What Was The Question?

Sixteen or seventeen years ago,when Jane was walking along the boardwalk at Shilshole, something tiny and yellow caught her eye.  She picked it up: a yellow Barbie high-heeled shoe.

When she got back to the boat, she placed that shoe atop our VHF which is mounted on the overhead just as you come down the companionway... 

Yup, it's still there...

The operative question I have is... Why?  What was the question this placement answers?

• Was it to test Eolian's stability?
• Was it to see if the VHF is mounted at the Eolian's center of motion?  (It is, pretty nearly...)
• Was it to test me in some way?  If so, I have missed the cues...
• Was it associated with the rest of her shoe collection in some way?

All I know for sure is that the little yellow shoe is still there.  And that Jane checks periodically to see that it is. 

But she won't tell me why.

And I know better than to disturb it...

What Was The Question?

Wile Coyote is my mentor

Don't look down...

You remember those Road Runner cartoons, right?  The ones where the coyote runs right off the edge of the cliff and then keeps on running - on thin air - until he suddenly realizes that there is nothing beneath him but air.  Then zip!  And a distant poomph! as a small dust cloud is raised at the ground far below.

So far retirement feels sort of like that.  But not the sudden drop part, and that's just the point.  I have kept on with life just as before, pretty much.  There haven't been many 'empty' times, and I've not yet had time to finish the second book in the Game of Thrones series.

I feel like Wile while he is running on air, just before the point in the picture above.  Every footstep is just like the last one, and the one before that, even tho the cliff is no longer supporting me.

And everything will continue to be OK.

Just as long as I don't think about it and I don't look down.

Wile Coyote is my mentor

So: Is it any different?

(courtesy of www.hdwallpapersinn.com)

Today is the first day that I can lay claim to being retired.  My last day of work was last Thursday, but today is the first day I would have gone to work, if I was still working that is.

Does it feel different?  Well, no, I can't say that it does.  To me, it feels like just another day of weekend.   And with my previous 3-day/week schedule, there were always plenty of those.

What I don't feel:  That giddy, start-of-vacation feeling, that giant release that the last day of school gives.  None of that.

I suppose this might disappoint some of you nearing retirement.  You might be looking for confirmation that the grass really is greener on the other side.

So far, all I can say is that it is the same grass...

So: Is it any different?

End of an era

On October 1, 2013 I will be entering the third stage of life.

Stage one: Learning

Covers the period of life where you are acquiring knowledge and learning the skills that are required to make your way in our society.  Birth thru the end of schooling, whenever that is.

Stage two: Living

Covers the middle period of life where raising children and working to make that possible are the major foci of life.

Stage three: Leisure

Relaxing and enjoying the fruits of the first two stages. Retirement.

I announced my intention to retire at work this past Tuesday. And I have been pleasantly amazed by the number of folks who have called or stopped by to offer congratulations and best wishes.

The question they all universally asked: "What will you do?"

And then I remind them: I have a boat.

End of an era

Everyone has a story

Everyone has a story.  We all do.

But unlike those on shore, the stories of those of us living out here on G Dock lead to us living on a boat.  And that makes us definitely weird, at least by the standards of those living ashore.  So that means the stories that got us here all have an unusual twist, or a strange angle.

So aside from just having some common experiences with others living aboard (which are worth exploring in their own right), all of us have stories which are well above average when it comes to their interest level.

So it behooves you to grab a bottle of wine and go visit your neighbors down the dock.  Ask them how they got here, and listen.

I promise that you will not be bored.

Everyone has a story

New Year's at Nason Creek

A little more than half way down the east side of Cascades, our three days at a snow-bound cabin at Nason Creek had it all:

• The advertised snow. There was 3-4 feet on the ground, with more in places. We had to dig down to the lid on the propane tank, and had to shovel out the swings on this playhouse.
• Snow angels.
• Sledding. 
• Snow ice cream
• Dogs going nuts in the snow.
• Skiing at Stevens Pass (20 minutes away).
• There were ample adult beverages.
• There were Christmas presents.
• There was the infamous incident of the shot-ski.
• There was hot tubbing in the snow.

And there was family time. Lots of family time - it was the sea we swam in for a time.

But I will cherish forever a magical time-stopped moment when Grampa and Hazel, separated by 64 years, had a quiet conversation while sitting side by side in two swings out in the snow. The subject, you ask? I promised not to tell.

New Year's at Nason Creek

Networking

So here I sit at a Global Internet Portal (Starbucks), in Stanwood, WA no less. Yes, they are everywhere. I'm doing what cruisers do everywhere when at a GIP: sucking mightily on the Intertubes.

For the last several days we have been at the Camano Cabin, where internet connectivity is essentially non-existent. Well, not completely - I can intermittently reach a cell site on Whidbey Island with my iPhone, and use the phone as a network device, but everyone should know the suckiness of using the virtual keyboard on a phone... and then there's that helpful little imp, Mr. Autocorrect, who keeps changing what I type.

But here, ah here I can type freely at my normal blazing ordinary two-finger speed, and the letters stay on the page right where I put them. It's a joy.

But I have nothing boating to talk about - we've been away from Eolian for a long time. Days and days. A week even. And we won't be back for another week at least. I think I am starting to feel the first symptoms of saltwater deprivation.

But we had a great Christmas at the cabin, just Jane and me. And I have put in some quality time in the shop:

• Pulled the engine and tranny out of the 1959 Impala
• Bludgeoned the stuck piston out of the engine
• Separated the engine and (cast iron!) tranny
• Disassembled the engine and cleaned various parts

So it's been a good week, including a day of skiing at Stevens Pass. More of that to come...

For Christmas last year, we gave the kids some time in a cabin just over the crest at Stevens Pass - a skiing jump-off place. It's well high enough that there will be snow (a lot!) on the ground so the grand-munchkins can get some snow experience, and dogs are allowed. This means that the whole happy clan will be there - kind of like Thanksgiving at the Cabin, but with snow. And did I mention that its only 20 minutes from Stevens Pass?

Should be a lot of fun. Maybe there'll be pictures...

Networking

Dental Wednesday

Today was a day that the dental profession will surely record.

Since Sunday nite, I had been having increasing pain in the lower left jaw.  So on Monday I went in to my regular dentist for a look-see.  Well, between us (of course I was a willing participant!), we were unable to localize the pain to a particular tooth.  So she sent me to a specialist.

First available appointment:  Wednesday morning.

I'm not going to talk about Tuesday.  I made it thru, but it was ugly.  Really ugly.

This morning we were at the endodontist's office before 08:00, eagerly waiting for them to unlock the door (well, certainly I was eager).  A few tests, and the experts had located the problem and administered the Novocain for the work to begin.  And for the first time in days, the pain was gone.  Just... gone.  Oh, blessed relief!  I had not realized how much I had been hurting, even in the "calm" periods, until the pain was gone.  "Better living thru chemistry" used to be DuPont's corporate slogan, back before "chemical" became a four-letter word.  But let me tell you, I am a Believer!

So Dr. Colic and his assistant Linda went to work,  and 60 minutes and 3 root canals in one tooth later, the deed was complete.  I now have one more dead tooth in my mouth.  But don't feel bad.  You know what's great about a dead tooth?  It can never hurt again.  Not from a cavity, not from drilling, not from cleaning.  In a perverse way, I wish all my teeth were dead.  In fact, I think it is a design flaw to have nerves in teeth (one of several design flaws in the human body that I would correct, if I had the power to do so).

Just enough time to grab lunch and a brief recuperation period, then back to my regular dentist for more dental joy: a regularly scheduled cleaning/scraping session.  And more Novocain.

I'm home now, back aboard Eolian.  My credit card is smoking.  But I have a beer in my hand, and by far most importantly, I don't hurt.

And as my friend Ken at work says, it could have been worse.

Dental Wednesday

Our very lucky day

It was Friday; we were coming back down from skiing at Stevens Pass.  We were in that peculiar apres-ski feel - muscles tired and warm, bodies relaxed.

We had just entered the left-hand lane of the westbound trestle east of Everett - this is a looong pair of bridges over a tidal slough - one bridge each for eastbound and westbound traffic.

Suddenly there was a powerful vibration from the rear of the Suburban.  My mind, not yet working at full speed, started to form the thought that we were having a blowout.  And then with a *crunch*, the left rear of the vehicle dropped to the pavement, convincing me that we were now riding on the rim.  The vehicle lurched to the right, but despite the heavy traffic, the vehicle over there managed to avoid us - no contact was made.  Just as I got the Suburban back into our lane, we were passed by our wheel and tire, still going 60 mph; it rapidly disappeared out of sight ahead.  OK then, no blowout - we lost a wheel!  Thankfully, since the trestle is a divided roadway, the wheel could not encounter oncoming traffic.  If it had, there very probably would have been serious injury or death.

The heavy traffic really saved us.  Everyone around us saw what was happening and kept clear.  Those too far back to see us were confronted with a sea of brake lites, and so they slowed down too.  There were no accidents.

Stationary in the left-hand lane, I got out and looked - yep, no wheel on the left rear.  The brake drum was still on the hub, and had acted as a sort-of lumpy cast iron wheel during the decelleration, minimizing damage and allowing the vehicle to decelerate more or less in a straight line.

Soon a very courteous state policeman pulled up behind us and turned on his flashers, which helped to warn the traffic.  And then an Incident Response vehicle pulled up.  I briefly talked to them, and then walked ahead along the narrow walkway to see if I could retrieve the wheel so we could get the vehicle off the bridge.  Sadly, it was nowhere in sight.  But just as I got back to all the flashing lites, a stranger pulled up behind the Incident Response vehicle - he had my wheel in his back seat!  And in order to retrieve it and get back onto the westbound trestle, he had to have driven perhaps 15 miles!  He dropped it off and then disappeared - what an amazing Good Samaritan!  I should add that the Suburban is a *big* vehicle - the tires and wheels are big and heavy.  And yet he had managed to wrestle it into his back seat.  Again, amazing.

The Incident Response guy jacked up the rear and we put the wheel back on, using one lug nut stolen from each of the remaining 3 wheels, and we got the vehicle off of the trestle.

Just the week before, we had dropped $1k on new tires - so it was back to that tire store that we got towed.  The manager was visibly chagrined, and took very good personal care of us, including even springing for our dinner.  As Jane said, "This was our lucky day, and so it was your lucky day!".

Indeed.

Our very lucky day

Harbinger

When the Winter Collection leaves the boat, can spring be far away?  I think not.

(And I must confess that I also succumbed to spring fever and replaced several of the flannel shirts in my hanging locker with Hawaiian shirts.  I wore one today as a symbol of hope.)

Harbinger

Living on a boat with Jane. And her shoes.

I must start by saying that I love Jane very much, and that living aboard with her is a real joy.  But there are compromises.  Compromises which I joyfully make, I might add.

Jane likes shoes.

A lot.

A recent count put the number of pairs of shoes she has onboard at somewhere north of 13, and that is only the Winter Collection.  There is also a Summer Collection, which is apparently languishing off somewhere in storage.

Now I can only speculate here, but apparently there are shoes for rainy days, shoes for sunny days (but only Tuesdays), shoes for shopping at Fred Meyer, shoes for shopping at Safeway.  There are shoes for black dresses, shoes for black pants, and shoes for black shorts.  There are shoes for brown clothing, shoes for red clothing.  I am uncertain if there are shoes for grey clothing.  And tho this is the Winter Collection, the other day when we had to walk down the dock to shore in 6" of slush, Jane had no shoes which were suitable.

On those few occasions when I have been unwise enough to broach the subject of stowage devoted to shoes, I have been reminded of the number of tools I have aboard.  This is when I pontificate on the need to be able to fix just about anything while underway, and the fact that a #1 Phillips screwdriver can in no way substitute for a #2 Phillips screwdriver.  Then I reflect that the collection of wires and hose ends occupying the stowage behind the dinette seating has real value - after all, it once got us into Everett.  Jane, on the other hand, feels that just about any tool-needing situation can be faced bravely with... a chopstick.  (I must admit that on one occasion, a chopstick was the perfect tool, tho I can't quite remember what that occasion was.)

And so after 40 years of marriage, there is compromise.  I do not (too often) draw attention to the size of Jane's abundant shoe collection, and she does not (too often) threaten to pitch my meager tool and spares collection over the side.

And we keep a supply of chopsticks aboard.

Living on a boat with Jane. And her shoes.

Musings on Grandparenthood

Babies take 9 months, more or less. I have frequently observed that it takes all of those 9 months for the parents-to-be to come to grips with the idea of parenthood. In fact, I have observed this quite often lately with Erica and Ken (my daughter and son-in-law), since they are expecting! SHORTLY!

What I have failed to anticipate in all those years of making that observation: it takes at least that long to get used to the idea of grandparenthood.

I have been thru the parenthood acclimatization - with all the awe, amazement, joy, and with the weight of responsibility for a new life that you actually feel fall on your shoulders like a cloak. When it happens, you sense that you are moving forward, that life is being completed, filled in. It is a fulfilling and satisfying time.

Ah, but grandparenthood - that's different. Now, instead of fully entering the comforts of middle age, you are leaving, to old age. But wait - I'm not old! Notwithstanding that an old curmudgeon stares back at me in the mirror now every morning, I feel like I am middle-aged. I have been so for a long time, and I am contented with it. I don't want to give it up. I am comfortable with my delusion, and I want to keep it, thankyouverymuch.

Just as in parenthood, the grandparent (me? you talking to me?) still has responsibility for a new life, but now it is very different - it is all by proxy. The primary responsibility belongs to and must remain with the parents - you can offer hints and the rare sage advice, but you need to stay once removed so that you do not usurp the role of the parents.

Rearing a baby into an adult is the most important task a human being can undertake. And yet it is one that by far the majority of parents are forced to handle with on-the-job training. Very few people get to see the actual results of their efforts in an adult offspring - what worked well, and what maybe should have been handled differently - in time to apply the learnings to the rearing of another child. In point of fact, I believe that is what grandparents are for. They do have the experience and they do have the long viewpoint. But: gently, gently. Can I be subtle? Can I suggest, instead of pronounce? I hope so. But this will not be easy for me.

Seeing your child become a parent is remarkably fulfilling. But stepping into the proxy role, and out of middle age requires a significant change of world view.

I am not quite there yet.

And I am quickly running out of time.

Maybe I should ask the curmudgeon in the mirror for advice - he's old.

Musings on Grandparenthood