No I'm not being Scrooge.  Rob Youngquist called last week, asked if I had bubble lights on my tree [I don't], and suggested that as a Midwestern born mom, it was my duty to blog about old and best forgotten [my words, not his] Christmas decorations.  I suggested he write the blog, but he didn't bite on the invitation.

First a story.

The year was 1967.  I was attending school in Minneapolis and went home to Bismarck & Mandan, North Dakota—a long and snowy 400 miles—for Christmas.  The weather was bitter cold that year—40 below and lower with wind chills in the minus 80 range.  [You needn't wonder why I live in Florida.] 

Suffice it to say, when New Year's Eve arrived, my mother and her husband, Ed, refused to lend my stepsister Connie and I a car to go out and party.  Something was said about "dangerous" and "freezing to death."  Instead, the folks went out and left Connie and I to mind the motel on the off chance someone was actually out in the elements and looking for a room for the night.  They also left us with a bottle of wine [theirs not ours, but who was paying attention] and instructions to disassemble the ugly, metallic Christmas tree [my words, not theirs].

You know the kind.  The lighting was provided with a color wheel, and Connie and I hated the damn thing.  We proceeded to take the tree apart, stowing each shiny branch in its individual cardboard tube.  We stowed the decorations and packed up the color wheel.  THEN, we sawed the trunk into several pieces, rendering it useless, though we thought that Papa Eddie might fix it with black tape.

Our plan was to bury it in a snow bank to be discovered in the spring, but, alas, it was way too cold outside and the snow banks far too frozen.  So we put the pieces in the bottom of the box. 

We announced out delinquency by singing, "Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Tree, forever true your colors were," for days.  They knew we did something, but didn't know what.

The good thing was the following year there was a green fake tree instead, however, I was living in NYC by then and couldn't go home to see it.

Other interesting yet ugly decorations:

Of course, Rob's bubble lights fall into this category.  For those of you too young to know, little glass tubes—some perhaps were colored, ours weren't—were attached to Christmas bulbs.  When the water in the tubes heated, it bubbled, varying the light patterns.  I don't remember if they were pretty or not, but I suspect not.

Remember tinsel?  It's still available, but savvy decorators use garlands instead.  It was strategically critical to hang each piece of tinsel individually to assure the proper effect.  Usually, it was a job assigned to the kids, which explains why there was more on the bottom of the tree than the top, and each piece was NOT individually hung.  The cleanup after the hanging and the removing was remarkable, especially when mixed with dried pine needles.

Homemade popcorn garlands.  Popcorn was strung using a needle and thread, then draped artistically around the tree.  It usually wouldn't last the whole season, given it fell off the string or got picked off and eaten by the aforementioned children.

I still put a few vintage decorations on my little tree, having saved some of my mother's favorites.  They are not particularly beautiful either, but it's a memory and a smile for people and times long past.

Erik Erikson’s stages of psychosocial development explain how a healthy human passes from infancy to late adulthood.  There are eight of them, and if you’re so moved, you can Google for more information.  In any event, let’s for a minute play his stages against our society’s current inclination to say that sixty is the new fifty.  I don’t quite get the concept.  I’m more an is-what-it-is type.

I’d say I have arrested development and am still in the 40-64 years, Generativity vs. Stagnation Stage.  I suppose that’s why I have a Pay List, versus a Bucket List.  The last one, 64 years-death, is Ego Integrity vs. Despair where an individual struggles with the  value of his or her life.  I’ll save that question for when I feel older.

One of the things about retirement is I have the time and inclination to examine my own behavior—not always a pleasant activity.  I’ve decided that my gardening-thing--I amended my Pay List to gardening versus just orchids—directly relates to my developmental stage.  I want things to grow and prosper, and I want to nurture them to make it happen.  I spend the last many years growing nurses—an exceedingly rewarding yet tiring enterprise.  Now, I have a need to grow other things.  I never had a green thumb.  But in truth, what I didn’t have was the time or the patience to learn about growing healthy plants.  I was focused on growing healthy people.

My friend Ellie accused Steve and I of turning into Ozzie and Harriet.  I don’t think it was the garden so much as the apron—which I made, by the way.  (It is not all fluffy and frilly.  It’s a chef’s apron and combats my tendency to wear what I cook.)  It all comes back to the same thing, generativity.

As I examine many of the other activities on my Pay List, I form the same conclusion.  Like many of you, I spent so many hours working—and in my case writing, too—during the past 45-odd years that I didn’t do many of the things appropriate for my developmental stage.  (Hey, it’s a theory, and this is a blog.  I get to say what I want.)  Several things that are now more important to me—gardening, volunteering, helping animals, sewing, traveling with My Stevie, and cooking more organic, clean and healthy—seem to support my position.

How about you?  Is your development arrested, too?  And have I actually supported the notion that I thumbed my mostly Irish nose at in the first paragraph?  Is sixty really the new fifty?

Later.

GEB

Heraclitus of Ephesus said, “There is nothing permanent except change.”  (Hey, I’ve got Internet.  I looked it up.)  That doesn’t mean I have to like it.

Here’s the thing.  We live on a sweet little street.  There are six houses.  Four families, including ours, have been here since years before the turn of the century—the 21st Century, if you please.  The corner house’s long-term owner moved on.  It suffered interim abuse and is now a rental.  (Which is the worst fate I can imagine, both for the house and the neighborhood.)  One house had a lot of turnover, but is now owned and loved by a young family with an exuberant four-year-old we call the mayor of the cul-de-sac.

Why am I writing about this?  The couple across the street, having raised and married off their children, sold the house, and are moving out-of-state.  We understand.  We (also empty nesters) have talked about moving someplace cooler, more seasonal, or closer to this one or that one from time to time.

More than likely, we are planted here.  I’m nesting again—planting a garden (that’s another blog topic), growing orchids, getting bids for a new driveway, and pursuing my pay list with vigor.  We have family here, friends, my writing connections, and our lives.

The good thing is that the neighbors sold to a young couple and not to a rental company.  The bad thing is that they sold at all.  Change.  I suspect it’s a good one for our neighbors, and I wish them well, but it’s jarring for us.  Over the years, they have become more than neighbors, they’ve become friends.  People who can be counted on to watch the house, get the mail, and help out in a crisis.  I’ll miss them.  A lot.

I remember a long time ago, the hospital I was working for was sold to one of the big corporations.  Changes, many of them drastic, rolled through the place in unrelenting waves, encompassing every facet of organization life.  It became apparent that it was easier for me to leave and have complete change than to watch what I helped build be torn apart a brick at a time.  I experienced all the elements of grieving.

That is what’s happening now.  Having identified our loss at an emotional level, Steve and I looked around, counted the good things, and planted more perennials. 

Later.


GEB

Destination:  Tupelo, Mississippi

When I told my writing group I was going to Tupelo for a weekend. the comments were varied.  In summary:  “Why?”  “Huh?”  “OMG.”  “That seems odd.”

It really isn’t odd at all.  My brother moved there many years ago, eventually his boys followed.  They are an established part of the community.  So, the purpose of the excursion was a long overdue family visit to the Dickey clan.

That’s a funny thing as well.  I never realized at a gut level that there is really a bunch of Dickeys all in one area.  When we grew up in North Dakota, it was our small family and the grandparents.  

My brother hosted a family barbecue on his front deck.  By the time everyone arrived, there were more than a dozen people, including three two-year-olds, a ten-year-old who was two when we last visited—yeah, I know—and a stray close friend or two.  I looked around and marveled at the wonder of it all.  (I also know that many of you are saying that is sure a small clan.  Okay.  I get that, too.  But to me it was awesome.)

My brother asked about how Steve was handling the culture shock.  Suffice it to say, he did experience a bit of that.  I have some sympathy with him, having married into a large, close, citified, Jewish family.

We dined on delicious corn perfectly steamed in a cooler, radishes from the garden, salad with wild greens from the woods added, potatoes roasted in some solar powered gizmo behind the house, homemade potato salad, and steaks tied together and roasted in a cooker over homemade charcoal.  I had a ride in a homemade dune buggy through the trees, mud, and hills.

The next day, a close-by restaurant opened to serve us a late lunch.  That’s the total truth.  The place is closed on Sundays—it is Mississippi.  My niece and nephew made the arrangements with one phone call.  Amazing.  

The cook cooked, my nephew and a couple others of us helped set and bus the tables, and the two-year-olds acted accordingly.  My brother and his wife brought their band and entertained us with their tunes.  I even got to sit in on the drums for a couple of songs. (Youtube link to Dickey band.)

I found Tupelo to be a nice little town where people say hello.  The family experience was like being wrapped in a blanket of love and acceptance.  And, they are handling the creation of the next generation just fine.

Then we were told to “get the hell out of Dodge” because the tornados were coming.  We left early Monday morning and were in Atlanta to catch our return flight home before the huge tornado hit Tupelo, leveling over 100 houses in its path.  Thank God, my relatives are fine, as are their dwellings.

My thanks to the Dickey clan for welcoming us 'home'.

GEB

No, I'm not talking about my first day retired.  Though that qualifies, this tastes sweeter.

I volunteer at the Sawgrass Nature Center and Wildlife Hospital doing things such as helping with the animals at children's parties--there is a charge to the family, bringing revenue to the center--and going to outreach functions.  I love the animals and the mission of the Center.  It's not really about children and visitors.  It's about the animals.  Rescue.  Save.  Return to the wild.  Keep forever if necessary for the welfare of the individual critter.

The focus for native species--such as the Florida Gopher Tortoise--is to rescue, rehabilitate, and release.  Exotic species, those not native to Florida, cannot be released into the wild.  Look at what the illegal python releases are doing to the Everglades.  My favorite captive exotic bunny would also cause problems if he found a mate and didn't get eaten in the process.  SNC has a habitat area to house exotic animals and natives unable to be released.  They can live out their lives and avoid becoming part of the food chain.

The Florida Gopher Tortoise is a keystone species, meaning it is essential to the environment.  They are burrowing animals and share their burrows with other animals, many of whom would die without the accommodations provided them by the Gopher Tortoise.

A couple of weeks ago, I was honored to serve the SNC at the Earth Day celebration at Sandy Ridge Sanctuary.  We took a modest assortment of critters for visitors to meet.  Donna, the wonderful woman who runs the hospital, gave periodic talks about the animals, which I proudly displayed.  One of the animals was a Gopher Tortoise.

Bruce, the tall thin man in the video, is also a volunteer, but one with longevity.  It is obvious to me that he loves the tortoises.  On a weekly basis, he takes them out to allow them to browse for things to eat, helping them retain their natural instincts.  On this day, he asked if it were possible for our little tortoise to have his freedom.  After Donna gave permission and secured agreement from the sanctuary, an abandoned burrow was located, and Bruce got his wish.  I tagged along after Bruce and Donna with my iPhone capturing the moment.

The little Tortoise got his way, too.  

Follow the SNC on Facebook.

GEB

I'm really not OCD.  Well, borderline maybe.  I sometimes have messy drawers, my closet isn't organized by color, I have a junk drawer (Steve has a junk garage!), and I tolerate the mess on Steve's desk quite well.  I probably haven't swept all the stacks of stuff into a drawer more than a half dozen times over the years.

I have a low tolerance for chaos.  Having a painter in the house is just that.  The thought of having the house torn up makes me anxious. 

First there is the whole issue of picking colors.  We went to Home Depot and acquired a Behr color deck.  I picked colors.  We bought samples.  I smeared the samples here and there.  Then I called my friend, critique partner, and artist extraordinare, Victoria Landis.  

The conversation went something like this.  "OMG!  You can't put that color there.  What?  Are you color blind?"  Okay, Vicki really wasn't rude, but she was pointed.  So, when she came to critique group last Thursday, she helped with choosing new, more appropriate colors.

That in itself was interesting.  Steve's business was fixing furniture.  He fixed finishes, matched colors, and generally made imperfections disappear.  He sees colors differently than I do.  "That has tones of orange."

"If you say so.  Who am I to argue?"

Vicki is the same way.  She see nuances of color that aren't there for me.  It's similar to a musician hearing things in music that other people may not hear.

Vicki told me a long time ago that I had painted the inside of my house white.  I thought it was beige.  Steve agreed it was a shade of white.  I don't get it.

So Steve and Vicki picked the colors while I said things like, "That's nice."  "Pretty."  "Okay."  "Works for me."  What do I know about color?  They picked two beige shades for me to choose from, Alpaca or Moccasin.  

To me, both colors looked beige.  No tones.  Just beige.  Light beige.  Dark beige.  Medium beige.  Okay, maybe, "That's looks a bit yellow to me."  The Alpaca looked a bit darker.  I picked that.

It went the same way with the other rooms as well.  My light green kitchen in now a deep sage, Cheyenne.  (Who names these things anyway?)

The blue I picked for my new den, office, writing room, and exercise space (treadmill) morphed into a soft grayish-blue called Silver Mist.  The blue bathroom became Santorini Blue, which is also a grayish-blue shade, though a bit darker.

The end result is that Vicki and Steve were 100% right.  I like the way the Alpaca picks up colors from the artwork.  My blue den is soft and restful.

Having the rooms torn apart feels chaotic and claustraphobic to me.  Steve knows that, so we rip the rooms apart first thing in the morning and put the days mess in place at the end of the day.  It has been hard work.  I often wear a pedometer (Weight Watchers goal of 10,000 steps a day).  Yesterday I clocked 11,000 steps and didn't even get on the treadmill, and I'm not doing the painting this time.  The painter, Phil Gagne, is much faster, better, and more tidy than I am--and he cleans up after himself.

The end result?  Beautiful.

GEB

Next week I'll be participating in the Florida Crazy Blog Hop.  It is sponsored by the Florida Chapter of Mystery Writers of America.  I predict it will be good reading, and there is a giveaway contest for a Kindle Paperwhite.