Twas the day before Christmas

At 69, the holidays are different.  Gone are the expectations of what may be, thrills at opening presents, experiments in riding, doing, constructing, playing all ending in exhaustion for children and parents at the end of the day with the Christmas meal.  Now my grandchildren are young adults, my daughter and son-in-law are well into their 40's, landing unexpectedly in middle age, amazed to remember when they thought that age to be that of the ancients.  

My holidays are now about memories of past times, like joining my sisters and mother, ensuring her holidays were full of fun, especially, I remember, the year, they all chipped in to give me my first yellow foul weather suit with its large brimmed hat that tied under my chin with a blue cord; like constructing my daughter's first bicycle with her dad at midnight laughing at the instructions that started out "Assemble before riding"; like stomping  through the snow in New York City with John to celebrate mid-night mass with caroling and the Christmas story, every year a different but sparkling experience.

My memories do not make me wish for the past, rather they warm me, fill me like a satisfying meal.  Each memory is special, some more exciting or ordinary than others, but all add up to what they are -- a history not to be shed. Presents are no longer necessary as we are lucky, we can buy exactly what we want, when we want it.  Our love and friendship satisfies us.  However, we continue to fill "orders" to deliver what our grandchildren specify and attempt to surprise our children and their spouses with presents, hoping to hit the targets of their desires.


As you can see from the photo and I am sure you are experiencing it for yourself, the weather this holiday season is gray, wet, warm and humid so our focus beyond a modest set of decorations in the apartment is on spending what is becoming "buckets of money" on preparations for next year -- repairing, outfitting, customizing, and enhancing Dolce Vento for our sailing adventure that starts in late summer 2016.  The work is like a HGTV episode, except we know that in the end the cost will not be recovered when we"list it", but we need to do it to "love it" because it will be home for quite a long time in the not to distant future.

We'll spend the summer on the Chesapeake Bay testing Dolce Vento's systems, new and old equipment, learning her quirks and strengthening our skills with this 46' recreational vehicle without wheels, but rather a 5'5" keel that slices the water while her 60'1" mast and sails fly through the air above.  In late August, our belongings will go into storage when we abandon all that is land based.  We are headed to the Keys first using a combination of coastal sailing and the Inter-coastal Waterway (ICW), then sail over to the Caribbean Islands in early 2017, if all goes reasonably well.  

Our lives are growing shorter, our skin is wrinkling and our muscles are demanding more exercise than ever before, so we decided to spend this last set of years doing something we are passionate about.  Life is an adventure and this holiday season is the opening to a new chapter.  What is in store for us we do not know, but we look forward to it.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Letter from Berlin

 

When you view German painting and sculpture created from the late 1800's to 1930's you get a sense of German culture.  Through a series of "successions" from the formal art academies, young German artists sought to align themselves with the modernists and the innovations of impressionism, cubism and abstract art that had exploded in throughout Europe.  However, after viewing the exhibition at the Bröhan Museum, we concluded that these artists were unable to imbue their work with the light and freshness, clarity and color purity of non-German artists at that time.  We sensed a seriousness or darkness that pervaded the work.  None of it made me embrace the art; rather it made me study it, not experience it.  Instead, where Germans succeeded above others was in crafts and fine arts-- Bauhaus, Art Nouveau and Art Deco design, all innovative styles in the building or construction of things.  German furniture and fixtures, where function and form combine, are a joy to sit in, touch and experience.

To understand more about the Berlin psyche, see "Bridge of Spies", a story of the cold war reality of a divided Berlin.  The devastation of Nazi rule and allied bombing of the city, the post WWII Soviet occupation and blockade, the East Berlin dictatorship with its Stasi police that spied on and terrorized East Berliners and the Wall that separated them from freedom resulted in over 250,000 tortured and almost 16,000 dead between 1946 to 1989.  This is the underlying cultural legacy of Berlin.  It is a city of people weary of secrets and guns who demand openness, personal privacy, freedom to act and commitment to democratic and transparent government.  It is why Germany took in a million Syrian refugees escaping the terrorism and destruction of the Assad regime in this past two years.  Freedom is precious for Berliners know what is it like not to have it.

For generations to come, Berliners will remind themselves of this dark past through its museums and memorials. The Holocaust Memorial starkly plants you amid coffin like gray granite blocks taking you into dark depths of isolation and unexpected fear of what is next around the corner.  Portions of the Wall has been preserved.  Tall iron posts the height of the wall mark where it once stood across the city.  The Stasi Prison conducts tours, some guided by former prisoners, to explain the physical and mental brutality of the Stasi against its own people.  The DDR Museum is dedicated to East Berlin life, the good, the bad and the very ugly.

The fastest growing and most energetic sector of Berlin in the former East Berlin where our friends Liz and Piotr live with their young daughter.  New construction and rehabilitation of old buildings for offices, apartments and retail space proliferate because there is open and re-purposed land ready for expansion.  All of Berlin is connected by an complete transportation system of affordable trams, underground subways and above ground trains and buses.  We traveled on all during our week visit.  

Living in Berlin is affordable with solid modern housing, excellent government supported childcare and support for families, placing a high value on free education from preschool through university.  Food is affordable and there is nothing better than the breads and pastries.  Bakeries are everywhere. I'm talking about flaky, delectable, light and not overly sweet cream puffs, croissants, eclairs, cakes, tarts, waffles, and custards displayed next to savory scones, puff pastries, and other edible delights.  Local cuisine focuses on cabbage dishes (sour krauts), warm potato salads, snitchzels, sausages, and goulashes or stews (meat, potatoes and vegetables in a gravy sauce).  To augment their crispy potato pancakes are crisp on the outside and creamy on the inside frites, sturdier than those of the French.  The food reminded me of my mother's cooking which she learned from her mother and grandmother.

The challenge we learned is the every day bureaucracy that has yet to be modernized and streamlined to support the rapidly expanding modern, technology adept population.  For example, to get your car registered and your drivers license, you must must go to multiple bureaus and private offices.  For exmaple, in Decmeber, you need to stand in line for an appointment to get processed.  The first opening are in February.  As Piotr said, "It makes American DMVs look like heaven."  

What we loved about Berlin was being outside, despite the cold weather.  In late November and December leading up to Christmas, there is a Winter Christmas Market in almost every Platz (Plaza).  The protestant religion is state supported so the markets are unabashedly Christian Christmas celebrations.  Markets are dressed in lights, have dozens of tents and stands offering grilled foods, pastries, mulled wines, beers and coffees, gifts and crafts of all sorts.  But, in my opinion, besides the entertainment stages, the best fun is had on the Ferris wheels, ponies and other rides for the kids that bring a holiday carnival atmosphere to the markets.  Berliners take their winter holidays seriously, rain, shine or snow.

With the euro at only $1.10, it is a good time to visit Berlin.  Just bring your woolly mittens, hat and warm clothes.  Our visit was special because our friends, Liz and Piotr, not only gave us shelter, helped us get oriented, joined us for some of our touring, but they also gave us valuable insights into the everyday life of living and working in Germany.  This city has energy.  It's a great place for young people to live, have children and do well. 
Aufwiedersehen!

Letter from London

London is like my favorite sweater -- comfortable, familiar and warm.  This is our fourth stay at the same hotel, just three blocks up from the Holborn tube station on the Piccadilly line that we take in from Heathrow airport.  It's a brilliant location just three blocks to the British museum, four blocks to Covent Garden and an easy walk  over to the Thames River to the south, Oxford Street Selfridges shopping to the west or St. Paul's and the City of London Museum to the east.  In this climate changed weather, it was mild, sometimes windy and occasionally sunny during our week here.  While in the north of England, cities and villages were inundated with rains and resulting floods, London had only light rain occasionally.

The purpose of this trip was to catch up with Martyn, with whom we have kept a friendship over twenty years after  we first met on a hiking tour in Tuscany, and his daughter, family and close circle of friends.  Under his guidance and companionship, we have a insider's experience when we visit, allowing us to embed ourselves in the culture and pulse of the city.  I've been visiting London since 1984, but knowing Martyn makes it special. Whether it's dinner out in London or at his home in suburb north of London, attending a Sunday concert we would never have found on our own, accompaying him to an opera or play in Covent Garden, exploring on our own the National Gallery, Tate Modern or British Museum, or  catching the river bus to Greenwich, we are at home in London.

London as many people know is a multi-cultural city.  Because of this, the holiday lights are less gold, green and red, leaning more to the white, silver and blue.  Window dressings are minor compared to what we have in the States, however, huge light ornaments and stars swing from lines that crisscross the main shopping streets in the areas of Oxford Street, Piccadilly Circus, Trafalgar Square, and Covent Garden.  Although,  I must say, the holiday street market in front of the Tate Modern was especially festive with green and red lights, tinsel and bells.  Stands selling crafts were intermingled with others offering grilled sausages, pretzels, and sweets.  We indulged.

We had a chance to see two major exhibits this week.  For the first, at the British Museum, we purchased tickets online before we came.  This exhibit traced the history of religions in Egypt since the pharoahs and their influnences on Egyptian culture.  Over a period of some six to seven hundred years, starting with the death of Cleopatra and Mark Anthony ending  the age of the Pharaohs, came the  Roman gods followed by Jews, then the Christains and then the Islamists, the dominant religious force today.  Each adopted practices, icons and rituals of their predecessors and added new ones to the mix.  For example, the familar icon of the Virgin Mary holding the Christ child looks almost exactly like the icon of the Egyptian goddess Isis holding her son in her arms.

The second exhibit, the portait painting of Goya, at the National Gallery, was recommended to us by Martyn.  It was a breath taking collection as Goya was able to capture the essence of his subjects.  Throughout the seven rooms of the exhibition, I felt like I was looking at real people, their eyes and features were so honestly and plainly presented.  Most of us know Goya as a dark painter who presented in oils the horror of the Inquistion and war.   The portaits reflect a completely different side that allowed him to succeed through a number of political upheavals in Spain during his lifetime.

At luncheon yesterday after a chamber music piano, cello and violin trio that played to packed the hall, I spent time explaining American politics to my eight companions.  They were thristy for first hand knowledge of Obama, Trump and the upcoming election as well as an explanation of why the U.S. is so completely gun crazy.  I did my best to explain it all, but had to admit that much was up in the air in our polarized environment. It was much less fun than the previous evening when John and I explained the rules of baseball to our dinner party, comparing what they saw as complext rules to what we saw as the incomprehensible rules of  cricket.  It was a brilliant, good laugh. Luckily, almost everyone had traveled in the U.S. and were very sympathic.

That's what I like about London.

My first visit

When the Social Security Office counselor failed to call me as the letter promised at the appointed day and time, I decided that the best course of action was a direct action -- to show up in person at the office to get my medicare monthly fee adjusted for 2016.  It was a learning experience, kind of like a root canal, the process can be painful, but the result could solve the problem.

The sky was pregnant with rain on Monday morning as I drove down to the office.  Luck was with me, I found a parking spot right in front of the building.  Thinking that I could easily and quickly make an appointment with a counselor for a meeting after I returned from vacation, I was frustrated a bit when I accidentally hit the "max" button for a parking pass.  I had paid for two hours, instead of 30 minutes.  "Oh well,"  I said to myself,  "the next guy to take this parking place will have a gift of some free parking."  Little did I know what last lay ahead for me.

I walked into the office at 11 am to find over 40 people waiting in a space designed to accommodate 20.  Like the DMV, I signed in at the computer and was issued a number based on my selection of topic area from the five presented to me.  My number was F512.  Posted on the board the "F" type was at number F502.  I must wait my turn.

In the middle of the mass of humanity, was a young woman who started complaining about the wait she was enduring, raising her voice and swearing so all could hear.  We attempted to ignore her ranting, but it was impossible, as few people can say "mother fucking" in so many ways.  She made her way to the front of the room, continuing her stream of consciousness. The guard at the desk stood,  glared, then abruptly went into the back office.  Five minutes later, a very authoritative woman, tall, a bit heavy set, but muscular, wearing glasses, came to the counter and announced in the voice of a drill sergeant, using a microphone, "If you cannot wait for your number to be called, please leave now.  Profanity is not allowed in this office.  It is Monday and Monday is always busy."  The guard returned, standing at attention at his desk.  The young woman, stood and stamped out.  Everyone in the room, breathed a sign of relieve, returning to a quiet wait.  Lessons learned - do not come to the Social Security Office on a Monday and do not cross the office manager, if you want to have your problem resolved.

The office manager then came out into the waiting room and explained, "We are short handed today so we will get to you, but it will take time."  She answered questions with her strong voice, making everyone understand that she and her staff cared about them and would take care of everyone given some time.   We hunkered down.

Coming to the Social Security Office was a leveling experience.  I was surrounded by people, only a few like my white, middle class self.  Languages proliferated, aged women and men were accompanied by their adult children; students with backpacks were sprinkled among others in work clothes or disabled in wheel chairs.  We all shared one restroom.  We all waited. We were all in the same boat and determined to keep it pleasantly afloat.

As I finished up my third New Yorker magazine article, my number was called.  I didn't need to make an appointment; a counselor processed by request in a matter of minutes.  She was pleasant, helpful and patient as I filled out the required form.  I left the office like many of the others who had waited with me - pleasantly surprised by the staff's kindness and support.  With patience, the government bureaucracy can work.  I returned to my car with 10 minutes to spare.

Interim Report

Three months into my "not working anymore", it's time to take stock. Contrary to what many people have reported to experience, I do not miss working one bit as evidenced by a near 20 point drop in my blood pressure, luxuriating in bed until the ungodly hour of 8 AM, and a consistent three times a week workout during which I am running three miles, doing 90 sit-ups and lifting free weights to keep my aging shoulders as strong as possible.  We are focused on tricking out our sail boat for a live aboard life next year and I am diving into reading and writing in a more serious effort to develop a new skill set.  Working with computers, software and other IT related endeavors has been banished from my repertoire.

However, I am driving my husband bonkers because the pace at which I move still approaches "full throttle" while his continues to be "manana".  Think of us as the hare and the tortoise.  As Aesop's story goes, the snail ends up winning so I have adjustments to make.  He is doggedly persistent, never giving up even if it takes months, a valuable strength when trying to return a purchase after the posted return period has lapsed.  

On further observation, I witnessed that my husband is not always moving at a tortoise's pace; what keeps him from task completion is a thirst for information, because "you never know when the information might be useful", an asset for his consulting work because it keeps him up-to-date across many sources; however, from my "let's get things done on the home front perspective" the ease at which he switches from task to research is a "going down the rabbit hole experience" where one thing always leads to another.  This is frustrating because his response to inquiries is "I'm getting to it."   On top of that, it's my rabbit hole.  I'm the hare.

Climbing out of that rabbit hole, it's back to the interim report. Not having direct responsibilities is a refreshing experience; however, not being responsible, I am learning leads to problems of one's own making as when I found myself making my evening cocktail at 4 PM, early by anyone's clock.  My body was physically aching for it and my mind responded, "Well, OK.  I don't have anything to do, so why not?"  And, since it was early, I ended up having more before dinner was over. Then, I fell a second time, this time in our hotel room while visiting in NYC (the first time was a fall while reaching back to a shelf in our boat that resulted in a dislocated shoulder).  Not a bad fall, just a "lost my balance fall" as I reached into closet to hang up my coat.  It scared me, what is wrong with my balance? I didn't feel drunk even though I had polished off a goodly amount after dinner without realizing it.

It was time to get real with myself.  When I look at my genetic history it's clear to me I've got an issue that must be addressed.  My dad stopped drinking in his 50's because of excruciating headaches set off by alcohol and my mother died nine years ago of diabetes after 25 years of binge drinking. If liquor was in the house, she had to finish it off.  On the night of November 14, 2015 I decided to take action before anything else happens.

Since making that decision, I wake up every morning fresh and clear, having had an uninterrupted night's sleep. And, I enjoy doing things in the evening besides watching television.  Two great benefits have already accrued; we spend less money and I'm losing a few pounds without trying.  

Am I an alcoholic?  Most likely I am well on my way down that path.  I've seen what it looks in others close to me who came to the end of the road before an intervention forced them into recovery and I don't want to go there.  I know where to turn if I need additional support, but right now, I feel relieved and re-energized.  To be honest with one's self  has not been easy but it has been worthwhile.

The Writing Game

Attended an all day session yesterday: Write a novel in a month.  Sponsored by the Smithsonian Associates, their programs are a treat given to those of us who live in Washington DC and its surrounds. It's a good reason to stay here if you like culture, travel and interesting topics.  

Although the title of the session was somewhat misleading (the target is actually a rough draft, not a ready to publish novel), our instructor, Kathryn Johnson, an author and mentor to other writers, provided an articulate no-nonsense approach to fiction writing. 

She calmly mesmerized the sold out roomful of 80 some would be writers with an approach to tackling fiction that makes it all possible, assuming you have decent writing skills and the discipline to write when you don't want to.  There were many of us "gray hairs", but there were also younger folks, a most pleasant surprise. Many had not begun a novel, struggling with what to write about.  There was even a copyright lawyer who provided some sound advice at the end.

We reviewed writing concepts, like finding where to begin, targeting audience and genres; selecting and developing points of view, characters, and focus; creating and sustaining conflict; the critical importance of balance of action and dialogue over exposition; and creative ways to write and publish in the 21st century.  

Much of this I had learned in other classes, but I was duly inspired to spend two hours this sunny Sunday afternoon, typing away on my laptop at the dining room table, writing a scene for a suspense mystery (I'm not sure how many bodies, if any, are involved yet.)  For the first time, I was able to let go of reality, to begin to weave new cloth.  It was a relief to know I can do it.  Now, I just need to turn 1000 words into something like 80-85,000 words.  Simply, that mean lots and lots of work ahead for me.

I am putting aside the rewrite of my first attempt, a somewhat disguised story about six months sailing to and in the Bahamas in my early 40s), written 10 years ago.  That adventure could become the foundation of a good fiction, but I now know my "fiction skills" are not up to snuff as yet. Translating reality to fiction is really, really difficult when it's one's personal story and most of one's writing up to now has been non-fiction books and articles.   My first job is to prove to myself I can write page turning fiction with competence and confidence.  

Here's the plan to keep me writing until I "get it".

• Write 1.5-2 hours per day, six days per week no matter where I am
• Write the rough draft quickly as possible, ignoring that major revisions will probably be needed by the end.
• Write as if I am watching a movie in my head.
• Don't be afraid to write about things you wouldn't tell your grandchildren.
• Don't get bogged down in research.  It's easier than writing.  
• Keep reading other people's books, especially the genres you are working in.

For those of you out there who are professional story tellers already, I have great admiration for you and hope I can join your clan eventually. 

An unexpected walk

Clear blue sky, brilliant sunlight, leaf color at its height, and 70 degree weather cannot be properly experienced by sitting on a balcony eight flights above pulsing traffic, so John and I took to the streets for a good dose of urban hiking.  From our place in Arlington, we took the blue line metro to the Capital Hill Eastern Market stop.  For those not familiar with DC, the Capital Hill district is the heart of DC situated above and behind the Capitol, Supreme Court, and Congressional Library buildings.  Streets with sidewalks, cracked with roots of large trees, crisscross a maze of blocks filled with renovated and not so renovated connected and standalone houses, reflecting more that 150 years of architecture, along with small shops, eateries and businesses. 

On the weekend, vendor tents and  stalls surround the market building that holds a core set of meat, fish, sweets and specialty shops, a structure rebuilt to its original red brick Victorian design after being ravaged by fire some years ago.  The weekend vendors offer fresh flowers, local (and not so local) farm grown vegetables, hand crafted jewelry, collectible, junk and antique furniture and home goods, assorted artwork, African masks, rugs, and brick-o-brac of all kinds. It is a shopping experience that should not be missed.

As we emerged from the metro stop and headed north on 7th street to the market, an invasion of "gentrification" construction sidelined and shocked us.  The block where the African masks, rugs, and collectible furniture and home goods spread out was now an excavated hole cutting deep into the ground, cranes looming overhead like vultures looking for prey, protected by chain link fence, and posted with signs describing "coming" improvements to Eastern Market.  Is nothing sacred?

During the week, Eastern Market operates at a leisurely pace with only the shops inside the market building open, so instead of spending several hours shopping and window shopping, we were able to quicly buy a package of dried figs and a bag of fresh beans for dinner, then finished off afgogatos from the espresso/gelato shop before we turned the corner onto Independence Avenue, heading out for the long walk down the Hill.

Instead  of keeping to the street, we walked the gardens, a magical experience in the heart of the city.  Although on a smaller scale, it was, as if, we were back in London's Regent or Hyde Park gardens or in Paris' Luxembourg or Tuillieres gardens.  We were away from the traffic with few tourists and only a scatter of staffers scurrying from one federal building to another with smart phones in their ears.  

As we made our way down the hill, leaving the Capitol Hill neighborhood behind, we came upon the south side grounds of the Library of Congress and Capitol Hill that provide winding paths, planted with trees and shrubs from around the world.  Cars can't get onto the grounds, but people can.  

Next came the outdoor National Botanical Gardens.  Opposite the main "hot house" building, across Independence Avenue, is a small garden containing the Bartholdi Fountain, surrounded by almost a wild garden.  Next to the "hot house" is a formal rose garden, complete with a mailbox full of annotated instructions on the raising and caring of eight different categories of roses.  Despite the closeness to the busy traffic on Independence Avenue, in both gardens, we sat on shaded benches, in a cocoon of quietness, filled with the fresh smells of fall flowers.  It transported us to those other worlds of Paris and London, I mentioned earlier.  

We had no inkling they were there as we  exited the rose garden, but we walked into a herd a tweens and teens being rounded up and guided by energetic, but harried adults in red shirts with whistles who could have used some lassos to keep the kiddos moving down the sidewalk in some semblance of order, determined to reach the Air and Space Museum. 

We escaped the stampede by heading directly onto the Mall, which everyone knows is more of a park than a garden.  Although a portion of the Mall grounds is being rebuilt, we were surprised at the quietness, people sitting on benches facing the mall, people running and bicycling the wide red cinder paths, people watching children ride the carousel, or people patiently buying a bottle of water or snack at the formal refreshment stands along the Mall.  We heard many languages, but the tone was always soft, no one was scurrying or hurrying or yelling.  

One of our favorite gardens is at the Hirshhorn, filled with many fine sculptures of Moore, Rodin, David Smith and others acquired by the Hirshhorn family and later the museum itself.  Of the traditional pieces, my personal favorite is "The Burgers of Calais" by Auguste Rodin. The main garden, where we were, is below ground level, isolating us from the business of the street and Mall aboce.  We wished to linger longer by the reflecting pool, but with the day fading, there was a favorite garden we wanted to see before heading home.

But before we reached that garden, we discovered a hidden garden, the Mary Livingston Ripley Garden, sandwiched between the Hirshhorn and the Smithsonian Arts & Sciences building.  Keeping in line with the Victorian architecture of the original Smithsonian buildings, this garden, built in 1988, is the most beautiful of the day's walk.  It was stuffed with fragrant flowering plants, spurting a rich, royal purple color into the garden.  Again, we were overtaken with quietness, calmness and soothing beauty.  Those few who had discovered it with us, spoke is quiet tones. One young couple after having another tourist take their picture, ducked around a corner in the garden to embrace.

As the sun began to drop to the tree tops, scattering sunlight in all directions, we entered the last garden, the Enid A. Haupt Garden, framed by the Smithsonian Castle, the Arts & Sciences building, and the Sackler Art Museum.  Completed in 1987, it's actually three distinct gardens, the Moongate Garden next to the Sackler (Chinese style), the Victorian parterre (English style) and the Fountain Garden (Moorish style).  Like all the other gardens we visited, every plant was identified allowing those of us who are not botanists, insight into the nature and origin of the plants with every space appropriately trimmed.  For example, the Victorian parterre spaces were outlined with burnished, bent branches of caste iron creating a scalloped edge.  What a delight!

We headed home as the sun set, walking to the L'Enfant Plaza metro stop.  The brutish nature of the federal buildings surrounding the gardens slapped us back into reality.  What a disaster has been done to the Washington DC landscape when these beastly mammoths were designed in the mid-1950's under the federal Redevelopment Land Act, memorials to a cold war mentality.   By the mid-1970's, when the buildings opened, nothing was more indicative of a culture that lost had its empathy and sanity to pure, inhumane power, culminating in a war that cost our country over 68,000 men and women and damaged so many that survived.  

Is there hope that all of this may change?  Some - some of gardens were built in the 1980's and there is a master plan to redevelop these buildings, but can only happen if Congress agrees that this infrastructure be destroyed and replaced.



  

What do your shoes say about you?

As the morning sun rose over the horizon, strips of sunlight broke through my window blinds, hitting my closed eyes, barely visible, near buried in the pillows that wrapped around my head.  Instead of jumping into the shower as I did when I worked, I stayed in bed, stretching my muscles, my skin gently rubbing against the soft white sheets and down comforter as I reached over switching from the southwest chant music that had been drifting out of my iPod radio all night to the NPR morning news.  This little act of listening while in bed is a jewel, cherished and guarded.  One could say, if one was to be blunt and gritty that this listening time was better than sex, but I would never say that.   

So this morning, after reporting the latest political and criminal activity, NPR began broadcasting, "If the Shoe Fits: The Rise of the Stylish Comfort Shoe."  Instead of falling into a half sleep, where the radio voices become elements of dream, I perked up and listened intently.  The story's proposition was that women's shoes more than any other article of dress reflect their personalities.  The challenge, the story continues, is that at middle age, most of women can no longer tolerate heels, but refuse to wear the "comfortable"  shoes of their mother's generation.  Really?  Can people look at my shoes and see my personality?  Should I be troubled?

Since I was 21, I wore in heels, despite the fact that I was on my feet most of the time.  If I was walking through an airport, standing in front of clients facilitating their meetings, teaching a class, or walking down the street, I had a pair of heels on well into my 60's.  Like Ginger Rogers, I acquired the skill to move smoothly backwards, sideways and forward without tripping or falling over myself; however, after 30 years, two operations on my right foot, one on my left, serious arch supports, and ankle tendons so shortened that it was difficult to walk in flats, I knew the time was coming when I had to give them up for I was starting to shop for wedgies instead of 2 or 3 inch heels.  It is amazing the pain I put up with to "look good".  I guess my personality was all about style; making me feel like a grownup, adding two inches to my height, someone to be listened to.  If we were talking about men, we'd call it "swagger," that presence that grabs attention when you walk into a room.

The reality is that I no longer need "swagger" as I no longer need to grab anyone's attention. Within two weeks of retiring, I attacked my closet.  It was easy to rid myself of all the business clothes, delivering eight huge bags of suits, shirts, jackets, scarves, handbags, and accessories to charity.  However, with my heeled shoes and boots, it was not so easy.  I wanted to cling to them, each pair reminding me of some event or time in my life.  I couldn't part with the sequin stitched black stiletto heels I wore to a "Long Island" wedding two years ago. Maybe, I thought, I might need them again, sometime in the future for some unknown swanky event.  As I picked up the pair of kinky heeled ankle boots with chains, bought in New York City three winters ago, I felt the thrill of happening discovered the small shoe salon across from an Italian grocery, while lost in the Village one cold, rainy afternoon with my husband.  I remember I giggled when I tried them on, my husband smiling, lusting after my perky strut across down the store's aisle.  I just had to have them since they were "pretty comfortable" and looked perfect with skinny jeans.  

Now, in the end, I'm down to two pair of sensible heels, in case I should ever have to be business dressed again; however, so far, they are just gathering dust.  What I do wear are flats (I'm teaching my ankle tendons to stretch to their original length).  I bought red scalloped soft loafers, black with bows, beige with rhinestones, tan with gold buckles and more.  My personality is a new style; it's more of cute comfort that surprises and delights as I can still wear my skinny jeans with them. I am unwilling to wear my mother's shoes,  At least for now.

Politcal Circus Scene - A break from Sailing

Being a loyal Democrat, I watch with growing wonder the on-going struggle by Republicans for a presidential candidate.  The Republican line-up, as you well know, is an assortment outsiders against the insiders, insiders being those with any smattering of governing experience, both insiders and outsiders vying for the attention of primary voters.  The traditional nationalistic right wing, tea party and evangelical social conservatives, voter groups that seem to overlap one day and not the next, keep me reading the political analyses and opinion pages as if they were serialized soap opera.  It's better than fiction. You can't make this stuff up.

Looking at the outsiders, the possibility or impossibility of Trump's nomination tops the pundit writing list. Compared to Ben Carson (evangelical neurosurgeon who among other bizarro ideas equates the Affordable Care Act, providing health insurance to 16 million people, with slavery) and  Carly Fiorina (incompetent and fired HP CEO, loosing California governorship candidate and admitted non-voter, who decided she has the credentials to be an American president), Trump appears to be the most acceptable of the unacceptable outsiders.  Why not?  He's rich and famous with his own reality show. Like the Italians, we too can have a media tycoon run our country.  Silvio Berlusconi  came to power as Italy's prime minister after founding his own political party.  Only a conviction of tax fraud in 2013 took him out of power.  Would another bankruptcy do the same for a Trump president?

From what I read, Trump finds his support strongest among non-college educated, white, working class men.  Angry and frustrated over their inevitable decline of power (not that they ever had any actual power except through democratically leaning unions) caused by "big government" who put in place policies and programs to improve everyone's lives, these guys soak up the barrage of impolitic race, women and Hispanic bating statements of Mr. Trump.  I think they like him because he is or continually acts like a prideful bully.

However, if you look behind the curtain and push away the smoke screen, we'll find someone who believes in abolishing the big PACs and political non-profits (even more secretive),  replacing the ACA with a single payer medical system (how socialist of him), and maintaining the safety net of social security, medicaid and medicare.  I've even heard statements about raising taxes by removing tax breaks like the carried forward interest loop hole using by hedge funds and the like.  Trump and Sanders appear to have much in common when it comes to domestic policy. As to foreign policy, Mr. Trump has yet to move beyond his anti-immigration proclamations to build a wall on our southern border and ship 11 million people back to their original countries.  Will he attempt to moderate his approach to attract other audiences?  Personally, I believe, in the end, the Republicans will choose a non-Bush insider to run against the Democrats, probably Marco Rubio.  He's handsome, young, a minority, well-spoken, knows his policy, was Speaker of the Florida House and since 2011 a U.S. Senator.  But who knows?  I bet my Republican friends are shaking their heads just like I am.

Home at last

The morning sun sparkled off the water as we boarded Dolce Vento on Friday, October 16, docked in Little Round Bay on the Severn River, about 25 miles north of her soon to be new home in Herring Bay.  However, our excitement dissipated quickly like air from a popped balloon as we struggled with unforeseen obstacles -- blue exhaust smoke bellowing from the idling engine, an autopilot and GPS no longer working as they did during the sea trials, and two inches of water sloshing in the engine's drain pan.  

We would not be defeated.  Three hours later after multiple phone calls with our broker, we had a dry engine pan (water from the leaking aft scuppers during the sea trials was scooped out and sopped dry), reassurances that GPS and autopilot problems would be fixed by the previous owner when new parts came in (a mechanic's butt had dislocated several electronic mechanisms while replacing the scuppers), and the engine smoke would dissipate (it hadn't been run much all summer).  We left dock at 12:30 carefully monitoring the depth sounder to avoid shallow water; however, we did go aground briefly when John, my navigator and first mate, directed me around a buoy as he mistakenly held his iPhone digital chart upside down. I will buy this navigator new paper charts that clearly show which way is up.

Despite all the issues, we had one hell of a sail.  After leaving the Severn River and turning south just east of Annapolis Harbor, we raised the sails, set a beam reach (the most perfect point of sail) and flew to Herring Bay in 12-15 knots of wind, gusting to 18.  

Dolce Vento sliced through the water at 7.5-8.5 knots with barely a 5 degree heal.  We were amazed because our previous 39' Hunter only occasionally did 6.5-7 knots, healing to an uncomfortable 20 degrees. The longer water line, the larger sails, the heavier hull and the Tartan design delivered beyond our expectations.  John was thrilled with all the room on deck to work with the sails, I loved the helm with its four foot diameter wheel.  Like Lilly Tomlin's Edith Ann, I was the little girl in a big sail boat where I could just see over the top of the wheel when I stood directly behind it.  Our second mate, Justine, loved the smooth sail so much that she put on an extra sweater and napped in the cockpit as the sun darted among fluffy cumulus clouds that speckled the late afternoon sky.  By five, with the sun still above the horizon, we were safely docked and began lassoing and adjusting dock lines on pilings to hold Dolce Vento safe in all kinds of wind.

We lived aboard this past week, probing Dolce Vento's innards, learning how her many systems work (ah, the secrets of marine refrigeration, plumbing, HVAC and audio/video), cleaning and organizing manuals and equipment.  We did have one minor situation on Tuesday evening after dinner.  With shoes off and socks still on my feet, I attempted to step up the steeply slanted port side soul (floor) of the aft cabin.  As I stretched my left arm to reach an shelf, my feet flew out from under me, smashing my body against my outstretched arm on the floor, resulting in my first, and I hope, my only dislocated shoulder and ambulance ride to the emergency room.  Six hours later, with my arm back in its socket and in a sling, and my brain, a bit woozy from a marvelous morphine and Valium cocktail, enabling me to endure the pulling and pushing of my left arm, John and I fell into bed, sleeping to noon. By 1 PM, it was back to work with a promise, like Edith Ann, to  "wear my shoes. Cross my heart and hope to die."  

Really, I promise.

Critique or Criticism?

So we're sitting at the bar in a favorite neighborhood restaurant having lunch with a bit of red wine, a luxury afforded us retirees, when I casually mention to my husband, "You're wearing that olive colored shirt again.  It makes you look sad.  Why not wear something more perky?" 

You'd think the world had exploded.  He bowed his head and with a deep sign emanating from his chest mumbled, "You are so critical."  Even after trying to explain that I was purely stating a visual fact, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder, and whispering that I was concerned, it was clear I was misunderstood. "Don't you know the difference between critique and criticism? Critique is fine, but not criticism."   He was right; I didn't understand; I admitted it and asked for examples.  Turning to face me, he obfuscated and snickered, "I can tell the difference."  Not wanting to create what could have become a therapeutic discussion about his attitude, I apologized for my words; however, even if he was an English major, I don't think he knows what he is talking about.

Is the difference between critique and criticism one of nuanced interpretation and impact rather than in pure definition? Is it more about the messenger over the content; or is it the receiver's previous experiences that creates the impact?  Determined to find out, I came home to investigate.

Criticism, according to the latest addition of the Merriam-Webster dictionary and Wikipedia explain that criticism is "the act of expressing disapproval, finding fault or of noting the problems or faults of a person or thing."  This encompasses evaluating, analyzing or making a remark or observational comment, of making careful judgments about the good and bad qualities of something. Critique, on the other hand, is criticism of a particular item. 

Smiling at the computer, congratulating myself on proving my husband was bluffing, he really didn't know the difference between the terms because there is no difference, I clearly win. However, let's be real, because I lose for finding fault.  My language was not objective.  I went beyond the observable ('you are wearing your olive shirt'); I saw his shirt choice as a problem. My apology earlier at lunch was the appropriate act of contrition.  However, what's a woman to do when her loved one repeatedly wears colors that make him look sad when she knows he isn't? 

Answer: Lay out the pink shirt on the bed while he's in the shower and hope for the best.

Just practicing

Saturday afternoon, sun shining, husband with a cold stuffing up the right side of his head, is napping on the living room couch and me, dog sitting a little guy named Fargo while I begin to practice writing on my laptop.  This past week I finished lecture 13 of 26 of the online Great Courses course, Building Great Sentences: Exploring the Writer's Craft.  To get it, that is to develop the skill, I must practice, so readers, you must endure my attempts at composition.  What is problematic today is that my brain is constipated. I have no idea, no titillating adventure or situation to write about.  All I have is daily life.

Lately, my life is just daily life, filled with routine and required tasks that must be done -- the exercising, the grocery shopping, the bill paying, the clothes cleaning, the cooking -- punctuated with an occasional movie, dinner out or walk around town.  When strung together, it's pretty clear that daily life is monochromatic, flat and ho-hum. It's enough to frighten anyone back into work.  I remember my mother and other bright women of the 1950's and 60's with their struggle to stay sane because they were relegated to the daily life.  My mother ate her insanity, ending up weighing 250 pounds. 

On the other hand, the daily grind, the work, the routine of coming and going to an office, the responsibility of production and timeliness, does keep the insanity of daily life at bay, but often creates stress and conflict as the two battle for attention.  But, whether I loved or hated my daily grind, it was a important because it gave me, like most people, an identity, something that defines us to the rest of the world.  Even financially secure people keep working when they definitely could do nicely without it.  Like myself, they resist retirement because retirement makes us confront the insanity of the daily life and the loss of identity.

Some people, like myself, leave work to "retire" because of the burnout when an identity shatters.  In the 1998, after my consultant identity exploded, I returned to school to figure out what the emerging networked digital world was about.  The resulting doctorate gave me a new identity, professor.  Then six years later, I retired again, not due to burnout, but more due to weariness and repetition. The passion was gone, I tossed aside both identities of professor and consultant. I was living in the Memphis, the city that never grew out of the 1950's and all that is "The South". Naively, I was sure I would become a novelist with minimal effort.  I'd co-authored two business books, so why not make the leap easily? Writing certainly kept me busy and my brain synapses connecting, but the intense social isolation and the fact that I was years away from fame and fortune as a successful writer, drove me back to the comfortable consultant identity and then to five years as a federal  government CIO, yet another identity. I had to ask myself, "What was I thinking?"

Now, like a beast emerging from battle, tired, scarred, but very much alive, the lessons learned are clear.  In this retirement, I have the opportunity and time to discover myself.  Self-discovery can lead to a more holistic identity, integrating my daily life with work that I will do for the shear joy of it, for that is how I will be paid.  I will integrate and transform the daily grind with daily life into daily pleasure. My pleasure comes from writing, a skill of expression that gets better with practice, and from sailing, a skill of action that gets sharper and bolder with practice.  I am pulling the two threads into my daily life.  Perhaps, I may weave a whole cloth, a strong, lasting, embracive identity. 

As my first grade teacher, Miss McDermott, often said, as I struggled with my yellow #2 pencil and wide, blue lined woody paper to write my first sentences, "Practice makes perfect".

You'll know her as "Dolce Vento"

You gotta love Facebook! When I requested ideas for renaming our boat, within 30minutes, 18 candidate names were delivered.  Where we were at a loss for words, Facebook friends were filled with creativity.  Candidate names were:

1. Reinvention (describes what I do)
2. Andrew (root - manly, masculine)
3. La Dolche Far Niente (The art of doing nothing)
4. Eslissi Lunare (Eclipse of the Moon)
5. Luce del Sole (Sunlight)
6. Brezza Celeste (Heavenly breeze)
7. Brezza Marina (Sea breeze)
8. Fluid Horizon
9. Sails Away
10. Dolce Vento (Sweet wind)
11. Friendship Star
12. Ama tu vida (Love your life -- Spanish)
13. Al du l`a (Love your life --Italian)
14. Judy, Judy, Judy
15. Point of Sail
16. Bella Stella (Nice Star)
17. Nolte Stalatta (Starry Night)
18. Tempest Fugit (Time Flies - Latin)

We set ourselves the following guidelines for our final selection which included:

• Italian - the words must sing and John is proudly of Italian Heritage
• Enunciation -  When you say it three times over the sometimes scratchy VHF, it has to be understood and repeatable
• Old name - Legally, we can use the same name as our last boat as the new owners kept "Forte Vento" (Strong Wind)

After careful review, we chose "Dolce Vento", the submission by Judy Southerland, artist and friend.  It met all the criteria plus it brought forth the previous boat without using the exact name.  We agreed that strong winds may not be what we want going forward.  Sweet winds will be much more pleasant.

Thank you everyone for helping us out.  Judy will help us christen her and then help sail her away.

Robert Bray 1926-2015

Robert Bray

His feisty manner, fundamental belief in the Republican party, Texas style football and absolute commitment to his family (a daughter and two sons), made being with my Uncle Bob both nutty and sweet.  He was a man of his times - a Korean War Navy veteran, a 50's St. Louis man, a believer that men should be men and take care of women.  What he got was a daughter who carved out a career in financial services, and three nieces each insisting on their financial independence, committed to living life on their own terms.

Visiting with Uncle Bob was never, never dull.  We'd laugh and argue, drink beer, eat and then argue and laugh some more -- right after the football game, of course.

Uncle Bob was not an executive, rather an engineer whose work took him all over the world on projects in the aerospace and oil industries.  I never knew where he and Jean would land next - could it be in New Jersey (yes), Florida(yes), Saudi Arabia (yes), or his homeport of Texas (yes) -- a few on a long list of work and travel adventures just like his sister, Marion, my mom.

Uncle Bob and my mom were not always close, but after dad died, they visited more often and talked regularly.  Rumor has it that my dad did not favor Uncle Bob.  I never knew why as they were so much alike, and most likely, I never will.  They shared the same voice, I couldn't tell them apart on the phone, and their walk, gestures and facial features were uncannily alike.  They could have been twins.

In early 2006 my mom's health failed most likely from diabetes and an ankle break that would not heal as a result.  At 82 she was in a nursing home under hospice care near our home in Baltimore. When Uncle Bob and Aunt Jean learned how dire the situation was, they immediately flew up from Texas to be at her side.  Despite a near coma state, she knew they were there, holding her hands, talking softly for some hours.  At 2 AM after their visit, she died.  She had been waiting for him.

Well into his 80's, Uncle Bob remained involved in the world using the internet to keep up to date with the world news, his computer to manage his finances, and email as well as the cell phone to keep in touch with us.  But, when Jean died several years ago unexpectedly, her death tore a hole in his heart, his spirit escaping, which could never be recovered. He tried, but just wasn't the same. 

This morning, with gray clouds and rain all around me, I learned that Uncle Bob died at 2:15 AM, just shy of his 90th birthday, after surgery, in Texas, peacefully.  If I were religious, I would tell you how happy he is to be reunited with Aunt Jean.

New Habits

Surprise!  I am not bored.  Life is settling into a comfortable pattern now that the blush of the first busy "retirement" weeks are past.  I don't miss daily office life, its metro commute, reading the Times on my iPhone while I wait on the platform for the always delayed blue line, spending time with colleagues who do fine with me gone, or eating at my desk, stopping mid-task to walk down the street to "Jack's Fresh" for a styrofoam box lunch of Asian hot dishes or cold salads.  I am delivered from the wrath of the buffet gods!

Life now has a slower pace that is very tolerable for impatient people like myself.  I can read in bed until 2 AM, knowing there is ample time for sleeping past 7:30 in the morning.  I can laze, stretching while I listen to NPR, deciding if today is an exercise day and then reading the Times in paper form with its ever messy ink that leaves stains on my finger tips. 

Having time to think is gift.  I didn't realize how little I was actually thinking beyond the mundane these last ten years.  Thinking requires exploration, like this morning when I read two articles from The Sunday Time's magazine, one about a new talking Barbie doll under development, the social implications of this almost robot that holds over 8,000 discussions and responses for conversing with 4-8 year old girls blows my mind given that my dolls only said "mama" if anything.  No more fantasy conversations.  But, I digress.  The second article was a profile of Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, who at 68 still stands 6'10", a man who has spent his life as a serious intellectual and writer caught in an extremely talented basketball playing body.  His career was dictated by his race -- to succeed he had to be an athlete first.  I now understand why he doesn't often shake hands and or smile.

There is time to take care of myself.  I'm becoming a strong old lady. I'm at out apartment gym three times a week, running 3 miles and then working with weights for upper body building and bending through a sequence of sit-ups and their variations for core strength.  No longer do I put pressure on myself to drag my mind and body to a trainer no matter how I feel at the end of the day.  I paid to ensure that I showed up.  As a mid-westerner, the guilt of wasting money was a powerful motivation tool.  Having time eliminated the guilt and the trainer.

There is time to learn instead of regurgitating what I already know as I did at the office. Discovering online streaming "Great Courses" set me on a knowledge path of my own making.  For so many years, learning was relegated to night classes, even for my doctorate classes starting at 5 PM, lasting until 11PM, making driving back to DC from Baltimore hazardous to both my health and other drivers on the road. I know its what I had to do and thousands of other adults (I am still an adult, if not a young one) do it too, but it is a reward both physically and intellectually to sit down while the sun still shines to take a class on my own terms.

There is also time to resurrect old skills, to use my hands again at sewing which I learned as a teenager from many, many hours of teaching by my mother.  Our  sail boat requires the addition of new canvas items -- a stack pack to catch the mainsail and release us from the arduous task of sail furling when we bring it down at the end of the day, an awning to shade the foredeck from the simmering summer sun, new covers for the monster sized fenders protecting the boat from chaffing against the dock's pilings, lee cloths for sleeping comfortably underway, and covers for the side port-lights (aka windows) to shade the interior from weather and prying eyes.  I will buy kits online for it all (sailrite.com) and I've got a Tech Shop (techshop.com) right at the foot of our apartment building. It has large spaces, big tables and industrial strength sewing machines.  The work will keep me busy all winter. But most importantly, my mother would be proud, even if I won't have to sew flat-fell seams or tailor a lapel. 

Surveys and Sea Trials

Sails Call was resting along side the dock at 9:30 on a misty morning this past week when we joined Pete, our surveyor, Tom, the current owner, Dave, our broker and John, Tom's broker for a day of inspecting, testing and getting to know her nooks, crannies and quirks.  The work was like that annual physical we should have at our age, complete with stress test, electrocardiogram and those not so wonderful but highly necessary tests of internal organs, bowels and reproductive systems.

The work started with a short haul, laying in straps, hovering over the ground in a monster of a machine so we could inspect the hull, propeller and shaft, keel and rudder. Pete took moisture readings. Then, with a small rubber hammer tapped the hull all around just like a doctor knocks your joints to test the condition of your reflexes. Sails Call was dry and responsive.  All was "A" OK. 

Back the water, Pete led the internal examination from stem to stern, testing the generator (needs a tune-up), air conditioning, plumbing, water and electrical systems, and then poking into all the storage areas and bilges (which need cleaning). My husband and Dave followed him through this work, heads down, confirming Pete's findings.

Turning to the engine, Pete started her up, revved her up in neutral and later underway, where we discovered that water was kicking back into the boat through leading aft scupper hoses(need to be replaced).  He took her temperature at all speeds, checked the hoses and connections for leaks, corrosion, and fluid levels.  Finally, he declared the engine fully operational, with the caveat that she still had her original hoses which might need replacement in the next year. Hoses get cracked over time just like our faces get wrinkled.

On deck, Pete again used his hammer, this time to knock the deck.  I started to think he was a drummer, his rapping was so rhythmic.  He found a bit of moisture around the fittings that connect the dodger to the deck.  He explained the prescriptive remedy. Like decayed teeth, we need to pull the fittings, drill out the holes, fill the holes with resin, and then re-bed the fittings to stop all water infusion into the deck. We also discovered a wasp nest stuck in the main sail.  I've never seen so many guys so skittish over a few little critters.  The answer was, "Let's do the sea trail and whack out the nest under sail!"  It worked.  Sails Call is now wasp free.

Under sail, Sails Call slices through the water with magnificent authority, her size and weight cushioning us against the elements.  Despite the fact that the wheel is four feet tall and could hit my nose if I'm not careful when I stood behind it, "OMG" was all I could say as I  commanded my impromptu crew to tack across the wind (the direction from which the wind is blowing) and then to jibe (the direction to which the wind is blowing).  

Sails Call passed her survey and sea trial.  We are in love.  We have bonded with this navy hull beauty. Only a rigging inspection (like checking your body for broken bones and splinters) is left to be done this coming Monday.  I believe she will pass and we will become her owners soon. 

Changing seasons

Summer is passing quickly now. Gone are the blazing skin burning heat, sweat generating humidity and breath-stifling afternoons.  Autumn has arrived.  Days are now a mix of sparkling clear skies, gentle dry temperatures with crisp breezes for perfect sailing punctuated ever now and then with a cloud filled gray gray day with falling temperatures and perhaps a shower. Today is one of those days.  They are necessary to change the colors, to fill the parks with luscious reds, oranges, yellows and browns.  It's one of those days that give me time to prepare for those other days.

Autumn brings familiar aromas and tastes, rich chicken cacciatores, thick soups, buttery raviolis, roasted squash casseroles, and red wine that warms the palate, replacing the cool taste of white.   To celebrate this seasonal change, we are breaking out my husband's favorite recipes to create an autumn dinner to share with friends.  I've filled the dining room with multi-colored gourds, pumpkins, Indian corn stalks all resting in baskets and metal bins filled with straw and spiced candles.  Burgundy and rustic yellow mums spilling over their pots have been added as well. I love the autumn and I've been on my summer diet too long. It's time to eat again!

Hey! That's our boat!

If we were rich we'd just bring a big bag of money and be done with it.  But, we are not rich, so now that our offer has been accepted, we proceed with a combination of house and car buying to make it all work.   Next steps - survey (aka home inspection) and the sea trial (aka test drive).  Like a home, we'll get an IRS tax deduction on the loan interest, but like a car, she'll continue to depreciate.  So financially, buying a boat makes absolutely no financial sense, especially for retirees like us.  We just don't care.  It's the last item on our joint bucket list.  When and where else do you get to pick a name no matter how silly others might think it. She's our "retirement project", never be really done, ever...

Like giving birth to a child, we take delivery. Unlike a child, there is no bodily pain or toilet training, just financial pain.  But, care and feeding there is and there is lots of it.  You really have to love your boat because it requires constant care whether it's washing and polishing the deck, adjusting a gauge or hunting down a special part for a special connection.  Just like a kid, the fun part is dressing her up and buying toys to amuse and educate her.  Lots of new stuff and lots of high maintenance!  Do we really need that gadget?  Do we really need to add that feature? Probably could get by without them, but like showing off your kid and making sure she gets all the smarts possible, you must do everything within your power to make her perfect.  Some stuff we can do ourselves and some we'll hire the experts to take care of. We will do first those things that make a life aboard most tolerable here in the Bay this next year and some can be done later when we are ready to head south down the ICW and some off shore sailing to Florida and the Caribbean.  Guaranteed that we will keep very, very busy.

Who want's to provide parental oversight to us kids so that we stay on budget. I really don't have to go back to selling shoes at Nordstrom's and John certainly doesn't want to deliver mail.

Inspired and waiting

Waiting and the necessary accompanying patience to withstand the idle time that ensues has never been my strength. So, as we wait for a final decision on the navy hull Tartan 4600, I got a bit creative.








Taking inspiration from my youngest grandson who aspires to modeling and fashion design (does he have that "resting bitch" look?), I had my hair cut to his latest fashion statement -- buzz cut on the sides and back with longer top hair spilling over my head. Mine is still a bit short, and it will never look exactly the same on a 68 year old head as it does on a 16 year old head, but I like it.  It is such fun to see him experiment with different looks and creative avenues.  Not bad for a high school junior. 

Not working is giving me time to look around, take a breath, think, and read.  There has been time to study Serious Ocean Sailing.  The book convinced me that we will not be globe trotting in our sail boat plunging into 20-30 foot ocean waves and gale force 40 knot winds attempting to avoid disaster after pending disaster.

I've started two other sailing related books that have been on my shelf for several years, just waiting for me to have time for them. Perhaps they will paint a brighter and gentler off shore sailing picture.  Somehow, horrible weather can be avoided.  But wait, do I spend my time reading all day?

This new life has presented some surprises.  When I was hopping out of bed every weekday morning at 6:30 AM to ensure that I arrived at work in a timely manner, my mate took care of everything.  He shopped, cooked, maintained the car and boat, slogged the dry cleaning back and forth, and kept the house up as any high caliber house husband should. Now, like Gibbs in NCIS, he is creating rules for me to follow if we are to maintain a happy domestic life together and keep him from going crazy having me around all day.   Adjustments must be made and I know the rules will multiply.  I can live with them (I will practice, I promise!).

• Rule #1: Last one out of bed has to make it. You have to understand that a cherished luxury is to listen to NPR radio news until 7:30 or 8:00 from the comfort of my pillowed, sleep number bed.  This morning, to avoid the task, I scurried out at 5 AM while he was still sleeping and moved to the couch for my radio hours.  He had to make the bed.  Ta Da!
• Rule #2: Track the medical bills.  Probably as not as onerous as it once was before we both went on Medicare and he promised to follow-up with messed up billings from docs and hospitals, it is still a challenge for my challenged by detail brain.  Hey, I'm a big picture girl, but I will conquer this!
• Rule #3: Check the planning folder every day.  I'm just not used to having to plan my days; they were always planned by the work at hand.  Now we schedule "events" to attend and I must handle my own calendar.  His motto -- if it's not on the calendar, it doesn't exist.  There goes my serendipity "let's go".  Not really, as we did up and go to a movie yesterday afternoon -- it was fun to be in a theatre when you are the youngest people of the 12 in the audience.  It was very, very quiet with no texting!

We don't have this problem on a boat as I am the skipper!