Mother's Day

Jim and Robert have always taken me out for Mother’s Day. Most years it’s been for brunch and we’ve been to some wonderful places. And most of the time, the brunches have been beautiful buffets with mimosas and champagne, and a rose or carnation for us moms. But these special brunches get very pricey. I thoroughly relish being pampered and spoiled by my guys, but fifty to seventy-five dollars to serve myself seems a little excessive. And besides, I cannot eat fifty to seventy-five dollars worth of food in one sitting—even when you throw in a couple of mimosas.

Jim and Robert are typical guys in that as soon as they finish their last bite of food, they’re ready to throw their napkins on the table and head for the exit. I can forget about long, lingering conversations over another cup of coffee. Oh, they’ll humor me and sit there, but then they might begin playing with the salt and pepper shakers or the straws from their water glasses. This year I suggested they treat me to brunch at home.

After the guys agreed to serve me brunch, I cooked up the idea of inviting my girlfriends, Judy, Gail, Sandy, and Gerry to celebrate Mother’s Day with us. Like me, the girls have all lost their mothers, but the four of them have no family close by. Gerry is Robert’s Godmother, so of course she was invited—we consider her part of our family. I promised to whip up a quiche or something and make it easy for the guys to pull it off.

When Robert and Jim agreed to the expanded brunch idea, I joked, “Would you dress up like butlers?”

Jim’s quick reply was a typical Grumpism: “Don’t press your luck.” Grump was Jim’s military call sign, and he’s still called that by his friends.

Saturday I busied myself doing some prep work for the brunch, and made a ham, mushroom and caramelized onion quiche. I cut up some fresh fruit, cleaned and trimmed some asparagus, and pulled a package of hollandaise sauce mix out of the pantry. I bought a pretty little bouquet of yellow springtime flowers, a couple of packages of mini muffins, and ironed the table linens. I called all the girls and asked each to bring a photo of her mom to place on the sideboard in my dining room.

Jim asked, “Do you think anyone will believe Robert and I did all this?”

“I’m just prepping,” I answered.

When brunch time neared, the guys were nowhere to be found. I had some last minute explanations for them about what I’d prepared and wanted to give them some suggestions for timing things. Yes, I get a little anal when entertaining.

“Where are you guys? I need to talk to you,” I called to an empty room. A few minutes later I started to panic. Knowing Jim, he could have decided to retile the bathroom or go for a thirty-minute run before brunch. I yelled again, “Where are you? You need to be in the kitchen!”

A moment later, I heard Jim call from upstairs, “We’ll be right down.” When they came into the kitchen I doubled over in laughter. They had both dug out their old tuxedo shirts and bow-ties and dressed as waiters. The girls and I loved it! They made and served our mimosas, finished preparing our brunch, and waited on us hand and foot. Of course they ate with us, but after brunch they cleared the table and cleaned up the kitchen.

We girls sat at the table for another hour and talked about our mothers. Afterward Sandy took photos of us with our moms’ pictures. It was great to celebrate Mother’s Day with my family, my friends, and best of all, to celebrate our moms again.

Donna

PS: Thanks to Sandy for the great photos.

An Extraordinary Woman

Since beginning this blog in January, I spend more time remembering and thinking about things past than I probably have since graduating from high school in 1966. I joined Facebook in an attempt to connect with old friends and classmates and have been blessed with the recovery of some “lost treasures.” Barb is one of them.

There are two memories of my friend Barb that always come to mind when I think of her. First, I picture her in her maroon and white cheerleader uniform, leading cheers at the pep rallies in the high school gym. The other memory is of a moment in World Geography class. Some of the girls were participating in a “character assassination” of another cheerleader who happened to be absent that day. Barb turned away and refused to take part, leaving me with a most powerful memory for more than forty years.

We caught up with each other on Facebook in May, and she has graciously given me permission to share some of her writing. I have deleted some names and comments for her privacy.

Barb wrote: May 2, 2009

“I teach yoga classes a couple of nights a week and fitness classes at the Senior Center which is just a blast and very rewarding. My toughest challenge is that for the past five years I've been treated for ovarian cancer. There's good and not so good that comes with knowing and being treated for a chronic disease. I continue to live a full life, remaining fairly active and totally enjoying being grandma to my three year old granddaughter.”

I wrote that I have the most terrific kid on the planet.

Barb wrote: May 2, 2009

“Married 34 years this fall and I beg to differ. I have the most terrific kid on this planet. Christopher has given me the greatest gift of love and support in that he has never considered my slowing down with this insidious disease. We've skied up ski hills, cycled, hiked, rock climbed and watched hours of House and NCIS on TV together. Sounds like you have a similar bond with your son, extraordinary love and support.

My husband and I loved our visit to Austin a few years ago. The hill country is amazing. We made it out to the Enchanted Rock. What fun! I agree that Michigan is the most beautiful place on earth.”

I wrote that I hadn’t heard from her in a while.

Barb wrote: July 26, 2009

“I'm on a fairly rugged chemo schedule this summer. It goes like this. Fourteen days of chemo followed by fourteen days break to "recover." Actually I'm holding up well under the assault and have had some positive results.

If all goes as planned, next Saturday I will be participating in a triathlon teaming with my son Chris. He will do the swim and run. I will do the twenty-mile bike ride. It's a bit of a crazy plan but I would have it no other way. Me and my boy! I'm sure you get it.”

I wrote that I’m amazed she would compete in a triathlon with the chemo.

Barb wrote: July 27, 2009

“I no longer remember what it feels like to live without a bone deep exhaustion. For the past few weeks my bones have been sending out shooting pains a result of having to rebuild the red/white cells and platelets. Often this occurs in the larger hip and thigh bones, so it's fairly startling. Five years later, I confess, I continue to do battle with paralyzing despair. I'm just not ready to leave this special life of mine. I feel so blessed. This disease has slowly opened my heart, my self, my compassion to such extraordinary heights. I've acquired a treasure trove of wonderful rich memories. Would I have known enough to cherish these moments without the disease, certainly not on the scale that I do now. Exercise is my friend, from a peaceful yoga session or walk to testing myself on the bike or ski's or at the gym. I'm alive and kicking and I plan to remain that way until ‘the fat lady sings.’

Your friends confronted with a similar battle, I hold in my heart. We're all in this together.”

Barb sent me her “Bucket List” on July 29, ending with this thought:

“Now I have my hopes pinned on the 20 mile ride August first. It’s challenging to say the least when I’m working my way through another 14 days straight of chemo. It would be far easier to quit. Yet so boring! When my Lance Armstrong Live Strong Jersey arrives I plan to wear it every day if I have to, to keep my spirits up.”

Note:

I’m waiting to hear back from Barb about the triathlon. When I do, I’ll let you know how it went.

Donna

Camping With Women, Chapter 4

“What have you been up to for the past decade?” my old friend Francine wanted to know. We hadn’t talked in years when she telephoned out of the blue one day. I described a life of PTA meetings, youth baseball games, band boosters, Scout meetings and campouts. She’d had a much different life with two more divorces to add to her previous two, plus she’d been struck by lightning. Her life definitely held more drama than mine.

“Do you like camping?” she wanted to know.

“I love camping! I teach it to new Boy Scouts and their parents.”

“I go to Yosemite every summer and I always take friends,” she continued. “You wanna go with me next July?” She offered to make the reservations and outfit the entire trip; we could split the costs. I’d never been to Yosemite and it sounded like a wonderful opportunity to me.

The Control Freak: Francine

“Do you like to ride horses?” Francine asked.

“I did before my knee problems,” I replied. I had dislocated my knee twenty-five years earlier, and it had been temperamental the past several years. “The last time I rode a horse my knee gave out on me and it took two grown men to peel me off the creature. I still get embarrassed when I think about it.”

“Oh well, you can ride a little bit,” she insisted.

“I really don’t think so. Don’t plan on it.” I thought I’d convinced her. “I’d like to do some hiking while we’re there, though.”

We talked on the phone regularly, going over plans and details for the trip. When the day came, I flew to Sacramento and Francine picked me up in a well-maintained, older model white pickup truck with an over-sized, two horse trailer in tow. There were two very exuberant black labs in the crew cab’s front seat with her. “Say hi to Donna, kids,” she said to the two dogs. “This is Angie and this is Bruno,” she announced, caressing and kissing each one on the nose as she said their names.

“You decided to bring the dogs and the horses. Great!" I tried to sound enthusiastic. The dogs retreated behind the front seat and I climbed into the truck. As the two animals sniffed and checked me over, I told myself to be a good sport about the saliva on my head, neck and back.

“Yet our lessons come from the journey, not the destination.” Don Williams, Jr.

We left Sacramento Airport and set out on our one hundred seventy-five mile (or so) drive to Yosemite. As we climbed through the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, the truck labored to keep up with traffic. The old pickup was dragging about three thousand pounds of trailer, a couple thousand pounds of Arabian horses, and probably another 1000 pounds or more of food, gear, and passengers. By the time we were in the real mountains the truck was slowing to the point of becoming a road hazard.

We had cars and trucks backed up behind us as far as we could see—and hear. The angry drivers blasted us with their horns. Francine would have pulled off the highway more often if she could have. The twisting mountain road had very few “turn-outs,” and they were seldom designed so that she could prepare to stop far enough in advance that she didn’t jackknife the trailer. When she was able to pull over to the side of the road, dozens of driver’s would tear past us, sometimes with their arms raised in one-finger salutes; sometimes shouting that we were “stupid bitches” and worse.

“They’d call us gypsies, tramps, and thieves.” Cher

That July Yosemite was so booked that the horses had to be moved from stable to stable, and we had to pick up stakes every night and move from campsite to campsite like gypsies. Francine was annoyed that I wouldn't go horseback riding. Morning and night we took care of the horses and the dogs, and the dogs were always with us. If we stopped somewhere to eat or sightsee, our time was limited by how long Angie and Bruno could remain alone in the truck.

Francine treated me like a novice camper. When I cooked, she told me how I could have done it better. When I set up my tent, she repositioned my tent stakes. Whatever the issue, whatever the discussion, she always had the last word. She retied my hitches when we were tending to the horses. “I teach knots and hitches to Boy Scouts,” I told her.

“My hitch is better!” she said. Each day I found it harder and harder to be a happy camper.

“Everything has its beauty, but not everyone sees it.” Confucius

For three days she wore the same baby doll cotton blouse. It was dotted liberally with big black boogers from her sneezing horses. I didn’t say anything about the blouse until day three when we were planning to have dinner at the beautiful old Wawona Hotel restaurant. “Francine, we are going to dress up a little for dinner, right?” So far, shorts and tee shirts had been my daily uniform.

“We’re fine dressed the way we are,” she said.

“Well, you are going to change that blouse, aren’t you? It’s covered with horse snot.”

“There’s nothing more beautiful than horse boogies,” she argued. Finally, at my insistence, she changed the blouse in the parking lot of the hotel just before we went in for dinner.

On the last morning when we were leaving Yosemite to head back to Sacramento, I was up long before dawn, breaking down my tent and packing up the gear. When she woke up I was sitting on my camp chair, completely packed and ready to load up the truck. “You’re the most competent person I’ve ever brought up here,” she said, looking over the packs. All I wanted to do was get on an airplane heading back to Texas.

“He who would travel happily must travel light.” Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Francine called a few days later and asked if I wanted to camp with her again the following summer. “I don’t think so,” I told her. “Look, I really appreciate all you did to set up this trip, but the horses and the dogs—it was all too Lewis and Clark for me. I’m more a Johnny Appleseed kinda camper. Let’s just be friends without camping together.” I haven’t heard from her since.

Donna

The LP 66ers

“For a few days, once a year, the atrophied souls of grown-ups are filled again with that spirit which inspires the wisdom of fools and children.” The Lake Park 66ers.

For their 60th birthdays, they each received their own personal scrapbook with photos and notes from each member of the group. At their last reunion, each was presented with a beautiful, professionally bound yearbook-style photo album chronicling their years together. They travel from around the country to be together once a year, and more often when weddings, anniversaries, and other of life’s milestones justify it. They call each other “my chosen family,” and they, along with my husband Jim, graduated in 1966 from Lake Park High School in Medinah, Illinois.

In August of 1997 two of Jim’s former classmates ran into each other at a Chicago area restaurant. It had been ten years since their last class reunion and they agreed that another reunion was necessary. They made some phone calls to get a small group together for a planning meeting. The group grew a little and they had so much fun together that they continued to meet long after the reunion.

A little less noise there, a little less noise! (Peter Pan)

In August of 1998, the last whole-class reunion, referred to as “The 11th Anniversary of Our 21st Reunion,” was celebrated. I don’t remember why I didn’t go with Jim, but I was probably camping with the Boy Scouts that weekend. On the night of the reunion, this small group of responsible, professional, mature adults managed to get themselves complained about and removed from several areas of their hotel—for being too noisy.

It was during that August weekend they discussed the idea of an annual get-together. The next year the 66ers held their own small reunion at a lodge in Wisconsin, where they once again got in trouble for too much noise. That’s when they decided what they needed to do was “rent a place as far away from others not fortunate enough to appreciate our energy and senses of humor, not to mention music, dancing, loud voices and laughter.” From then on they rented large vacation rental homes and bed-and-breakfast-type places around Lake Michigan for their gatherings.

We became us. I like us. (Can’t Buy Me Love, 1987)

As the next few years sped by, Jim attended the annual weekend reunions whenever he could, even if he only had a day to spend with the other 66ers. Because our son Robert was heavily involved in sports and Scouts, Jim and I were parenting in shifts through those years. If one of us was on the road, the other needed to be home with Robert, so I never went with Jim. He would come home and show me photos and slide show CD’s and shake with laughter while he tried to tell me something that someone had said or done that weekend. I was always glad he had so much fun, but I never got it since I wasn’t part of it.


The 66ers often had a theme or an organized event such as a murder mystery dinner game, a gift exchange, or a golf tournament planned for their annual reunions. It wasn’t always possible for everyone to make every gathering, and occasionally Jim would mention another classmate joining them for the first time. Sometimes a newcomer didn’t come back again because he or she just didn’t seem to appreciate the group wit.

It’s well-organized anarchy.

They appear to thrive on pure anarchy, but Pam is the chargé d’affaires. With everyone’s help, and flurries of emails, she solicits the wants, needs, and opinions of the approximately twenty 66ers, organizes the information, and keeps everyone in the loop. A couple of years ago, Jim and I were stuck in Chicago after a snow storm closed O’Hare. Our hotel was close to Pam’s home, and she set out on the snow-covered streets that night and met us for dinner. Even though I had only seen Pam once or twice at their tenth and twenty-first class reunions, I felt like I’d always known her. At the restaurant she said to me, “We have so much fun at the reunions, why don’t you come?” Her daughter Traci’s wedding was planned for the following summer, and that time I went along.

So much fun it hurts.

I’m neither exaggerating, nor bragging here, but I danced so much the night of the wedding reception that I was unable to move when I woke up the next morning. At a birthday party the next year I laughed so hard that my jaws ached the next day. After the fun at the wedding and birthday party, I had no doubt about attending the next annual gathering. We traveled to a bed-and-breakfast in Winchester, Indiana, where we ate, drank, danced, laughed and relaxed for three solid days.

Younger, happier, lighter in spirit.

At the 66ers’ reunions, you check your troubles at the door and forget them for a couple of days. They tease each other without mercy and no one is safe from razzing and ribbing. However, when one of them is hurting, the rest are right there for comfort and support. These ordinary people have the extraordinary gift of timeless and ageless friendship that makes you forget your aches and pains and imagine you really can dance all night again. As Pam puts it: “After a weekend together, we always leave feeling younger, happier, lighter in spirit.”

It isn’t a feeling you get about them. It’s the way you feel about yourself when you’re with them that is so good. I can’t wait for the next reunion.

Donna

The Magic Lantern

For his fifth birthday, my son Robert wanted a fort more than anything in the world. By “fort” he meant a big, wooden swing set—one of those cedar jungle gym kind of things with a slide, monkey bars, swings, rings, a sand box, and the most important component of all—a crow’s nest with a canopy. The covered crow’s nest is what made the whole contraption a fort. It was a place to hide out from pirates, space aliens, and zombies. Yes, it was cowboys defending Fort Apache from the Indians when we were kids, but this is the Space Age. Even the pirates are from another galaxy these days.

I had done my homework and knew that buying one ready to assemble was a big cost savings over having one delivered and assembled by the dealer. My husband Jim resisted. No wonder; his options were to fork over big bucks and build it himself, or fork over even bigger bucks to pay someone else to put it together for us. My friend Susan listened with amusement to my tale of Robert’s approaching birthday and Jim’s stubborn opposition to the idea of a fort. Susan has a son of her own and she knew all about boys and what they like. Her son Tanner is several years older than Robert so she had been through all this already.

Hold the fort.

The big day came and Robert had a nice birthday, but there was no fort. Jim had succeeded in postponing what I already considered to be the inevitable. I was certain that I could wear Jim down and that Robert would eventually have his fort. My campaign was short. That evening Susan delivered the coupe de grace. It was a total surprise when the doorbell rang and we opened the front door to Susan and her family with a birthday present for Robert—a toy signal lantern. “We thought he might need a lantern for his fort. Let’s see the fort!” declared Susan. When I explained that there was no fort, she gave Jim a very hard time. It was all delivered with humor, but it was very effective.

A few days later, Jim, Robert and I selected a cedar swing set with a canvas-covered crow’s nest, hereafter referred to as “the fort.” It was a do-it-yourself kit, and before assembling it, Jim consulted with our immediate neighbors to make sure that the huge structure would be placed in an area that would not obstruct anyone’s view. Our male neighbors generously volunteered to help build it (for a few beers). The fort was an instant hit with Robert and his friends, and the signal lantern had many hours of play in and out of the fort.

Come and get it.

As the years went by and play became less and less imaginative and more and more electronic, interest in the fort faded along with its finish. After a time, Robert and his friends were too big to play in the fort. The only action it was getting was down in the sand box under the crow’s next. Our cat Slinky found it quite handy. It wasn’t long before the once treasured fort was starting to be an eyesore. I wrote a short ad to place in the classifieds section of our local newspaper offering the fort, free of charge, to anyone who would come and get it. I put the note with the ad on the to-do pile on my desk and there it sat, getting buried deeper and deeper under the pile of more important things to do.

Many months later, I was sitting on my jump seat on the 777, across from my friend Gail, chatting with her during a lull in our business class service. She told me that our friend Susan was looking for a wooden swing set for her grandson. “They’re so expensive, you know, and Susan doesn’t have a lot of money to spend on one right now,” Gail had said. For a few seconds I was speechless.

“Gail, you’re not going to believe this.” I answered. “I’ve got a cedar swing set that I will give to Susan if she’ll just come and get it. I wrote an ad to put in the newspaper months ago and never got around to sending it in. I don’t even know why I procrastinated on it. This is incredible. This is wonderful. This was meant to be!”

What goes around. . .

“That’s great that you’ll give it to Susan, but why is this so exciting to you?” Gail wanted to know.

“Because Susan is the reason Robert got the fort in the first place.” I explained the story of the signal lantern and how Susan’s gift had prompted Jim into buying and building the fort for Robert. “The fort she helped Robert get will come back to her and be her grandson’s fort now. It’s like the circle of life or something.”

Not too long afterward, Susan and Gail came over to the house, disassembled the dry old wooden swing set, loaded it in Gail’s van, and took it to Susan’s house. Susan refurbished, refinished and reassembled the fort, and I’m told it looked as good as new again. The old swing set had a new home and another boy had a fort in which to defend the galaxy against pirates, monsters, aliens, and other assorted bad guys.

I love it when things like this happen. It reassures me that good generates more good and the universe is in order. Was it a magic lantern? Maybe. . .but not likely. The magic is in the love we have for our children and grandchildren and the friendship we share with each other.

Donna
PS: Happy Birthday, Susan!

Menopause Manor

I first became involved with Menopause Manor by accident—quite literally. One sunny afternoon two friends and I were enjoying a coffee outdoors at our local Starbucks when one of them casually announced: “There’s a man lying down over there.” We turned to see an older man lying face down on the asphalt in front of the coffee house. I turned to my friend Barbara, another flight attendant, and said, “Come on Barbara, let’s see if we can help him.” We hurried over to the downed man and knelt next to him. We checked to see if he was conscious and able to communicate and learned that his name was Bill. I grabbed the first aid kit from my car and Barbara and I looked after his wounds.

I think he’s delirious.

The poor man had landed flat on his face when stepping off the curb to cross the parking lot. His face was bleeding and he was moaning in pain. We cleaned up some of his injuries and asked him if there was someone we should call. He asked us if we were angels. We grinned at each other and said, “Oh, no.” He asked if we were nurses. Again, we said, “No.” Barbara explained that we were flight attendants. Suddenly he was animated; “Do you know Menopause Manor? Do you know Judy and Gail and Mimi and Anneliese?” Barbara leaned over and whispered to me, “I think he’s delirious.”

“No, no,” I said. “I know what he’s talking about.” Barbara stared at me as if I were delirious. “No really, I know Mimi and a couple of the others. It’s a group of women—mostly American Airlines flight attendants—my friend Sandy is part of that. An ambulance soon arrived and paramedics took over for Barbara and me. I promised Bill I would get word to Menopause Manor and let them know where the ambulance was taking him. Anneliese worked at a retail store nearby but wasn’t there, and Sandy didn’t answer her phone. I left messages for both, and Sandy called later to say that Bill had survived.

The “Soup and Bowl.”

A year or so later, my friends Ron and Gerry invited me to go to the annual Menopause Manor “Soup and Bowl” party with them to watch—what else—the Super Bowl. I wasn’t a football fan at the time, but I do love a good party, plus I hoped to learn how Bill had fared. The party was in the home of Ed Clarkson, whose daughter Judy, it turns out, is known as the CEO of Menopause Manor. Judy and the other Menopause Manor women made crock pots and stock pots full of different soups, gumbos, and chilies; guests were required to bring their own bowls.

Judy introduced me to her dad and his friends, Dick and Bill, and I reminded Bill that we had already met. “It’s nice to see you on your feet and off your face,” I told a puzzled Bill. That got his attention. “I’m one of the women who helped you outside Starbucks a while back,” I continued. For a moment or two I was a minor celebrity amongst the Menopause Manor crowd. Everyone in the kitchen with us wanted to hear the story of Bill’s meeting with the asphalt outside Starbucks.

As time went by, I saw the MM women at the birthday parties and gatherings of mutual friends. They often volunteered at our town’s annual September street festival, Grapefest, where they poured wines in the “Wines of the World” pavilion. One of them, who shall remain nameless, was let go by the wine merchants, I’m told. The story goes that she fell asleep under one of the wine tables (from the heat, no doubt; September is hot in north Texas).

Just like a woman.

Two and a half years ago, Judy’s father passed away, and Sandy and Gail were with her, holding her hands and hugging her. Two weeks later our friend Ron passed away suddenly and unexpectedly. Ron’s wife, Gerry, was devastated and in a state of shock. That’s when I learned what Menopause Manor was really all about. The core group, all divorced or widowed themselves, and still grieving with Judy over the loss of her dad, did what women always do. Word went out and food began arriving, homes were offered and transportation provided for out-of-town family and friends coming in for the memorial service. And in the months that followed, the women of Menopause Manor called, dropped in on, and took Gerry out for lunches, cocktails, and dinners. They have become her extended family.

Even though her dad had passed away, Judy and the rest of Menopause Manor continued to care for his elderly friends, Bill and Dick. They looked in on the men, shopped and cooked for them, took them to doctors’ appointments and hosted birthday parties for them. Last year Dick passed away. Judy discovered his body when she went over to his home to check on him because he wasn’t answering his phone. But on a more positive note, two weeks ago we celebrated Bill’s 86th birthday at a party Judy hosted for him and about twenty-five other guests in her home.

I awoke this morning with devout thanksgiving for my friends, the old and the new.
~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Menopause Manor isn’t about hormones or jokes about aging women with bad attitudes. It’s about a group of women who met working on airplanes many years ago, and who care about each other like sisters. They take each other to the doctor, the hospital, and the grocery store. They clean each others’ houses when one of them is sick. They worry about each other and forgive easily if one of their own is bitchy. These are the women with whom I retired six months ago and without whom retirement would be far shorter on laughter, lunches, and libations. Retirement brought new and renewed friendships to me and I am therefore grateful to be past menopause and having a little time on my hands.

Donna

Reply Hazy, Try Again

Six months ago I retired after forty years as a flight attendant for American Airlines. At first I found myself mildly irritated and without a response when asked by nearly all my non-flying friends, “What are you going to do now?” Somehow the question made me feel guilty. I wanted a break from responsibility, and I certainly felt qualified to relax after forty years of living out of a suitcase and “slinging hash.”

Before going to work for American, I spent two years clerking at the University of Michigan. And before that I worked at a K-Mart store weekends and evenings during high school. At 16, I spent one day scooping ice cream at a Baskin-Robbins store and decided that was not for me when I couldn’t use my right arm for a couple of days afterward. From the age of 12 until I moved away from home at age 20, I babysat for several families and cleaned houses in the neighborhood where I grew up. Tucked in here and there were a couple of years of college, a couple of years of extension university while I followed my husband, the Marine, around the country, and then an immersion into computer classes in the early eighties. The only reason to mention these things is simply to point out that this is my first foray into idleness.

You’ve been a flight attendant for my whole life.

After I announced my intention to retire, my twenty-one year old son asked, “What are you going to BE now? You’ve been a flight attendant for my whole life.” For him, the question was about identity: “My mom is a flight attendant.” I told him I’ll be a retired flight attendant. He bounced back with “I guess instead of being a tired flight attendant, now you’ll be a RE-tired flight attendant.”

Now that I’m RE-tired I’m not tired at all, relatively speaking. I turned sixty-one this past Saturday, so I’m not exactly brimming with youthful energy. I’m sleeping through the night occasionally, my neck and back pain have eased up some, my eyes are no longer bloodshot, and I’m fairly regular. My knees ache less, my feet aren’t swollen, and my hands aren’t chapped and raw from washing them obsessively to ward off strangers’ germs.

Meet the gang.

Several of my friends retired with me. They all were flight attendants for an equal or longer time than I. They all have “things” to do. Judy takes care of her father’s old and ailing friends, along with our own aging and ailing friends. In addition, she rescues homeless cats and feeds and waters strays. She feeds and waters us more or less regularly also. Gail volunteers at her church a couple of days a week and rescues pound puppies. Sandy sews and has joined a Red Hat group that meets for quilting lessons and lunches. Barbara, a widow, volunteers at Ten Thousand Villages and has published a book about her husband’s life. Sonnie and Beverly are battling cancer. Carrol works at a golf pro shop and is caring for her husband in his battle with cancer. Gerry, a two-time cancer survivor, just buried her mother and buried her husband two years ago.

Like most senior baby boomers, we also have cataracts and glaucoma, high blood pressure, elevated cholesterol, osteoporosis, and sleep apnea within our circle, along with many other age-related aches, pains and medical problems. Almost all have lost at least one parent and most of us have lost both of them. We bought retirement annuities with our already floundering 401k’s, only to have the recent economic nose-dive drag our retirement funds down with it. Like countless others, we console and comfort ourselves with the notion that “everyone’s in the same boat.” We drink some.

Mandatory retirement.

I loved my job for most of my 40 years at it, but now I’m at the threshold of old and way past the peak of youthful energy. I have been enjoying a brief period of no time-clock punching, no responsibility for the care and feeding of hundreds of tired, hungry and often angry customers, no tension over recurrent tests and aircraft evacuation drills to stay qualified to keep my job, and no schedule-juggling uncertainty about holidays and important family times.

Since the nation’s economic meltdown last October, most of my contemporaries are still working and many plan to go to age sixty-six, or beyond, if they’re bodies hold up. For many years, when people asked “at what age do flight attendants have to retire?” my wise-cracking reply was: “at death.” We haven’t had a mandatory retirement age since the 1970’s; we can keep flying until we are no longer able to spring from a jumpseat and evacuate a plane-full of people. Thanks to our economy, “at death” may no longer be a joke to many of my contemporaries.

Prior to October, 2008, “what are you going to do now?” was usually a question about travel plans, hobbies or volunteer work after retirement. Now when we gaze into the Magic 8-Ball, the answer is “reply hazy, try again.” Having said all this, Life is darned good and my next post will introduce one local group and how they cope—and help me cope.

In the meanwhile check out this fun video from CNN.

Donna