"I think the only things left to do is: 1) enter publish date in Kindle version, 2) receive and pay invoice from you, and 3) deliver horse poop."

I received those words in an email from a client this morning.  (I do Kindle and CreateSpace conversions for other authors.  It's not on my pay list, but it does pay. 😉)  

I have to believe that I'm the only mystery writer in my neighborhood--or county, state, country--who received such a notice.  But, I'm pleased.  I'm growing an organic garden and making every effort to learn the methods.  Part of my gardening plan is to accumulate my own compost, and there are some very specific restrictions on what can be included in the pile.  

The material needs to be occasionally mixed for aeration--see the tool on the left of the bin.  Gradually, the bottom layer turns to a rich thick compost.  The sliding doors on the lower part of the bin provide access to the finished compost.

The West garden box is almost all planted.  The East box has five vacancies.  Some vegetables can't be planted until October, and with others, I'm anticipating wanting a staggered crop--if I can call a 12 inch square a crop.  The white box in the middle is for carrots, which I'll plant next week.

That concludes the poopy-conversation.

Later.
GEB

Check out this article on composting:
https://www.simplegrowsoil.com/blogs/news/composting-guide
​

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 not sure exactly who I'm older than.  Our kids, most of my former students, and the young couple that lives on the other side of our cul-de-sac come to mind.

On Monday, I received my MEDICARE CARD in the mail.  That is a bigger eye opener than getting an invitation to join AARP.  Then on Tuesday, my very first SOCIAL SECURITY check hit the bank.  Wow!  A double whammy.  I ran off to the gym and did a session of Zumba, followed by an hour of Yoga.

I had lunch with friends a couple weeks ago—I get to do that now that I'm retired.  One lovely lady was sporting a new hairdo.  I was queried about how I liked it.  "Very nice."  She had mixed her Endust up with her hairspray.  The result was quite attractive.  I didn't ask her why she stored both products in the same place.

In nursing, we teach that every label needs to be read three times to assure that the patient received the correct medication.  It seems that applies at home as well—and not just for us "older" people.  I remember years ago I got the bug spray mixed up with the oven cleaner.  The mess I made under the sink wasn't pretty, and the Palmetto bug was mad as hell. 

There are a couple of jokes involving just this type of problem, featuring products like PreparationH® & BenGay® or PreparationH® & Fasteeth®.  Notice the pattern.

One of the younger authors in my critique group wrote about a cougar.  For the life of me, I couldn't make the connection.  It wasn't a story about animals.  When the laughing died down, my friends clued me in on the older female/younger male definition.  Fascinated, I called my son and asked if he knew what a cougar was.  He concerned-sounding response was, "Why do you want to know?" 

Then, a couple of weeks later, I was forced to look up camel toe.  This time I was smart enough to Google it rather than asking.  (Go ahead.  You can pause your reading and Google it in another window.  Look up moose knuckle, too, while you're at it.)

Usually I read mystery, but the occasional romance lightens my mood.  Today I learned that condoms come in various sizes.  The small ones are called "snug fitting."  Isn't that cute.  The name had to be assigned by a macho mind.

Enough.

GEB

I have not reconsidered my retirement. 

But, I did get an email this morning that read, “Beware jealous neighbor.” 

My neighbor, who works for the school system, is intense, sincere, and knife-carrying in her  jealously.  (That isn't really true.  She is fantasizing about my retirement and her long, long 107 days.)  

Perhaps there is another plot and title in this situation.  Recent retiree is eliminated by jealous neighbor—who is later acquitted for justifiable homicide.  It probably needs some work.

My holiday vacation has been a good practice.  True, there has been a plethora of family and social activities, but down time as well, which I have used to read my upcoming release--the lord—one more time.  I've also started to designed the bookmark to go with the book.  Vicki Landis, artist and cover designer extraordinaire, approved my efforts, which is a shock.  She did say she’ll need to do some work on my self-designed   

In any case, I believe, I can adjust to this retirement thing rather quickly.  I have so many things to do.  Randy Rawls gave me a retirement card predicting the total adjustment time at 2 minutes.

We all think that no one can do as good a job as we do.  But it is not true.  The real truth is that sometimes those who follow us do a different job and perhaps a better one as well.  That is a very good result.  I still feel loyal to and bonded to the faculty I worked with and, of course, to the students. 

I thank one and all for their kind words, wonderful presents, and celebratory events.

(Going forward, I’ll be writing about something other than retirement.)


GEB

My heart is warmed by all the Happy Retirement wishes and activities directed my way.  I've also received an array of cards, emails, thoughtful gifts, and warm hugs.  I guess that makes me almost an official retiree.  Today, I admit to being happy-sad about the whole thing.  What is it Shakespeare said?  "Parting is such sweet sorrow."  I thank each and every thoughtful person who has wished me well.

Yesterday, Jason, the new AD, and I skipped graduation to finish up things in the office.  We took a break to chat a bit, and I asked him whether the new furniture for his office had been ordered.  He said it hadn't been, but he was going to move the current furniture around a bit.  When he told me his plans, I got up and started pushing the desk around.  In a short amount of time, we'd rearranged the room and made it IMPOSSIBLE [nice!] for two people to work at the desk and credenza at the same time.  Cool.  I picked up what was left of my belongings and went home.  I'll go in to work the first day of the January term, drop off my ID, do a little work if Jason asks, and wander around chatting with people.  There are many I have grown incredibly fond of and will miss seeing every day.

I'll also miss the students.  I'm sure I'll miss the structure.  What I won't miss is the all-consuming nature of the AD position and the way it captured my thoughts and dampened my creative writing muse.  I've continued editing manuscripts since my Interim Associate Dean position started in May, as evidenced by the lord being ready to release soon, but I've written nothing new.

I've learned from Mystery Writer's of America, that a writer needs to work on manuscripts at several levels all at the same time--publish and market, revise and rewrite, work with a critique group, and start a new novel.  I'm looking forward to the challenge with great anticipation.

I feel the urge to write bubbling inside.  But first, I'm going to go bake an apple pie.

GEB

Some days, while at work, I'm finding that easing into my retirement is more difficult than it sounds.  There has been a transition--as well there should be--to who is the ranking officer in our small office.  Jason has been more than gracious, accepting what I have to offer, making no demands, treating me with respect, and not making critical comments about my previous actions.  That's all cool.  I'm honored to participate in his orientation and grateful to be passing the position on to him.  

Meanwhile, I'm feeling progressively more left out of the loop--as well I should be.  It's an emotional thing and not a problem, just Feeling.

I admit to the same feelings when I set about retiring several months ago, only to end up as interim associate dean for a few months.  At that time, I passed my teaching domaine--class, lectures, files, everything--on to the faculty member assigned to take my classes.  We made a ceremony of moving a bunch of files from my office to hers.  During the summer, even though I was immersed in a new role, I keenly missed teaching and my beginning students.  I still do.  The difference in my relationship with our beginners is much different now than when I stood in front of their classroom.

I know this is all the emotional side of letting go of a long association with the college, the faculty, the students.  Meanwhile, the way is eased by the farewell gatherings, gifts, and kind words.  

I received two books that I will treasure.  One contains entries from faculty--kind words, thanks, and expressions of appreciation and love.  The other contains entries from students.  Some repeated stories I told in class that made an impression, some thanked me for the website I maintained over the years for their reference and use, and others commented on re-listening to tapes of my lectures (I say that's sick).  All were kind, respectful, and caring.  It tell me that I did good.

Next week, I work four days.  Then I go back one day after the holiday break.  I expect that by then the reality will have hit me, and I might not want to go--but I will.

The way my schedule is arranged, I'm in essence working part-time.  My vacation time is scattered in among the working days--use-it-or-lose-it.  That has pluses and minuses, for any of you thinking of phasing out in the same way. I'm thinking of it as practice retirement, but . . . 

Much of the workflow is email and computer generated.  That means that even if I'm not at work, there is the pressure to keep up with the emails.  I don't like students to wait in a vacuum, so I've always tried to let them know I saw the email and when I will get to the issue.  But it is not just the students who expect instant feedback.  So do other employees and managers.  The biggest issue, in all honesty, is my need for a clean desk and an empty inbox, both real and virtual.  (Many of the demons of the workplace are of our own creation, don't you think?)  Next week, I intend to see how I can manage this issue in a more effective manner.  

One of the things I don't want to happen when my eight days are done and I'm officially retire is to get old, fat, and stupid overnight.  Not that I think retired people are any of those things by virtue of their age, but there is the opportunity to make bad choices and have bad results. I don't intend to do that--please see my lengthy previously posted list.  However, many of the activities, like blogging, tend to exercise my fingers and brain more than my other parts.  That is why I plan to pursue many of the items as possible while walking on my treadmill or resting on an exercise ball.  I can also stand up and use the computer.  All good health choices.  At the moment, I'm walking on the treadmill at 2.0 mph.  Every little bit helps.

On a more happy note, Steve and I sent in our passport renewal applications today.  We don't have anything in particular planned, but we want to be ready.  The places both in the country and out that I would like to see are too numerous to mention.  I believe that in the 10 year life of the passport, we can make a hole in my list.  Then I'll need to start a new one.

Comments anyone?