’t pronounce. Going to the airport and dealing with various forms and documents was a certain invitation to losing the piece of paper with the flight details. Losing things happened when I was tired, distracted, frustrated, and overwhelmed—and not all at once.
All right, I said to myself, if I can’t multitask, there has to be a strategy for dealing with this. I made a list. What was I was most likely to lose? Besides cups and glasses, it was whatever was in my hand when I was thinking about something else. That covered a lot of territory.
Understanding my tendency to lose things wasn’t easy for the organized among us. Be consistent with where you put things was Sid’s advice. OK. I was willing to give it a shot. As soon as I came in the front door, I was supposed to hang my purse on a coat rack. Well, after a week or two of very hit or miss, I realized it wasn’t going to work. I’d remember where my purse ought to be but not where it was. I even tried one of the alarms that is supposed to sound when you clap or whistle. It didn’t. Apparently I couldn’t clap at the right pitch and loudness, and my whistle was more spit that sound. But the gadget did make a nice buzz when a door slammed.
That’s when I finally got smart. If I can’t be relied on to be consistent, and if I am still going to try to multitask even when I have this new handicap, I need to outsmart myself and make it unlikely (notice I don’t say impossible) to put things down and forget where I put them.
Problem: how to find my keys. Answer: I now chain my keys to my cell phone and when I go out, I hang them round my neck. People either look at me strangely or (if they are older) they comment on what a good idea it is. I haven’t seen anyone else with it—yet—but since that time I can find my keys easily by dialing my cell phone on the cordless house phone.
Problem: what to do with the letters that I read as I come in from the mailbox and put down and then lose. This is the really the crux of the problem. I haven’t yet figured out how to deal with it. But I have made a rule that seems to be helping: anything I put down must be on a flat surface and in plain sight.
My strategies do seem to be helping somewhat, although I’m not sure how to deal with tea cup that Sid found on the pantry shelf where I had been putting groceries away. I don't remember putting it there, but I must have. I guess I must have been thinking about what to cook for dinner.
I began noticing things had a tendency to disappear a few years back. The first thing was my wallet. I put it down on the seat next to me at Wendy’s and said to myself I must remember this. Well, I didn’t. I got a phone call from Wendy’s not too much later saying that someone had turned it in. The manager had counted my money and searched for identification. There it all was, bless them, and they refused any reward.
If I’d done it once, I couldn’t be sure that I wouldn’t do it again, so I knew I needed a strategy. My inspiration was airline personnel who wear their name tags round their neck. I bought a lanyard from the Denver Museum of History and used it to chain my wallet to my purse. Now, when I take out my wallet, the strap snakes out with it. It means that if I drop my wallet it swings like a pendulum. But it also means I can’t lose it unless I lose my purse. One problem solved.
Losing my wallet started an uncomfortable series of thoughts, however. I checked on memory loss on the internet. I convinced myself that I was in the starting stages of some sort of terrible, progressive decline. But in my more lucid moments, I noticed that my long term memory was fine and that when I actually focused on something, there was no problem. Gradually I realized that I was not losing my mind, but I was losing my ability to multitask.
Multitasking used to be one of my strengths in a high stress job. Now I had to admit that coming into the house with arms full of groceries, my keys, and my purse was an immediate invitation to losing something. Cleaning the house with a cup of tea (or a glass of wine—you should see what grows in that!) meant that the cup got put down and became organic compost for organisms with names I couldn’t pronounce. Going to the airport and dealing with various forms and documents was a certain invitation to losing the piece of paper with the flight details. Losing things happened when I was tired, distracted, frustrated, and overwhelmed—and not all at once.
All right, I said to myself, if I can’t multitask, there has to be a strategy for dealing with this. I made a list. What was I was most likely to lose? Besides cups and glasses, it was whatever was in my hand when I was thinking about something else. That covered a lot of territory.
Understanding my tendency to lose things wasn’t easy for the organized among us. Be consistent with where you put things was Sid’s advice. OK. I was willing to give it a shot. As soon as I came in the front door, I was supposed to hang my purse on a coat rack. Well, after a week or two of very hit or miss, I realized it wasn’t going to work. I’d remember where my purse ought to be but not where it was. I even tried one of the alarms that is supposed to sound when you clap or whistle. It didn’t. Apparently I couldn’t clap at the right pitch and loudness, and my whistle was more spit that sound. But the gadget did make a nice buzz when a door slammed.
That’s when I finally got smart. If I can’t be relied on to be consistent, and if I am still going to try to multitask even when I have this new handicap, I need to outsmart myself and make it unlikely (notice I don’t say impossible) to put things down and forget where I put them.
Problem: how to find my keys. Answer: I now chain my keys to my cell phone and when I go out, I hang them round my neck. People either look at me strangely or (if they are older) they comment on what a good idea it is. I haven’t seen anyone else with it—yet—but since that time I can find my keys easily by dialing my cell phone on the cordless house phone.
Problem: what to do with the letters that I read as I come in from the mailbox and put down and then lose. This is the really the crux of the problem. I haven’t yet figured out how to deal with it. But I have made a rule that seems to be helping: anything I put down must be on a flat surface and in plain sight.
My strategies do seem to be helping somewhat, although I’m not sure how to deal with tea cup that Sid found on the pantry shelf where I had been putting groceries away. I don't remember putting it there, but I must have. I guess I must have been thinking about what to cook for dinner.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Hanging on for the End
During my working years, a lot of people seemed to living for the day they could retire. You’d hear things like “Three more years to go,” or “Soon they can have this place and they can . . . ." The end of the rainbow was always doing things there hadn’t been time for while raising kids and paying down the mortgage. Just out of curiosity, I did an unscientific canvass of retirees to see what they had thought they would do in retirement and what actually happened.
1. The Dream of Travel
I heard this everywhere. Seeing the Canadian Rockies or Maritimes, taking a cruise, or becoming a snowbird. Must be part of the myth of the American road. Many sold the house, got a large RV, and hit the highways. But somehow the world had changed by the time they did it. Air travel became a hassle. Gas station owners hung out the welcome flags when the large RVs showed up and retirees got on a first name basis with the truckers because they all used the same truck stops. Many of the RV folk ended up staying in one place, adjusting to life in a 40 foot with slideouts while looking for a house. Verdict: tends to get old, sooner for some people.
2. The Dream of Activities
Some people had wanted to sell their house and move into a small condo next to a golf course or tennis courts. Others thought they would spend their retirement years taking cruises. They had the kids come over to pick out what they wanted from the to-be-downsized house and then help out with a series of garage sales and donations to charity. It sounded romantic—all those views out over the immaculate greens—until the first golf ball came through their window and until all those planned activities finally became more of a chore or a literal pain than a pleasure. Verdict: OK as long as your health and money hold out.
3. The Dream of Volunteering
Some people wanted to use their new leisure to help others and make a difference. This sounded noble and compelling. Even I fell prey to this one. I volunteered and soon found that it takes skill to value volunteers. I couldn’t tell the difference between working for pay for an overbearing boss and working without pay for an overbearing boss. The skill to supervise volunteers turned out to be rare. One supervisor told me that I should be grateful to be volunteering. It was to be done for its own sake and volunteers should not expect to be appreciated. Amazing. Verdict: not all volunteering is equally satisfying.
4. The Dream of Getting a Part-time Job
I heard this one quite often from the men who had passions like woodworking. They dreamed of working a few hours a week, making a few dollars, and doing something they loved. Some of them did. The local railroad shop is full of older guys holding forth on the subject of engines and layouts. They are also greeters at Walmart. But it’s been tough for others when the HR department make assumptions about older people and think they need to keep a defibrillator on hand for emergencies. Verdict: check out the people already hired. Everyone has to say they support equal opportunity.
5. The Dream of More Time for the Family
This dream took several interesting turns. Some retirees felt very useful providing free childcare. Most thought that their children would be in touch and the family would become closer. Maybe some did. I didn’t find many. Instead the children still had their own lives and retired parents became another responsibility. I heard over and over that some adult child never calls or takes forever to return a call. There are a whole series of jokes about just that situation. Verdict: don’t bank on the kids being happy to entertain you. If you want a friend, get a dog.
Undoubtedly there are many who enjoy some or all of these ways to spend their retirement. But for many others, they are illusions fostered by people who are still in the workplace and only dreaming of this magical thing called retirement.
So what is the reality? The biggest challenges of retirement—given that health is not an issue—are finding something worthwhile to do and avoiding loneliness. This is why retirees at some point consider senior communities so they can be with others. This is fine as long as people are willing to completely change their lives about and make completely new friendships. That’s a big overhaul.
If I could go back to those twenty-year-olds already planning their retirement, I would say this. Retirement will work if you keep your friendships. Old friends are best. Travel is fine, but not if it takes you away from the people you know. Activities are fine as long as you have someone to share them with. Volunteering is fine as long as you are part of a group of like-minded people. Working is fine as long as you are valued and wanted. But ultimately realize that you are on your own even if the world is as open to you and your choices as it has ever been.
1. The Dream of Travel
I heard this everywhere. Seeing the Canadian Rockies or Maritimes, taking a cruise, or becoming a snowbird. Must be part of the myth of the American road. Many sold the house, got a large RV, and hit the highways. But somehow the world had changed by the time they did it. Air travel became a hassle. Gas station owners hung out the welcome flags when the large RVs showed up and retirees got on a first name basis with the truckers because they all used the same truck stops. Many of the RV folk ended up staying in one place, adjusting to life in a 40 foot with slideouts while looking for a house. Verdict: tends to get old, sooner for some people.
2. The Dream of Activities
Some people had wanted to sell their house and move into a small condo next to a golf course or tennis courts. Others thought they would spend their retirement years taking cruises. They had the kids come over to pick out what they wanted from the to-be-downsized house and then help out with a series of garage sales and donations to charity. It sounded romantic—all those views out over the immaculate greens—until the first golf ball came through their window and until all those planned activities finally became more of a chore or a literal pain than a pleasure. Verdict: OK as long as your health and money hold out.
3. The Dream of Volunteering
Some people wanted to use their new leisure to help others and make a difference. This sounded noble and compelling. Even I fell prey to this one. I volunteered and soon found that it takes skill to value volunteers. I couldn’t tell the difference between working for pay for an overbearing boss and working without pay for an overbearing boss. The skill to supervise volunteers turned out to be rare. One supervisor told me that I should be grateful to be volunteering. It was to be done for its own sake and volunteers should not expect to be appreciated. Amazing. Verdict: not all volunteering is equally satisfying.
4. The Dream of Getting a Part-time Job
I heard this one quite often from the men who had passions like woodworking. They dreamed of working a few hours a week, making a few dollars, and doing something they loved. Some of them did. The local railroad shop is full of older guys holding forth on the subject of engines and layouts. They are also greeters at Walmart. But it’s been tough for others when the HR department make assumptions about older people and think they need to keep a defibrillator on hand for emergencies. Verdict: check out the people already hired. Everyone has to say they support equal opportunity.
5. The Dream of More Time for the Family
This dream took several interesting turns. Some retirees felt very useful providing free childcare. Most thought that their children would be in touch and the family would become closer. Maybe some did. I didn’t find many. Instead the children still had their own lives and retired parents became another responsibility. I heard over and over that some adult child never calls or takes forever to return a call. There are a whole series of jokes about just that situation. Verdict: don’t bank on the kids being happy to entertain you. If you want a friend, get a dog.
Undoubtedly there are many who enjoy some or all of these ways to spend their retirement. But for many others, they are illusions fostered by people who are still in the workplace and only dreaming of this magical thing called retirement.
So what is the reality? The biggest challenges of retirement—given that health is not an issue—are finding something worthwhile to do and avoiding loneliness. This is why retirees at some point consider senior communities so they can be with others. This is fine as long as people are willing to completely change their lives about and make completely new friendships. That’s a big overhaul.
If I could go back to those twenty-year-olds already planning their retirement, I would say this. Retirement will work if you keep your friendships. Old friends are best. Travel is fine, but not if it takes you away from the people you know. Activities are fine as long as you have someone to share them with. Volunteering is fine as long as you are part of a group of like-minded people. Working is fine as long as you are valued and wanted. But ultimately realize that you are on your own even if the world is as open to you and your choices as it has ever been.
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