Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Being inside on a cold and rainy day…

Walking in the door today after getting the oil changed in my pick-up truck, I immediately thought, as I always do, “You are so lucky to have this warm and dry place to be on this cold and rainy day.”

Why would I think that? Does everyone?

I wonder sometimes if I was overly influenced as a kid by people who lived through the Great Depression. Why exactly do I seem to appreciate this so much, being indoors and warm on a cold and rainy day? Why, when getting into bed on a winter’s night, with the wind blowing the snow outside my window, do I thank God for a warm and cozy place to rest my old head. And why after food shopping do I feel contented to have a full larder? Does anyone say, full larder, anymore?

I can remember my grandmother telling me as a very young child that I was lucky I wasn’t out on such a terrible night making my way in the cruel world. Selling matches or waiting for a drunken father outside the pub. I was constantly being reminded that I was lucky to have spinach, and anything else that I might have turned my nose up at, on my plate. Think of all the starving Armenians! Think of all the children who didn’t have kind parents, warm clothes, gifts at Christmas, bikes to ride and yards to play in.

Some of the children I know today, who seem to have everything imaginable, think of themselves as having less than they should. On the other hand, as a child I always thought of my family as having all that one could possibly want even though I now know we were fairly poor in real terms. What’s the difference?

I suspect it’s superstitious and insecure grandmothers of the Great Depression to love them and want them to appreciate every little thing they had.

Monday, March 22, 2010

Things to consider doing in retirement…

I did something this weekend that I have never done before. After listening to a guy on the radio talk about what kinds of germs and bacteria develop on unwashed bird feeders I decided to wash my three feeders for the first time ever.

My theory in the past was always that the little shits were lucky I put out seed at all, so count your birdy blessings. But after listening to this nut on the radio, and realizing that my feeders were empty after I had been away for a week, I decided to do the right thing.

I think this is part of the retirement experience – making the work expand to fill the available time. I certainly never considered it a necessity before. And the ground under my feeders has never been littered with dead or dying birds.

The guy on the radio said feeders should be washed more than once a month! I think my feeders just got their spring cleaning. Perhaps I’ll think about it again in the fall. He also talked about cleaning and emptying the bird houses. My house sparrows live in my bird houses year round so when would I do this?

By the by, there are lots of household chores that were regularly done at my house in the past that I do not do today. My mother and grandmother changed window curtains seasonally in every house we lived in. I’m just pleased I have curtains at all. My mother-in-law boiled the silverware to clean it thoroughly and ironed the underwear and the bedsheets. In both homes, big meat and potatoes meals were prepared every day, not just on the holidays like in my house.

Socks were mended, small appliances were repaired in the garage and little thingys were applied to the backs and arms of chairs. Perhaps the objective of retirement is to return to an earlier time.

Saturday, March 20, 2010

Grandpa Joe is undone

I was taking the two youngest granddaughters to school in Raleigh last week while visiting. And, of course, I was making fun of their school. They attend the Fuller School so, being as old as I am, I was asking if they enjoyed the Fuller Brush School and were they learning to make brushes and sell them door to door.

The older of the two, Lillian, looked at me in the rear view mirror with a very serious expression from her booster seat in the back and said, “Grandpa, you shouldn’t make fun of the Fuller Magnet School for the Gifted and Talented. It is hard to get accepted here.” I said, “So…”. And she responded, “You probably couldn’t go to school here.” “Why”, I asked, surprised.” “Well, you’re not very talented” she replied in a matter of fact manner.

It appears that 8 year old Lillian Schlamp has my number. Not very talented. I think I’m offended.

Monday, March 8, 2010

The Making of a Libertarian

Recently I made my second visit to the Massachusetts’ Registry of Motor Vehicles in six months.

The first time was the result of being a nervous Nellie. I decided to have my truck insured here, with the same folks who do my homeowner’s insurance, right after I decided to live full-time on the Cape, so that meant I had to get it registered here as well. And that meant I had to get it inspected.

And I actually had to go to the Registry since I was transferring a vehicle from, you know, a place as far away and as foreign as New Hampshire. This complicated transaction couldn’t be done over the Internet. Strange as it still seems to me, after all that, I also had to take my truck to a different garage where a guy photographed it, because you never know what kind of a junker those NH folks might be trying to sneak into good, old, honest Massachusetts.

But, since I had a perfectly valid driver’s license in New Hampshire and, in fact, still owned the condo there, I hadn’t changed it over to Mass. The NH license, after all, had until 2012 to go so turning it in early seemed like a real waste of money.

Inevitably though, I began to think about what the police officer would say when he pulled me over and I presented a Mass registration and a NH driver’s license. I was confident I could explain but the more I thought about it, the more I thought I better get the Mass license.

I also needed a Mass plate for my old boat trailer. I only use it twice each year: once in the spring to bring my skiff to the beach and once in the fall to bring it back. But God only knows what horrendous penalty I would pay if everything wasn’t A-OK.

As an aside, I had already arranged for a visit from an environmental police officer so he could inspect my twenty year old skiff because I built it and even though I have used it safely for twenty years it might not be sound enough for Massachusetts’ waters. He provided me with all the paperwork necessary to register the boat in Mass but that is another story.

So I present myself at the Registry on Cape Cod on a snowy morning last week. I wait in a line and fill out a form. Both sides. When I get to the counter, the lady there asks what I want and I tell her. She says I will have to get in line twice because licenses and registrations are never issued by the same clerk. She does not explain why. I’m sure it has to do with something so dense I would have trouble grasping the concept.

She chooses the license for me as my first assignment and gives me a number beginning with A and sends me to the benches on the right side of the big room. I sit and find that a daily paper has been abandoned there which I commence to read. Before I finish it the second time my number is called. I present myself at the correct window and explain what I would like to do. The young lady looks at my NH license and asks for a “certified” birth certificate, a Social Security card or a current passport, none of which I have on me at the moment.

I ask what we need to establish. She tells me we must determine my age, clearly listed on my NH license along with my birth date, and my U.S. citizenship as well as my residence in Massachusetts.

I produce my truck registration. Massachusetts no longer prints small registrations on thin pieces of paper that fit easily into your wallet. They give you an 8.5 by 11 sheet of paper. When I got mine, I cut the bottom half off where my insurance information was copied to make the top half smaller for my wallet. I always keep my insurance information in the truck so why would I need it twice?

The young lady tells me my abbreviated registration is not legal with the bottom cut off and it will cost $25 to get another copy! She wants the birth certificate, SS card or the passport AND utility bills for my alleged place of residence. I’m desperately trying to think of what other documentation I might have with me. I produce a new check with my Cape address. She is unimpressed.

I ask if I will have to start all over again when I get back with everything she requires. Reluctantly, she says I can come directly back to her.

I drive home. All the way wondering just what evidence 12 million illegals have produced to get their shiny new driver’s licenses.

I return to the registry and skip the first line going directly to a bench in front of my Gal Friday. There is loud muttering in line number 1. She finishes with a customer and I jump up. She avoids looking at me and says that I need to get in line and get a number. I explain that she herself, not more than 30 minutes ago, had said I could return directly to her station. She looks up. What do you want?

We begin again. I have a new passport and more utility bills than the Boston Garden. She studies my NH license and all my paperwork. She begins typing into her computer. I’m optimistic. I ask how much I should make the check out for. She informs me that is the very last step. My optimism wanes. Or is it possible she doesn’t know, off the top of her head, just how much a Mass license costs?

I take an eye test in a little contraption on her desk. I sit, smile and have a rather demented picture taken. Now I pay $100. She hands me an 8.5 by 11 piece of paper. No handy little plastic licenses for me! She warns me about cutting any part of it off although fully two thirds of it is blank.

I ask about registering my boat trailer. I attempt to pull out the NH registration. She looks alarmed and says in a whisper that she isn’t allowed to discuss registrations at this LICENSING station but she hopes I have my insurance papers! My heart sinks. Does Massachusetts require insurance on the stupid trailer as well as the truck? As I exit the building I know I have been defeated. I take one look back. My gal has left her station on the right side and is helping someone on the left side of the room TO GET A REGISTRATION!

Friday, March 5, 2010

I don't understand you, man.

A buddy sent an e-mail asking why I presume to think that anyone would care to read a blog posting about my meditation or exercise routines.

I thought the postings were interesting, I guess. I blog mostly because doing so amuses me. I do enjoy it if someone responds, even if they can’t understand why I write what I write.

Look at it this way. I live alone. My blog postings are like my end of a casual conversation with friends. This helps, I think, to limit the amount of talking I do to myself when I have a thought or want to try some idea out with someone or I simply want to tell someone what I am doing these days. You know, when I feel like talking about something and there isn’t anyone there to listen.

I don’t want this to sound pathetic. I don’t feel put upon at all by my circumstances. I like living alone. I take great pleasure in deciding what I will do with every minute of every day. I was married for almost 40 years and wouldn’t change that for anything. But now, at this point in my life, given circumstances I can’t control, I enjoy my time alone. Blogging helps with this.

So, bite me!

Walking to France, the exercise routine of an elderly man


It is about 3400 miles give or take from my house to the shores of France. Perhaps a little less since I got that figure from a website that insisted I use cities rather than countries in its little “From” and “To” boxes and Paris is the only city I know of in France that I can actually spell. So the mileage is from here to Paris to be precise.

At the rate of two miles a day, this trip will take me 1700 days or almost 5 years. What the Hell, it’s a goal.

I walk on my treadmill for about 36 minutes each day. After warming up for 5 minutes at a speed of 3.4 MPH, I travel uphill, starting at the 1.5 incline for 5 minutes, and then 3.0 incline for 5 and finally 4.5 for 5. Then I start down the hill using the same approach, 3.0, then 1.5 and finally 0 incline. At this point I begin to do what I call “running” at a speed of 5 MPH.

What this really looks like, I’m told, is an old guy about to fall forward and, therefore, speeding up just enough to make the inevitable crash more damaging. Except, if I’m lucky, there is no crash because I’m holding onto the handlebars for all I am worth. This insanity sometimes goes on for as long as two minutes.

Now, sweating like a pig, I drop to 4 MPH and begin to wind down slowly to 3.0 MPH and stop the machine at or around 36 minutes.

I have usually covered slightly more than 2 miles and burned around 250 calories or the equivalent of two dietetic cookies. The whole time I am listening to rock music from two speakers I have cobbled to the front of the treadmill using elastics and the unit’s cup holders. These are attached to my laptop so I can use Pandora as the music source. I’m convinced any relative entering the house during one of these sessions would have me in a home before the treadmill shut down.

I drink water as I trudge along. I really want coffee but I haven’t figured out how to contain and hold it without spillage. As if this was not enough, I go directly to a little lean to affair that helps me to do sit ups. I do twenty, grunting and groaning the whole time.

At last, I collapse into my chair and begin meditating, hoping to forget anything that came before, like the exercise. But we have already discussed that.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Have you noticed: It’s all about M.E.


I thought I might mention a few elements of my daily meditation and exercise routine.

Meditation, Exercise: my mother’s name was Margaret Estelle: my wife’s name was Martha Ellen; my oldest granddaughter’s name is Molly Elisabeth. Coincidence or ... coincidence!

I meditate each morning with my feet on the floor and my arms on the sides of the chair. The chair is the one I watch TV from, comfortable but fairly upright. This is in the family room by my French doors to the side yard. I begin by closing my eyes and counting back from ten, an old self-hypnosis trick, on the exhale. I breathe through my nose and exhale through my mouth. I count back several times.

Next, I concentrate on just the number one on each exhale. I tell myself that my toes are relaxed, my feet are relaxed, my ankles are relaxed and so forth until I get to my noggin.

As I relax, I pause in my breathing after each exhale. I concentrate on something, a circle, a dot, just in front of my nose. Remember, my eyes are closed so this has to be on the inside of my eyelids or in my imagination.

All this time I am thinking about other things. This is useful, I am not trying to banish all thought, just trying to relax and focus. This is much like when I pray. Some mornings I realize at this time just what it is I should be doing that day.

I continue to breathe in, focus on the number one on the exhale and pause. Sometimes I seem to lose track of just how long the pauses in my breathing last. Slowly, if I’m lucky or particularly focused on whatever appears in front of my eyes, I will continue like this for ten or fifteen minutes. I hear the birds outside my door, I recognize that the heat just went on but otherwise I am completely relaxed and “in another place”.

Slowly, I will become aware and upon counting from one to ten I will open my eyes. At this point I am aware of my breathing again and the day outside. I feel relaxed and ready for whatever comes next.

In this case, my next post will be about my exercise routine.