Here is my "Rockin' a Hard Place" blogtalk for January, which I performed this weekend at the monthly Postcards from Whidbey Island variety show here in beautiful Coupeville, Washington.
This is my sixth Rockin a Hard Place blogtalk about the peculiarities of life on Whidbey Island. And to think some folks doubted I’d find enough material!
This month I have decided to talk about retirement living here on the Rock. I know that doesn’t sound like it’s related to this show’s theme about families and feuds. Believe me, it is. But let’s start with a show of hands. How many here are retired like me? About as I expected . . .since the average age here on the Rock seems to be somewhere between 50 and death.
There are a whole lot of advantages to being retired on Whidbey. Among the very best is the stress-reducing distance you keep from your family back in America. Don’t get me wrong. I love my relatives. I’m just glad it’s not easy for them to drop by. When I retired here, I made a point of warning them that the Mukilteo ferry might sink or the Deception Pass bridge could collapse. And, thanks to caller ID, I can ignore their calls and blame it on our terrible cell service on the island. If contact must be had, I can always call up their faces on Skype . . . then discretely disconnect whenever I wish and blame it on the Rock’s poor Internet connections.
My relatives do come to visit us, and we are glad to see them. It’s just that we require advance reservations. And we frequently tell them we’re already booked . . . isn’t that a shame. When they do come over, we enjoy showing them around the island . . . and pretending not to hear their occasional awkward comments. My seven-year-old great niece was here before Christmas. Sweet little girl. Just love her, even though she talks AND sings ALL the time. Said to me as we ate lunch at the Knead and Feed, “Uncle Harry, when you die can I have your house?” Everybody wants to live on Whidbey Island. Get in line, girl, with the rest of the nieces and nephews.
A friend told me to expect that my first year of retirement would be a little confusing . . . as if my life were one big Google search on the Internet. Once you’re free from the straitjacket of work, you begin each day intending to do one thing but quickly get distracted. Start to clean the closet . . .and discover your old high school photo album. . . then wonder whatever happened to so-and-so. . .and spend an hour searching for them on Yahoo and Facebook. . .but give up and instead respond to the hundred or so emails you received overnight. . .then realize the morning’s shot so you might as well go get a decaf, nonfat latte and forget it. And so it goes.
One thing I did not expect when I retired on the Rock was that I would be working more hours than ever…..but, of course, not getting paid. You arrive on the Rock having had some success doing something or other somewhere else, and you expect to spend your Golden Years admiring Mount Baker while walking the dog. Then somebody finds out you know how to do something and – kaboom! – you are on a committee! And another! Then you wake up one morning and you’re in charge of a committee! No wonder I don’t talk to my relatives. I don’t have time!
Here’s the bottom line about retired life on the Rock. You volunteer. You take a nap. You volunteer. You take a nap. You volunteer. You take a nap. And before you know it, it’s time for bed.
You do have to make a few adjustments when you retire on Rock. In America, you went out for dinner at eight o’clock. Here, the restaurants close at eight o’clock. You rushed to the supermarket in the evenings after work. Here, you hurry to Red Apple before the high school lets out. You used to enjoy the Tonight Show before falling asleep. Here, you fall asleep watching Jeopardy. In America, old folks hang out at McDonald’s and nurse one cup of coffee for hours as they watch the traffic go by. All afternoon. Here, old folks hang out at places like William Bell’s on the wharf and nurse one cup of coffee for hours as they watch the kayaks go by. All morning.
There are other retirement oddities on the Rock. After wearing a business suit almost everyday for 40 years, I haven’t put one on since I moved here. I’ve been told reliably that it’s against the law in Island County. I tried to donate my old suits and ties to a thrift shop but they just chuckled. Who’d want ‘em here? So they still hang in my closet, forlorn and lonely. . . food for the moths. We call that organic recycling on the Rock.
As I think about what I’ve just been saying, it dawns on me that I have become my grandfather. He got up at six and had cereal and juice. So do I. He complained about the sad state of modern society. So do I. He fell asleep in his chair in the evening. So do I. He tinkered his way through retirement. So do I. Except I use Google.
Then again, my grandfather always kept himself busy, never got bored, had a twinkle in his eye even when his eyesight failed, and died in his own bed at the age of 87. Not bad. Not bad at all.
Any way, thanks for listening. Now I have to go. It’s way past my bedtime and I have two committee meetings in the morning. See ya!
