tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2971332632056980492024-03-05T18:52:38.056-08:00Single Woman RetiresJoin a teacher during her transition into retirement,observe her ambivalence and ensuing experiences. Scroll down and begin with August 3rd posting. Your comments are welcome, just click on the picture of an envelope and share your thoughts.Carol Keenanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05230141197326070569noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-297133263205698049.post-1537494392070787322012-01-18T12:13:00.000-08:002012-01-21T12:08:15.796-08:00<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I need an iPod, I thought as I pressed my hands against the tapestry chair and righted myself. I walked toward the door as I considered the songs I might feed the palm sized device. Surely it would take the drudgery out of my exercise. All I needed to do was make a run to Costco and pick up the latest version. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC4Uz7mhziHA7x2Sdd49Cx5BswSpUtrng-dvmPOJwd0m10t42voyn05_UF5cOfamW1SkRGaCNijcsWWwh3uMLe6e7IG5Nj6ltSHr_1u9iTDhSYufGcOCV2i6yvetD06vQ8H5EKd53Hwf8/s1600/11ZWWXP6SQL__SL500_AA300_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC4Uz7mhziHA7x2Sdd49Cx5BswSpUtrng-dvmPOJwd0m10t42voyn05_UF5cOfamW1SkRGaCNijcsWWwh3uMLe6e7IG5Nj6ltSHr_1u9iTDhSYufGcOCV2i6yvetD06vQ8H5EKd53Hwf8/s200/11ZWWXP6SQL__SL500_AA300_.jpg" width="200" /></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> I walked down my front steps, headed toward the beach and checked my starting time. My mind began to spin with the details. Once the I Pod was in hand, I needed to select the songs and download them. Yet sorting through six decades of my favorite songs might take considerable time. I could begin with the disheveled pile of CD’s stored in my closet. But WAIT! How does one download songs? How much time would it take to learn that? UGH! It can’t be too hard. I’m sure I can figure it out. And so my obsession kept spinning.<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
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<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">While engrossed in this self imposed mind static, I realized I passed a quarter mile of houses and gardens without even noticing. I turned around and glanced at the tree lined street. Then my attention shifted to the soft cushion of the sole of my shoe bearing down upon an inflexible concrete. I took a deep breath and continued my walk</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXnfwSHJJUk5dUo9x7-YHh0nNrv4bQtv_xVQS4X9ro1isIwLCuT9ELc-_wNbfHVagr0gVX7mDEzt1KMHIaQzM58oreyQlr9WjV2lWLFhT8qYgd3-6IcCjw1ysfBLxCZYYAEG0C7IeLoI8/s1600/english+garden+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXnfwSHJJUk5dUo9x7-YHh0nNrv4bQtv_xVQS4X9ro1isIwLCuT9ELc-_wNbfHVagr0gVX7mDEzt1KMHIaQzM58oreyQlr9WjV2lWLFhT8qYgd3-6IcCjw1ysfBLxCZYYAEG0C7IeLoI8/s1600/english+garden+2.jpg" /></span></a></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Once I arrived at Ocean Avenue a decision presented itself. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could stay on the street side and attend to the turn of the century homes and landscaping. Or I could cross now and take the sidewalk along the bluff’s edge and enjoy the view of the ocean. Maybe I should wait for the light to turn and head for the closest stairway. Then I could walk across the sand and actually stroll along the water’s edge. The last option seemed the most appealing.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdVjpsi2Ltc4Dp-bTkZgA__qYa-bNEFQYUuYQouvY_h_EP8INrT8qPqYnbPkNS50BB-9-BnbFD1loE4HHjJVpmjW0rHusOl3JIMHQy0DgvdN89-7HS5cRu0BaX1zWMLvAYaqn-H9WBmZo/s1600/beaches.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdVjpsi2Ltc4Dp-bTkZgA__qYa-bNEFQYUuYQouvY_h_EP8INrT8qPqYnbPkNS50BB-9-BnbFD1loE4HHjJVpmjW0rHusOl3JIMHQy0DgvdN89-7HS5cRu0BaX1zWMLvAYaqn-H9WBmZo/s200/beaches.jpg" width="200" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Down the long stretch of steps that lay before me, my enthusiasm waned a bit. Everything has its price, I speculated “One must return from where one came.” Yet I pressed on. Once at the bottom, the sand gently receded with each step as I approached the water. <o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The slow rhythm of the oceans pull upon the shore was my reward. The contrast of enormous man made vessels waiting to be docked and unloaded buoyed by an expanse of water seemed remarkable. I looked toward the pier encircled by seagulls. Then I continued my walk dodging the debris washed upon the shore. At the same time, I searched for small treasures. Drift wood, bits of plastic, broken glass, tangled seaweed…<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I glanced up. A man with a scrambled head of hair and disheveled clothes was approaching. He’s probably homeless, I imagined. My mood shifted. A certain sense of powerlessness overcomes me when I encounter the apparent suffering of those on the fringe. He was getting closer. I cringed. As he started to get closer, I heard a voice. Panic set in. Then he pointed his <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>finger at me animatedly saying. “Did you notice what a marvelous day it is? We’re lucky. They’re all marvelous” I broke out in a grin. “You’re right”, I replied. And he was gone at a pace much lighter and quicker than mine.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipJz0UjWjqpmFMpSTQHF4tj8p4ZBwdBLvx7CMKzaSV-AcXig-OXcTiX0cagtGw9iTqdkMI6FYHsXXMr2_421436SyzbVqLUBPD70Mot2bjJZMebcJ5hbBie66Jp1o_U0vZaGPfAqGXOBE/s1600/240447-a-woman-walking-along-the-beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipJz0UjWjqpmFMpSTQHF4tj8p4ZBwdBLvx7CMKzaSV-AcXig-OXcTiX0cagtGw9iTqdkMI6FYHsXXMr2_421436SyzbVqLUBPD70Mot2bjJZMebcJ5hbBie66Jp1o_U0vZaGPfAqGXOBE/s320/240447-a-woman-walking-along-the-beach.jpg" width="213" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">With his disappearance, my search for hidden treasures evaporated as I left the oceanside and headed home. Two joggers approached me on the right passing me by. Both were plugged in to their…yep….i Pods. I wondered if they had encountered the same man. And if they had, could they have heard him? I think not.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">And what other pleasures would I have missed if I had been plugged in…the sound of the waves pulling against the shore, seagulls crying overhead and the voice of one seemingly lost soul pointing out the miracle of a<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>day…<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Although I had the funds to purchase an i Pod upon my return, was it worth the price?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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</div>Carol Keenanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05230141197326070569noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-297133263205698049.post-30349802861463567912012-01-09T17:18:00.000-08:002012-01-21T12:04:29.702-08:00<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="MsoNormalTable" style="mso-cellspacing: 0in; mso-yfti-tbllook: 1184;"><tbody>
<tr style="mso-yfti-firstrow: yes; mso-yfti-irow: 0;"> <td style="background-color: transparent; border: rgb(0, 0, 0); padding: 0.75pt;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Opportunity often hides in strange packages. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Recently diagnosed with prediabetes, I spent the last several months processing the information. At first I blew it off thinking the test results were a fluke. I spent Thanksgiving freely eating sweets at whim. </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz9qc10SgX8DvYCTaI1DhCTHDNpK1Z8iyNva1uRdp9mJJA2vmnoqopK4bFNYzqgTTOtbNWscmkUwsKUOPkcDsa8_wBrLzIHUVNYWThB0RV9IxvdYlTM1DJQxhlVWJd4qwgVMqL0nSoZj8/s1600/dessert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz9qc10SgX8DvYCTaI1DhCTHDNpK1Z8iyNva1uRdp9mJJA2vmnoqopK4bFNYzqgTTOtbNWscmkUwsKUOPkcDsa8_wBrLzIHUVNYWThB0RV9IxvdYlTM1DJQxhlVWJd4qwgVMqL0nSoZj8/s1600/dessert.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Alcohol was a close buddy as I consumed several glasses as soon as the sun went down. And bread, my favorite, was a main stable. Yet I was forced to take a sobering view after receiving further results that my glucose level had raised even higher. So additional appointments with the doctor, nutritionist and many episodes of surfing the net, brought me closer to an understanding, it ain’t a good diagnosis. But it might be reversible. Whew!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As one might expect, I became instantly motivated when reading it can lead to diabetes 2. That carries with it the potential for kidney disease, heart failure, high blood pressure and/or neuropathy. With the hair raised on the back of my neck, I fast forwarded to information outlining the ways to reverse it. . As my daughter, Christine, commented, “There’s nothing more motivating than fear.” Such wisdom.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">So how do I dump this near nightmare?</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQUFyyeQikcqjatYGPIW8LiW8W8tJbVnemWnGjfrGiDc4gQvAxlTkYFNpsHiVwHsT6OOg8meijIXw6seHGcoIuyDezCl2c_4nt4ORIMurlsyZMXdw_h3INfKYqVDHpbcu_UYRVGaDSRkI/s1600/question+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQUFyyeQikcqjatYGPIW8LiW8W8tJbVnemWnGjfrGiDc4gQvAxlTkYFNpsHiVwHsT6OOg8meijIXw6seHGcoIuyDezCl2c_4nt4ORIMurlsyZMXdw_h3INfKYqVDHpbcu_UYRVGaDSRkI/s1600/question+2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It’s clear. I need to increase my exercise and drop 5%to 10% of my body weight. Exercise is key, since it allows free floating insulin to be absorbed by my muscles. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It also provides the added advantage of speeding up my efforts of discarding of the extra 40 pounds I added after high school. Belly fat accompanies and contributes to prediabetes. And, sure enough, my waistline is way past go. UGH! That requires ab abuse. So where am I going with this ramble? Hang in there. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">With my head popping with new information, I rolled my bike out of the house and on to the porch. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-no-proof: yes;">C</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">lunking it down the steps and out to the street, I hopped on and headed toward the beach. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfPzkMVv19egh0YibnXjrN1BA_-OaaKhptdWgHwxJT_-Ukn3ryDhMFQq4CI7Rr33OFs1fTBhj6wdgqr2WXLTuqXkEvBnRPE2g3ieGNxdWX7Lr2Cr9Fg1ETOvErDTYFeqnjxCDeGzEddgA/s1600/bicycle+beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfPzkMVv19egh0YibnXjrN1BA_-OaaKhptdWgHwxJT_-Ukn3ryDhMFQq4CI7Rr33OFs1fTBhj6wdgqr2WXLTuqXkEvBnRPE2g3ieGNxdWX7Lr2Cr9Fg1ETOvErDTYFeqnjxCDeGzEddgA/s1600/bicycle+beach.jpg" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyUtd0GOtiXErMLLIkwunGGSZcdF5RVHrj-cyogKW3LTHUtXsi8M8hUjUKmOGnfgDPxFqEv8clO3CV90IFShjZCRq2yw-mPfEfFdbf0lYlIjcZjaX1gurXh_z7V1o6LbhbIESGqANg0fk/s1600/sandy+beach.jpg"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"></span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">While keeping my balance, I noted my knees were behaving so I began to peddle </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">faster. Hmmm. Not bad. I kept a close watch on the oncoming traffic and the potential for car doors opening smack into me. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Arriving at Ocean Boulevard, I glided down the hill and out to the bike path. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Knees were still fine so I increased my effort. I pedaled, pumped. Then glided while glancing toward a calm deep blue sea. A serene sense of gratitude washed over me. Inhaling I quickened my pace as my heart pumped faster and stronger. I approached a turn in the path and headed toward platform directly across from the Queen Mary. Stopping for a drink, I parked my bike and stretched out on the grass and took my pulse. Yep! It was working.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">After I sat up to watch the sunlight glisten and almost skid across the water.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I took note. My connection with exertion and nature was long past due. I had almost forgotten what a unique cocktail they provide. I drank slowly. Then a couple approached me and asked that I take a picture. I snapped them as they posed capturing one small moment a reward for our brief encounter. I took note again. Time slowed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I got back on my bike and headed home. The sun warmed my body. As I reached, Second Street, I tilted the bike swerving it from one side of the road to the other. A memory over powered me. I could almost hear the click, clickety, click of discarded playing cards clothes pinned to the spokes. An Ace of Spades? A Heart? Certainly not a Club. This felt too good. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGKBRlNYd7_VQDez4WlA9ZnyTbSVRAQPeD7bjpGTjSz7KKqrv9Smph4zJ26moukolHScxnX7CgoyIjjNzkDK8GpkuJIC0VLgnPtvSAJCOSoStjipU-DqJLFA0wx2Gabqw222naW2hFaSc/s1600/calm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGKBRlNYd7_VQDez4WlA9ZnyTbSVRAQPeD7bjpGTjSz7KKqrv9Smph4zJ26moukolHScxnX7CgoyIjjNzkDK8GpkuJIC0VLgnPtvSAJCOSoStjipU-DqJLFA0wx2Gabqw222naW2hFaSc/s1600/calm.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Contentment settled in as I rounded the corner and approached my home. Maybe this predicament shook me out of my complacency and sent me straight into the path of opportunity. Not a bad rap.<o:p></o:p></span></div></td> </tr>
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</div>Carol Keenanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05230141197326070569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-297133263205698049.post-35817853999386894702011-01-27T19:10:00.000-08:002011-01-29T19:57:13.640-08:00ComparisonsOver the years each time I saw a water color, I would step close and try to analyze the painter’s techniques. At the same time, I wondered whether or not I could paint. Eventually I would walk away and tell myself that the artist is talented and I’m not. Yet, my desire to paint remained. Then ten years ago, I took a class through the city recreation department. Instantly, I noticed that the other members of the class were better than I. Consequently I spent more time in the act of comparing than painting. Frustrated, I walked away convinced I was the unlucky one. I simply was not artisitic. <br />
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After I retired, I signed up for a watercolor class through the senior university like a pigeon coming home to roost,. I immediately engaged in the same act of sizing up the other students. During each class, I would begin my project. Then I would trek around the room admiring everyone else’s work. And so my obsession continued. <br />
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One day while I was especially discouraged, the sound of a familiar voice resounded through out the room.” If anyone in the room here thinks they’re talented, get up and get out. Painting is work and experience. It has nothing to do with talent. ” <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1f0IHIL0Dq4jFpTgYGXPIhwU3h0BNBnO5WxC28614Y-23pypbdhLFQ6b9b-7FDW38-0Z08sWhtt_6Sfnczn2wLD8ZXw6gKLZxJ8ovM_fJZxw9U2F8l2rmC_CkEuWQsufNf_g1SfUZ9iE/s1600/senoir+teacher+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1f0IHIL0Dq4jFpTgYGXPIhwU3h0BNBnO5WxC28614Y-23pypbdhLFQ6b9b-7FDW38-0Z08sWhtt_6Sfnczn2wLD8ZXw6gKLZxJ8ovM_fJZxw9U2F8l2rmC_CkEuWQsufNf_g1SfUZ9iE/s1600/senoir+teacher+2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I glanced to the side. Everyone just kept on painting. Then a smile spread across my face. That voice yanked my false assumptions right out of me. Those were the very words I needed to hear. Although the delivery jarred me, it alerted me to the fact that I wasted so much precious time honoring other’s accomplishments rather than spending time developing my skills. How liberating to encounter a situation at this point in my life that resulted in altering my preconceived ideas. And so, my painting continues.Carol Keenanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05230141197326070569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-297133263205698049.post-83504995042080543162010-11-04T12:48:00.000-07:002010-11-04T18:03:24.485-07:00Brush Stroke or Watercolor Class Cont...You may be wondering… Why on earth would I return to a class with such a chaotic beginning?<br />
<br />
A strong desire to learn to paint and a heavy dose of genes swimming in optimism convinced me to give it another try. During the down time of the last class, I also spent time walking among the students observing their paintings which were very impressive. So I thought maybe this guy has some artistic wisdom that outweighs his lack of teaching skills.<br />
<br />
I arrived about ten minutes late. I was banking on the pace of the last class. My tardiness actually placed me ahead of schedule. I sat down next to the woman I befriended the previous week.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYdBy_T8k3rpKW3yMD6TOIdMMZgeFhMZ8MUnGDRYihYpausGYBzZk9N2lk5JZrhystr9euaguqGDX0_TEf18st-GxQIjQ4mMjtQd0dKLZF0ZkH3BTU90h3O_SV7Vs4GIFdCdpxt2ZtFuc/s1600/talking.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYdBy_T8k3rpKW3yMD6TOIdMMZgeFhMZ8MUnGDRYihYpausGYBzZk9N2lk5JZrhystr9euaguqGDX0_TEf18st-GxQIjQ4mMjtQd0dKLZF0ZkH3BTU90h3O_SV7Vs4GIFdCdpxt2ZtFuc/s1600/talking.bmp" /></a></div>During our first encounter we had a lengthy conversation and discovered many similarities. We recently retired, taught first grade, and loved teaching literacy. So once I settled in with my painting board, paper, and paints, I was surprised when she turned to me and asked if I was retired. I paused. Is she kidding, I thought? Quickly I searched her face. It was obvious that she wasn’t. Then I smiled and repeated my response from the week before. <br />
She commented, “Oh, you were a teacher too? <br />
Then she proceeded to ask the same litany of questions as before and was equally surprised by each of my answers. <br />
Hmmm I thought the “senior” in Senior University is becoming a reocurring staple. <br />
<br />
Just as I began to resolve the fact that a lapse of memory is likely to be frequent among this population, the instructor stood up. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1f0IHIL0Dq4jFpTgYGXPIhwU3h0BNBnO5WxC28614Y-23pypbdhLFQ6b9b-7FDW38-0Z08sWhtt_6Sfnczn2wLD8ZXw6gKLZxJ8ovM_fJZxw9U2F8l2rmC_CkEuWQsufNf_g1SfUZ9iE/s1600/senoir+teacher+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1f0IHIL0Dq4jFpTgYGXPIhwU3h0BNBnO5WxC28614Y-23pypbdhLFQ6b9b-7FDW38-0Z08sWhtt_6Sfnczn2wLD8ZXw6gKLZxJ8ovM_fJZxw9U2F8l2rmC_CkEuWQsufNf_g1SfUZ9iE/s1600/senoir+teacher+2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
In the same booming voice, he called the class to order. Holding up the identical book from last week, he delivered the same speech. I was stunned as a moment of self doubt sunk. I began to think that perhaps I was in error and simply experiencing a case of déjà vu. While seeping deeper into confusion, the person on my left leaned toward me and whispered, “He already said that last week.” I stifled a giggle. After my head cleared, I nodded resolving to make this guy my new cam padre. <br />
<br />
And despite the quirkiness of the class environment I'll conclude with my first painting which is featured below.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitH5Iobtrm28GejaiJP1iLHICS6FAvDO57dnB7PVjMD_EEapoaqlfqxttc6oo3MrIMRM7_mj7FvwsIhhpK9KiXprtxGkVsZEfo9oEVB6lnI1O2nU3run-FlYe-WNpilkren95YWN02w1A/s1600/IMGA0905.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitH5Iobtrm28GejaiJP1iLHICS6FAvDO57dnB7PVjMD_EEapoaqlfqxttc6oo3MrIMRM7_mj7FvwsIhhpK9KiXprtxGkVsZEfo9oEVB6lnI1O2nU3run-FlYe-WNpilkren95YWN02w1A/s320/IMGA0905.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1f0IHIL0Dq4jFpTgYGXPIhwU3h0BNBnO5WxC28614Y-23pypbdhLFQ6b9b-7FDW38-0Z08sWhtt_6Sfnczn2wLD8ZXw6gKLZxJ8ovM_fJZxw9U2F8l2rmC_CkEuWQsufNf_g1SfUZ9iE/s1600/senoir+teacher+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Yeah, I know. But it's a start!</div>Carol Keenanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05230141197326070569noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-297133263205698049.post-85277066573338654122010-11-01T07:04:00.000-07:002010-11-03T15:14:12.676-07:00Retired On Course<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I worried. I planned. I partied.</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLtMF19GoEXHwJ8HaetKwoMM2vcGKsVUkKAFTlcmsGnHrCsZjc9ynf3a3IrjmTc4LJ7ikLtaKc7IDSzsf4qWET4oWEI10IAutnRZQLeOMJkOeZVHz7TSweedG7SphFxQSej8aXXHUyljs/s1600/confetti+party.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="209" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLtMF19GoEXHwJ8HaetKwoMM2vcGKsVUkKAFTlcmsGnHrCsZjc9ynf3a3IrjmTc4LJ7ikLtaKc7IDSzsf4qWET4oWEI10IAutnRZQLeOMJkOeZVHz7TSweedG7SphFxQSej8aXXHUyljs/s320/confetti+party.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And now I’m retired!</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Am I having a blast? Well, a blast is not the coined phrase I would use. However, it is d*** delightful. Stress has nearly disappeared. I can awake each day at will. The freedom to structure my day at whim is exhilarating. And I often find myself bemused. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I signed up for a beginning watercolor course at the senior university. On the first day, I entered a room filled with people. I looked around but couldn’t see the instructor. For a moment, I thought I was in the wrong class. So I sat down. Thirty minutes later, a man stood up and called the beginners to the front of the room. </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1f0IHIL0Dq4jFpTgYGXPIhwU3h0BNBnO5WxC28614Y-23pypbdhLFQ6b9b-7FDW38-0Z08sWhtt_6Sfnczn2wLD8ZXw6gKLZxJ8ovM_fJZxw9U2F8l2rmC_CkEuWQsufNf_g1SfUZ9iE/s1600/senoir+teacher+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1f0IHIL0Dq4jFpTgYGXPIhwU3h0BNBnO5WxC28614Y-23pypbdhLFQ6b9b-7FDW38-0Z08sWhtt_6Sfnczn2wLD8ZXw6gKLZxJ8ovM_fJZxw9U2F8l2rmC_CkEuWQsufNf_g1SfUZ9iE/s1600/senoir+teacher+2.jpg" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He wrote an illegible list of materials on a white board. A person n the back of the room shouted, “I can’t read it.” Then the instructor said he had a hand out but couldn’t find it. He paused, and scratched his head. Another person said they had a copy from a previous class. So he sent someone to make copies for us and began walking around the room talking with various students. Ten minutes later, he reappeared shouting for our attention and held up a book of illustrations. He gave us a history of his friendship with the author and some TMZ like tidbit that his mother in law had been a showgirl on one of the featured riverboats. This was followed by an announcement that if he suddenly left the room, not to take it personally. No one said a word. Finally he said he was incontinent and chuckled. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix8tCJpckkZ3jdHXPivfKMjq0KxSaB-FuMiHLnvzvYSll-uw7EiOH1zELHBksTRA4y7gS1InPz-qn9GxgBr2TdpqUz4OeQ6Ge70bZYtme0mj7rYDgdPCDLr4rZ4OexRwYrkGZswl4l_Dg/s1600/alice+rabbit+hole.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix8tCJpckkZ3jdHXPivfKMjq0KxSaB-FuMiHLnvzvYSll-uw7EiOH1zELHBksTRA4y7gS1InPz-qn9GxgBr2TdpqUz4OeQ6Ge70bZYtme0mj7rYDgdPCDLr4rZ4OexRwYrkGZswl4l_Dg/s1600/alice+rabbit+hole.jpg" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I sat stunned. Egad, I thought. I’ve taken a plunge down Alice’s rabbit hole. Is this what is meant by the “senior” in Senior University? Then I heard the words ring out, “Class dismissed.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And so my retirement adventure’s begun…</span><br />
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</span><br />
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</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span>Carol Keenanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05230141197326070569noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-297133263205698049.post-59005670404331529552010-10-20T19:39:00.000-07:002010-10-21T11:26:23.013-07:00Big SurI braced myself against the twists and turns of Highway 1. Leaning over the dashboard, I hoped to soak in the expanse of blue sky as it brushed the ocean waves. My reward was an advancing fog. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrLaLdhDhfK3v-CpboMBlu80ZoNVjJI4mqH3dzxB5NAuHfBJak6_O5-ZdB-Kwz7bzxAMdNVvyXo975hXkAczeuCERZyUEpnWVtaBVsV_VFDJOnutcLTXY75tA5tSacExQLfgU3RqM0J0Q/s1600/Fog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrLaLdhDhfK3v-CpboMBlu80ZoNVjJI4mqH3dzxB5NAuHfBJak6_O5-ZdB-Kwz7bzxAMdNVvyXo975hXkAczeuCERZyUEpnWVtaBVsV_VFDJOnutcLTXY75tA5tSacExQLfgU3RqM0J0Q/s320/Fog.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>S***, I thought. I bragged for weeks about the incredulous scenery. I even emailed links with pictures of Big Sur to lure friends into celebrating my retirement. So what’s with this FOG! I vacillated between my ever present realism and conflicting optimism. <em>Maybe it will burn off soon. But what if it doesn’t? I hope no one will be disappointed. Oh it doesn’t really matter. But, NO, it will spoil the view from Nepenthe.</em> Then I heard Carolyn’s voice in the background happily chatting about the beauty of the redwoods and wild flowers. At the same time Robin was admiring the vastness of the rocky cliffs. I let out a sigh of relief. Accompanied by the soothing lyrics, of Carol King’s song “Way Over Yonder”, we coasted into the Big Sur Inn. At last, we arrived!<br />
<br />
way over yonder<br />
is a place that i know<br />
where i can find shelter<br />
from a hunger and cold<br />
and the sweet tastin' good life<br />
is so easily found a way over yonder, that's where i'm bound<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs1wU6vzwNOU5ALsMeFt2VBl8jCxofcPypbW1xfsdlO7tZQej0ONOqVyHCbGola1yCtLuo-3rGo6ZegQmQccMbGKPNHUJ54Ena0rhP3x8_tKPHN6M4-GRI7KGQzRWj1043H7JG30ni1j8/s1600/Big+sur+inn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs1wU6vzwNOU5ALsMeFt2VBl8jCxofcPypbW1xfsdlO7tZQej0ONOqVyHCbGola1yCtLuo-3rGo6ZegQmQccMbGKPNHUJ54Ena0rhP3x8_tKPHN6M4-GRI7KGQzRWj1043H7JG30ni1j8/s320/Big+sur+inn.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>We drove down a short bumpy road to our cottage nestled among the tall Redwoods and road dusted ferns. I looked up at the balcony and smiled as Tara and Cindy greeted us. Surprised, I wondered how they got there so fast. They must have left at some god awful hour. I was sure we would arrive before they did. It seemed strange to see them outside the utilitarian walls of Alvarado.<br />
<br />
i know when i get there<br />
the first thing i'll see<br />
is the sun shining golden<br />
shining right down on me<br />
then trouble's gonna lose me<br />
worry leave me behind…<br />
<br />
After unloading, I walked up the narrow wooden stairs to join them. The disappointment of the fog was still ever present. When I got to the top of the stairs, I found them engaged in conversation while sipping on wine. Tara looked up with that familiar warm smile and commented in her southern drawl, “I love this place.” Downstairs Carolyn searched for a bottle opener to uncork some wine. Robin began to nestle in and organize the small cottage, while Maureen collapsed into an overstuffed chair and began to unwind. Soon we could hear Leslie’s jeep approaching. After spending a good part of the day pedaling along the northern coast she was bubbling with energy. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3_lfSrOniF7t2Mi2-hN4qYEhsWXvDQnYWSIPZoT12xcCniCRubYf_FPJqPxcxP-QtmyRUuFwJ373iyzSO238QB-VbmMfgJQGH62DEC8aiOfr2iIIP7ccQc0mLqk2_TK6rkkE0lyx9eBw/s1600/big+sur+cottage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3_lfSrOniF7t2Mi2-hN4qYEhsWXvDQnYWSIPZoT12xcCniCRubYf_FPJqPxcxP-QtmyRUuFwJ373iyzSO238QB-VbmMfgJQGH62DEC8aiOfr2iIIP7ccQc0mLqk2_TK6rkkE0lyx9eBw/s1600/big+sur+cottage.jpg" /></a></div>We began exploring the nooks and crannies of each room and claimed our beds. Like the buzz of a pesky mosquito, I still couldn’t swat my obsession with the fog out of my mind. Then I looked out of the window and saw the final five guests; Melina, Sovy, Lily, and Celeste. Their dear spirits and<br />
laughter were approaching the cottage threshold to join us. And who was the fifth guest? Why that would be the soon to be born Samantha who was receiving an early indoctrination into celebrating life’s changes in style.<br />
<br />
and i'll stand up proudly<br />
in true peace of mind<br />
talkin' about<br />
talkin' about<br />
a way over yonder<br />
is a place i have seen<br />
in a garden of wisdom<br />
from some long ago dream<br />
oh yeah<br />
<br />
After greeting everyone, I walked along a footpath to a nearby water fall. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi27DGPNqUaP20ArZPiI-zksvJp_beXlZOI7iskJU5o6xYkjqm_h5sNGfyznsy7ugLIh4gB-XbkKWMZkLCIjck6hKubmuragJqnEEV2IwUYsy6Ki-lQtf2xoZU8PPv2vz18BijQM18yrjs/s1600/waterfall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi27DGPNqUaP20ArZPiI-zksvJp_beXlZOI7iskJU5o6xYkjqm_h5sNGfyznsy7ugLIh4gB-XbkKWMZkLCIjck6hKubmuragJqnEEV2IwUYsy6Ki-lQtf2xoZU8PPv2vz18BijQM18yrjs/s1600/waterfall.jpg" /></a></div>I stood quietly observing. The only audible sound was the water trickling into the ravine. Staring at the flowing water, my preoccupation with the fog gradually disappeared. I realized that much of my life has been wasted holding on to the past rather than focusing on the present. The cool air surrounded me along with the warmth of knowing so many dear friends took time to join me.Then I turned and followed the light emanating from the cabin windows vowing to welcome this opportunity to celebrate and let the weekend unfold in its own unique way. I wasn’t disappointed! <br />
<br />
maybe tomorrow<br />
i'll find my way<br />
to the land where the honey runs<br />
in rivers each day<br />
and the sweet tastin' good life<br />
is so easily found<br />
a way over yonder<br />
that's where i'm bound<br />
oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh<br />
a way over yonder<br />
that's where i'm bound.Carol Keenanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05230141197326070569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-297133263205698049.post-59201656240407239352010-09-19T11:02:00.000-07:002010-09-19T18:56:09.695-07:00Preparing to PartyDitch day was packed with indulgences and definitely a success. But it was over. So the next morning I caught myself drifting into reliving the details. But, let’s face it, life doesn’t always allow us to remain at the pinnacle of our highs. My retirement potluck would begin at 5:00 p.m. which in translation meant I better get my **** together. I had to get moving. Preparing for a house filled with family and friends, ultimately would reap pleasure, but required WORK. Oy vay! <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPqriZZR3YwkqBS3plOMhyRnRI7uyoG3u4sjE7faJYYFs1BtZjdHK3aROcMLhwNRDWLNB9-EL7HnKl5cQjOpwz4PRj5lXsgcMhnMtgeZ8GgGMRUDbnQqhUiOKUkvlWLtkGrQMYncGU7CY/s1600/Capucinno.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPqriZZR3YwkqBS3plOMhyRnRI7uyoG3u4sjE7faJYYFs1BtZjdHK3aROcMLhwNRDWLNB9-EL7HnKl5cQjOpwz4PRj5lXsgcMhnMtgeZ8GgGMRUDbnQqhUiOKUkvlWLtkGrQMYncGU7CY/s320/Capucinno.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I fired up my cappuccino machine and decided to skip breakfast. The evening would be a caloric packed excursion through trays of appetizers. No need to start eating early. Then in my pre party manner, I began to spin while a litany of chores nagged me. I couldn’t decide if I should polish my nails or cut up the ingredients to my shrimp and mango appetizer. Should I rake the leaves in the backyard or iron my wrinkle free blouse? Maybe it would be better to trim the flower beds and sweep the leaves. Then clear out the refrigerator. YIKES! I needed to put an end to this. In order to avoid slipping into a walking comma and skipping the essentials or engaging in repeating the same tasks over and over again, I better get organized. So I sat down mid morning and forced myself to make a list. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgadMWjPScHPKMRHEpvDVBHnb8BjqACNrE9ot_dyoN-KPZnfhS0Cm6hIgIIVbrGDJyZBDH2aOARLvtJvpCdxv9ZlXUhIMn_dQIVahwOxIsNpQHhKzRhCiNVVZ0AUM8vxlLy1i0ApQJJ1Vw/s1600/list.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" qx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgadMWjPScHPKMRHEpvDVBHnb8BjqACNrE9ot_dyoN-KPZnfhS0Cm6hIgIIVbrGDJyZBDH2aOARLvtJvpCdxv9ZlXUhIMn_dQIVahwOxIsNpQHhKzRhCiNVVZ0AUM8vxlLy1i0ApQJJ1Vw/s1600/list.jpg" /></a></div>Like the neurotic Toad in the children’s book, “Frog and Toad Forever”, I focused, gathered pencil and paper in hand and created a list including the following: <br />
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• Rake yard, sweep leaves, trim flower beds <br />
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• Iron 4 huge table cloths <br />
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• Clear out refrigerator debris <br />
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• Place Prosecco bottles in refrigerator <br />
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• Set out serving platters, napkins, plates, and eating utensils <br />
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• Make appetizers <br />
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• Iron outfit<br />
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• Put CD’s in player<br />
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• Relax<br />
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Yes, relax was my last item. There isn’t anything worse than a wound up hostess who is a buzz kill. If I didn’t include it, I might get confused like Toad and think I would have to skip it if it wasn’t on the list. Then, after getting dressed, I applied my face “I keep in the jar by the door”. (love those Beatles lyrics) Then I assumed a yoga posture and practiced some Asana breaths. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpTXRlxXqfNWjrH9JIskL7KjyCH6pja_S144Y-HZn2gfPx9-Zx18nKeKWao-FTa9NYIoTgn4KAPC2vowz6-auFSoR4eIq17cAwsm1kzN7ZNPMVItS3V1innFUHr5mH5_6w0l4O2IFjluQ/s1600/breathing+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpTXRlxXqfNWjrH9JIskL7KjyCH6pja_S144Y-HZn2gfPx9-Zx18nKeKWao-FTa9NYIoTgn4KAPC2vowz6-auFSoR4eIq17cAwsm1kzN7ZNPMVItS3V1innFUHr5mH5_6w0l4O2IFjluQ/s320/breathing+2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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A shuffle of footsteps on the porch could be heard above my breathing. Then my sister, Carolyn, Judy and Robert entered, it warmed my heart to be greeted by those so dear to my heart. Offering to help, I directed them to the backyard and asked them to set up the tables. Did I mention I have tendonitis of the elbow? Not a convenient ailment to have when you have chores ahead of you. Dutifully they hauled the tables to opposite sides of the yard and under the tree. Snapping them in place, they spread the table cloths and placed a bouquet of spring flowers in the center of each. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEKjhzaoBlFM8mhzUvUxZRczR7Bk7A5Ye_jNc8sxAvcBKo-dNqZdrscY8YGAv-IQoXxxeo0e7tE1Aua_HWt_a0WxvaKPCOW25UoK_uKWsuSx7W5r8DuiLofdIEAU8H1o6B8UU_WozEKvk/s1600/garden+table+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEKjhzaoBlFM8mhzUvUxZRczR7Bk7A5Ye_jNc8sxAvcBKo-dNqZdrscY8YGAv-IQoXxxeo0e7tE1Aua_HWt_a0WxvaKPCOW25UoK_uKWsuSx7W5r8DuiLofdIEAU8H1o6B8UU_WozEKvk/s320/garden+table+3.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I stopped and scanned the garden. Years of labor greeted me which now appeared whimsical and peacefully inviting. The arbors were laden with a peach blossom variety of bougainvillea. Sprinkles of yellow calliopsis surrounded the Saint Francis of Assisi statue, a commemorative to my mother. Wild irises guarded the herb garden while begonias stood at the base of the peach tree. The bathtub, a relic of the original bathroom, sat overflowing with a vine of tiny white and pink flowers. All were interlaced with an assortment of filler ferns, day lilies, and ground covers. Collectively they represented years of trial and error plantings generated by what caught my eye while on a walk or touring a garden. Some survived while others did not.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrW9rX0HA4Cl3pmnRo5re8_j_U6W-bVHp2LE6NB8ENOUTYnZinRCqzczy0DHtWvH5RPUn4g49d5LgaPRAUQieETMeIrUybRONVCtEtI1XFl-CtOIvlrUJOFZ9jGfBOmCzNyzRBGO6jis8/s1600/english+garden+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrW9rX0HA4Cl3pmnRo5re8_j_U6W-bVHp2LE6NB8ENOUTYnZinRCqzczy0DHtWvH5RPUn4g49d5LgaPRAUQieETMeIrUybRONVCtEtI1XFl-CtOIvlrUJOFZ9jGfBOmCzNyzRBGO6jis8/s320/english+garden+2.jpg" /></a></div>I entered teaching around the same time as I began tinkering in my garden. Both required long laborious hours. I spent much of my time cultivating lessons that could meet student needs. At the same time, I began to lay brick pathways in the garden to support comfortable walks from the house to the garden and out to the garage. I felt invigorated when planting, weeding, watering, and trimming each plant yet exhausted. I felt similarly when assessing student need and preparing lessons. I grew in my knowledge of how to maintain and care for my garden as well as my students. Sometimes my efforts were thoughtful and well planned. Other times I simply got the job done. I didn’t realize how the garden paralleled my own journey toward retirement. I gradually developed skills to nuture both This garden that looked back at me was now at a maintenance level and so was I. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEFgli-xrPbe05V-S6rhqA7AraYC6J_p0dDNdOMh2JubbjKcR5a-mvRRgtWruBVTjSheLWXBEJF3sBQFqC07AkhoWcab0VxEvVamEE6aGQ2yidM4_DpQg7D56jZvKkbckxerqtyStQsUA/s1600/garden+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEFgli-xrPbe05V-S6rhqA7AraYC6J_p0dDNdOMh2JubbjKcR5a-mvRRgtWruBVTjSheLWXBEJF3sBQFqC07AkhoWcab0VxEvVamEE6aGQ2yidM4_DpQg7D56jZvKkbckxerqtyStQsUA/s320/garden+2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Satisfied I went back in the house, slipped in a few nostalgic 50”s and 60’s CD’s and prepared to party on with the wonderful family and friends I collected over the years. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Carol Keenanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05230141197326070569noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-297133263205698049.post-85303387576457751972010-09-11T07:53:00.000-07:002010-09-19T11:21:37.114-07:00Not so Ritzy RitzOur next stop was the Ritz Carlton which required a change of clothes. I hoped the silk blouse I brought would blend in with the elegance of our, soon to be, surroundings. We coasted into the parking lot. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXVGUzTyKS8yZ7MTiUgETl4iHgxRPnnd6oMGEGCcx4RQHdHsNfS6P8Enz5_82Z_ZgyCdxiUrRITIHzbNdYUP-8nNpjXXqkSu-Ftic4Apz-WVcjzer-2wQ5f7-_7gJJGpWj94i2b8ffI7M/s1600/park.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXVGUzTyKS8yZ7MTiUgETl4iHgxRPnnd6oMGEGCcx4RQHdHsNfS6P8Enz5_82Z_ZgyCdxiUrRITIHzbNdYUP-8nNpjXXqkSu-Ftic4Apz-WVcjzer-2wQ5f7-_7gJJGpWj94i2b8ffI7M/s320/park.jpg" /></a></div>I scoped out a secluded place under a shade tree and pulled into the designated spot. My plan was to change in the car which was, oh so, tacky but reflective of my ying and yang personality. Karen served as my lookout. I began yanking and tugging my t- shirt over my head while attempting to preserve some form of discretion. Once it slipped past my chin, I held it in front of what is commonly called racks, but in my case, would be more accurately described as miniscule shelves. I grabbed my blouse in the other hand and proceeded to clench, squeeze, and pack my flesh into it. It was not an easy job. In my youth I had much less mass to maneuver. At this age I felt as comfortable as an elephant seal attempting to slide across the shore. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimYPj7YKWlSZ-XeYv14F1tfZ7oFpyO2QS_BVqdOZblBIY1t3dciFcgF2InDH-qdCgIQc2joDqe-fgVkU6eKm-qARiyegcjml-6uOuzHF4BE3pqJFHvFtXVZz5bQx6y43YdBRGZI4pCY2g/s1600/corridor+ritz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimYPj7YKWlSZ-XeYv14F1tfZ7oFpyO2QS_BVqdOZblBIY1t3dciFcgF2InDH-qdCgIQc2joDqe-fgVkU6eKm-qARiyegcjml-6uOuzHF4BE3pqJFHvFtXVZz5bQx6y43YdBRGZI4pCY2g/s320/corridor+ritz.jpg" /></a></div>We grabbed our purses and headed for the entry. I couldn’t believe that I was about to enter this region of royalty. Considering that the dining experiences of my youth consisted of eating at Newberry’s faux marble linoleum counter, I was mesmerized. Karen and I were dwarfed by the majestic arched ceilings. To the right and left of us were enormous planters containing larger than life tropical flowers of perfection. We wondered if they were changed daily, such opulence. The carpet was deep and rich in color. I expected that, any minute, someone might tap me on the shoulder and shout, “Imposter”, while escorting me out. Then I caught my image in the floor to ceiling mirror. UGH!!! It had to be an illusion. I know my girth has increased over the years, but not to that degree. Then I looked at Karen’s reflection which clearly indicated the images I perceived were, in fact, the real McCoy. <br />
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We stepped up to the hostess and gave her our name. While I felt confident at our previous two stops, here I hesitated. Yet I bravely stepped forward and announced with the same enthusiasm, “This is the first day of our retirement.” The hostess, who could be my granddaughter, responded with a vacuous look and replied, “That’s nice.” Then we were told that our table wasn’t ready yet, but we could have a drink and appetizer in the patio overlooking the ocean. <br />
OK... so I wasn't successful at the not so ritzy Ritz. Who would have thought an organization dripping in obvious wealth could be so tight fisted in the light of our accomplishment. I would just have to drown my sorrows in a martini.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0uZoTHKpWM0D6xym0_EdYfO7EyMN91R-kz_cqrHSK7F_5z4IBfaXUpIaSJTrKl2ojdgEs9xaXVpQyOnMAiIcn27hTgsqMS0ADCCku_cPt1MDD4F1DhpQXRCMJ4lnTTCYmOiZNGQ6P5Qc/s1600/queen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0uZoTHKpWM0D6xym0_EdYfO7EyMN91R-kz_cqrHSK7F_5z4IBfaXUpIaSJTrKl2ojdgEs9xaXVpQyOnMAiIcn27hTgsqMS0ADCCku_cPt1MDD4F1DhpQXRCMJ4lnTTCYmOiZNGQ6P5Qc/s320/queen.jpg" /></a></div>We continued down a corridor in pursuit of the patio. I half expected the Queen might make an entrance at any time. While playing out the details of my fantasy, I realized the pity of it all. Isn’t she still working? And how old is she anyway? Why that broad will never experience the grace of retirement while I am free to live a life of whimsy. So now who has the power? <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG4hkl8X6IyeK0Ltfdu4XyvuM_5wuZAx1u78AdHf4ZN_4eqnvkYbUjFZmV-zFib1npw3hsr6xOgRTRg0SjuPwIQ_pobiGo3TBZr6o69CMWLfVIu8_8SjquoAQyR5tylvmYPnrcBC0u8gk/s1600/Ritz+Carlton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG4hkl8X6IyeK0Ltfdu4XyvuM_5wuZAx1u78AdHf4ZN_4eqnvkYbUjFZmV-zFib1npw3hsr6xOgRTRg0SjuPwIQ_pobiGo3TBZr6o69CMWLfVIu8_8SjquoAQyR5tylvmYPnrcBC0u8gk/s320/Ritz+Carlton.jpg" /></a></div>A cool breeze greeted us as we entered an elegant outdoor patio. A martini seemed the perfect way to celebrate while enjoying the extravagant surroundings. Once we ordered our drinks, waves of pure joy washed over me. Up to this point, my life was locked into meeting my obligations. It seemed unbelievable our day of indulgences truly marked a transition into freedom. Freedom of opportunity and choice. I remarked to Karen, “Oh my god, the only pressure I will feel from now on will be self imposed. I certainly know how to manage that.” Then the waiter returned and set our raspberry and lemon martinis before us. We lifted our glasses and sealed our day long adventure with a customary clink and mouth-watering sip. Perfecto!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_6FgjjaDXYlXwsdr_3fSyAWvIUwQ9BPUgIp9MWsY9jMfnpfQehC8u6pqVqGlqsLjkzuavpaaX9mVmG0B9exARgKQui3m7yZHUVGIxn8Jh8cUVddzFgSaiJEo7abTIqLJivZVGb5AplPo/s1600/martini.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_6FgjjaDXYlXwsdr_3fSyAWvIUwQ9BPUgIp9MWsY9jMfnpfQehC8u6pqVqGlqsLjkzuavpaaX9mVmG0B9exARgKQui3m7yZHUVGIxn8Jh8cUVddzFgSaiJEo7abTIqLJivZVGb5AplPo/s320/martini.jpg" /></a></div>Carol Keenanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05230141197326070569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-297133263205698049.post-9051898438637431892010-09-08T18:48:00.000-07:002010-09-19T11:22:28.498-07:00On to the ShacksOnce our breakfast was inhaled and dessert consumed, we began the required trek up four rickety flights of wooden stairs to the parking lot. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1pouwOzdXVPgL003MYw7LI5rVzoRdoU9AIRif3hMv0dnN0UYD4_erPDkfR6n6C374m_iQPyfeYD-2Ez05E3Yx6GtYbMcn9rdOOZQXBiagm3qg_Mt0nNVXyugOaukbY2xf-RUJd3RnNGk/s1600/stairs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="134" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1pouwOzdXVPgL003MYw7LI5rVzoRdoU9AIRif3hMv0dnN0UYD4_erPDkfR6n6C374m_iQPyfeYD-2Ez05E3Yx6GtYbMcn9rdOOZQXBiagm3qg_Mt0nNVXyugOaukbY2xf-RUJd3RnNGk/s200/stairs.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>The sun was now unrelentingly beating down upon us. Karen appeared dry browed and unfazed by the heat. I, on the other hand, was determined not to be deterred by the beads of sweat that were simultaneously pouring down my brow, midriff and underarms. Instead I called upon that steel core reserve of mine and pressed down upon each step in anticipation of the last. Sometimes while on the road to pleasure we have to pay a price. Verdad?<br />
At last we arrived at the top. I took several deep breaths, grateful that I would soon be seated in the comfort of the car and off to our next stop. <br />
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Within minutes we approached, what appeared to be, a pocket sized museum. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSEYwvzCroDgGRoeD_oyNTc5Wip4_N2ZChP-4HjHFi6C48c_kaqfA7PviCmyAnJTpuzQe3XpwG9CssypqAyouaJ1NHWti9KO1nNvb7zlhbIvTCGpfRAFFWLSYGZn0qwY1TTb-Kiv6vT6c/s1600/laguna+art+museum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSEYwvzCroDgGRoeD_oyNTc5Wip4_N2ZChP-4HjHFi6C48c_kaqfA7PviCmyAnJTpuzQe3XpwG9CssypqAyouaJ1NHWti9KO1nNvb7zlhbIvTCGpfRAFFWLSYGZn0qwY1TTb-Kiv6vT6c/s320/laguna+art+museum.jpg" /></a></div>As we entered, I looked toward the counter prepared to pay our entry. Standing behind it was a young man who appeared to be getting smaller as we approached. A blond surfer type, he looked up. You could almost see a residue of salt from the sea perched upon his upper lip. How could someone this young be employed at the museum I wondered? He smiled. Hmm…My recent experience at the Beachcomber emboldened me. I paused. Then stepped forward, and with my most enthusiastic voice blurted out that this was the first day of our retirement. And, I added, we chose to come to <em>your</em> museum. I swear the salt residue disappeared as he smiled broadly and inquired about our professions. Again we replied that we were teachers. Our response elicited the same reaction as our hostess and waiter at the Beachcomber. He turned to his coworker. They both gave each other a knowing glance, and then agreed that the admittance would be wavered. Once again we rode on a wave of fond memories they held of teachers or members of their families who served in the profession. It was a refreshing welcome after being exposed to years of misguided and unflattering media coverage. Gratefully, we entered with a new sense of importance. <br />
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At this juncture, it might be helpful to mention one of my flaws. Although I am oblivious to them, my closest friends and family can easily point them out. I tend to deny most, but have recognized and learned to live with others. One, in particular, is incurable. There is something in the core of my essence that creates an aura of expectation that far exceeds reality. In essence I am a dreamer. Before our jaunt down the coast, I anticipated a colorful vibrant display of paintings much as one would encounter in the <em>Jeu de Paume</em>. Yet as we began our trek through the postage stamp museum, a flood of disappointment shrouded me. These were not the anticipated Impressionist colors flashing before me. In fact this exhibit was quite dull in comparison. My eyes scanned several rooms filled with shacks. That’s right. SHACKS!!! Shacks as in shanties. A collection of wood strewn debris reconstructed into dwellings of various themes. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkPmeXmjKKQz6FaH1vRJJ3K2irZeHC4LOb3B-uIDcgIytpagPOu2q1X9uXFLVMiYaJAZWprDYEmSDmmIzH9Ha2L2tr8WEmZshcWiqpoiMc2AwdvArNAE-pvR_uRk5aCq_QK4bFgpkebRo/s1600/art+museum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkPmeXmjKKQz6FaH1vRJJ3K2irZeHC4LOb3B-uIDcgIytpagPOu2q1X9uXFLVMiYaJAZWprDYEmSDmmIzH9Ha2L2tr8WEmZshcWiqpoiMc2AwdvArNAE-pvR_uRk5aCq_QK4bFgpkebRo/s200/art+museum.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Which brings to mind another flaw, my attention span. It is fleeting when faced with obscure art. I struggled to focus while my internal dialogue became fixed on, “What is this? Is there a point? I don’t get it” Eventually I gave in and climbed the steps into another wing which surely would feature a different theme. Instead I stumbled across yet another SHACK!!! I paused and noted that this one was different. It held my attention. A postcard of donkeys, emblazoned with the word Administration, was displayed above the entry. I laughed out loud. I had something in common with <em>this</em> artist, a shared opinion of management. I held the same visual of the upper echelon of the school district. I noted each artifact the artist used to build his dwelling was a collection of discarded objects. Then I stopped in front of the placard of the artist George Herms. Apparently he was the creator of Found Art during the beat generation. His love for the discards of society, <em>trash</em>, resulted its reassemblage into a work of beauty. I had been under the impression that Found Art was a contemporary art form. Instead I discovered it was a by product of his association with the Beat Generation. I walked away from the museum with a new appreciation for this art form. In fact I contemplated contacting the artist to offer my self up as a <em>found </em>sexagarian who wished to be reassembled in to a new improved <em>object de arte.</em> It was well worth the entry fee.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1bRlHfAIIzFBa6e-gbac6yNig7XvLcE7__GeueLKT3_4wsJC5PBynU1u_-F0qKd-iVXM1lV0o-8w4Rf2qBEGyEq8Kc5FMErNNM41IcZusyS9lyhM-5rQ89SRZmQun2zfdQh-LRLRltUQ/s1600/herms.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1bRlHfAIIzFBa6e-gbac6yNig7XvLcE7__GeueLKT3_4wsJC5PBynU1u_-F0qKd-iVXM1lV0o-8w4Rf2qBEGyEq8Kc5FMErNNM41IcZusyS9lyhM-5rQ89SRZmQun2zfdQh-LRLRltUQ/s320/herms.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Hermes Creation</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Carol Keenanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05230141197326070569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-297133263205698049.post-42304321639700666552010-09-07T07:33:00.000-07:002010-09-19T11:24:11.515-07:00Two Cheshire Cats<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Karen and I climbed the wooden steps and on to the deck of the Beachcomber. We were seated at a corner table that overlooked the ocean. I paused for a moment and watched the rhythmic crashing of the waves and their slow retreat. It was a clear day. Glancing up and down the coast, I delighted in the view of the shallow tide pools and jagged steep bluffs. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC_d6iTTLzuM6lr0eWAIEhB472Gb4QM4c4SYWV2PKesWQKAUtYKQKoR0CnXs1D1WJWZUSNsDw0YyZj_P6xZAa9KLSh38vLTbw_ogYSBsjOBc6hPFbm7oOO1wHPFQWDcVz_TKlS6EQQzTU/s1600/beachcomber.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC_d6iTTLzuM6lr0eWAIEhB472Gb4QM4c4SYWV2PKesWQKAUtYKQKoR0CnXs1D1WJWZUSNsDw0YyZj_P6xZAa9KLSh38vLTbw_ogYSBsjOBc6hPFbm7oOO1wHPFQWDcVz_TKlS6EQQzTU/s200/beachcomber.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
The hostess set our menus down before us, but the glare of the sun sent me scrambling through my purse in search of my sunglasses. Clutching them between my fingers, I slipped them on before scanning the breakfast choices. Conveniently I forgot my obsession with losing weight and decided upon the, <em>everything on it</em>, Beachcomber omelet. <br />
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Then a tall lanky young man with a shock of dark curly hair introduced himself as our waiter. He was polite but impersonal. His tone couldn’t penetrate my glow as I reflected upon the fact that my colleagues were now working in their classrooms while I sat in the sunlight contemplating whether or not to order champagne. He quickly took our orders including my request for champagne at nine o’clock in the morning. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig8nRf3x9jUciommUvsW2biWa1Xrj71fRVjtdL4v4WUdNL8Cq0S4rZHN4N2UPncw_nDoLiI-wBuByBFFKU_bCeSxuUa7iHosq_iuQdVtzXlYZdKCvWrvXpzikuTo3M0ldqGYgKreT6bk8/s1600/champagne.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig8nRf3x9jUciommUvsW2biWa1Xrj71fRVjtdL4v4WUdNL8Cq0S4rZHN4N2UPncw_nDoLiI-wBuByBFFKU_bCeSxuUa7iHosq_iuQdVtzXlYZdKCvWrvXpzikuTo3M0ldqGYgKreT6bk8/s200/champagne.jpg" width="131" /></a></div><br />
Just before he turned and left, I looked up and announced with a lilt in my voice, “This is the first day of our retirement.” He looked surprised. Then with such warmth, he asked us our professions. When I responded, <em>teachers</em>, his previous indifference diluted completely. His mother was a teacher too he replied with obvious pride. Then he congratulated us. Shortly thereafter he returned with the hostess and introduced us. They both stepped closer and set a slice of their famous cinnamon French toast with a single candle in the center. I didn’t think anything could heighten my sense of joy, but this gesture from strangers who delighted in our passage into leisure brought me to a higher level. Sometimes our southern California culture with its impersonal walls creates a sense of remoteness reinforcing our separateness rather than our commonality. Moments like this remind me of our connectedness with others. <br />
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After making a wish and blowing out our candles, Karen and I sat perched on the edge of our new adventure looking like duplicates of the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcs64LiPDda0Alv-VBquDhIL37poQQXx53A0nhoMJXWTLQgC1z3_cB-4oBwBH_Md_uBNsH-MQ3q59Bp9ptW1nziuZxdN27rcmlUVvvbJxzRi6ZUzmrLDSno6t-fO5EH7UjnfRCGhwscqk/s1600/cheshire-cat-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcs64LiPDda0Alv-VBquDhIL37poQQXx53A0nhoMJXWTLQgC1z3_cB-4oBwBH_Md_uBNsH-MQ3q59Bp9ptW1nziuZxdN27rcmlUVvvbJxzRi6ZUzmrLDSno6t-fO5EH7UjnfRCGhwscqk/s320/cheshire-cat-4.jpg" /></a></div><br />
It caused me to recall the exchange between Alice and the cat. “One day Alice came to a fork in the road and saw a Cheshire cat in a tree, ‘Which road do I take?’ she asked. ‘Where do you want to go,’ was his response. ‘I don’t know’, Alice answered. ‘Then, said the cat, it doesn’t matter.’” And so it seemed as we sat in the afterglow of our breakfast. Indeed it didn’t matter. This freedom offered more opportunity than I ever imagined.Carol Keenanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05230141197326070569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-297133263205698049.post-42946423855597196142010-08-30T14:18:00.000-07:002010-09-19T11:24:46.441-07:00Texting on a DitchI awoke tingling with excitement. I clicked on the light and rushed into the kitchen to brew up a cup of cappuccino which is one of my “can’t skip it” routines. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigw4gkqqYjJvFFfG6GQ_78Fc2vYr6TkEtUP9qyN3QIAZ3yaZsl-eR-EIB-d13Rui-e-Nn1UpZ2MqvCLe7fsitRJmqeACJ4pxVP330bBC5vpBTjtxOOFxtB4WagPSGr7_MEOi3gQAv5S4g/s1600/Capucinno.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigw4gkqqYjJvFFfG6GQ_78Fc2vYr6TkEtUP9qyN3QIAZ3yaZsl-eR-EIB-d13Rui-e-Nn1UpZ2MqvCLe7fsitRJmqeACJ4pxVP330bBC5vpBTjtxOOFxtB4WagPSGr7_MEOi3gQAv5S4g/s200/Capucinno.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Then I shuffled upstairs for one of my early morning rituals, a bath; gotta clean up for ditch day. I needed to hurry, slip on some clothes, and grab a piece of toast. This was a beat the clock morning. The plan was to meet Karen, my chosen partner in crime, at 7:30 a.m. The crack of dawn departure was to avoid any of my colleagues from showing up at my house and dragging me to the last day luncheon. I played the sly undercover game with them. When anyone would say, “You’re coming to the luncheon, right.” I would reply, “Uh `huh,” while delivering it with an affirmative tone. Yet a careful listener could detect that an evening out of the accent could actually produce, “Uh Uh,” which is a subtle, but barely discernible, no. Lying is not a comfortable position for me. But I can slide into a Clinton version of the truth or lack of it and walk away with an unscathed conscience. <br />
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When the idea of a ditch day was first presented, Karen got busy and chartered an entire day of fun including: breakfast at the Beachcomber, a visit to the Laguna Museum of Art, and lunch at the Ritz Carlton. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV0Cbj3c74voQvusGhJTob6FjedOBvH-HJQfTs5MAkUMdnG1vL_3Op4EskKV2KVM3avDgNi3h4Ut7V5Yma4WbEpkOA81cfVJgYzBZikq-GZkWvPlNDf-OPo_khHIE-RVqEUTpqR0Ai4x4/s1600/driving.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV0Cbj3c74voQvusGhJTob6FjedOBvH-HJQfTs5MAkUMdnG1vL_3Op4EskKV2KVM3avDgNi3h4Ut7V5Yma4WbEpkOA81cfVJgYzBZikq-GZkWvPlNDf-OPo_khHIE-RVqEUTpqR0Ai4x4/s200/driving.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I pulled up at Karen’s house. <br />
She approached the car with an expression of someone who had won the lottery and with good reason. She retired as well as I, but her day of freedom started two days earlier. She slid into the seat next to me. I turned and announced, “O.K. Thelma. We’re not going to careen off the edge of a cliff, but are you ready to push the accelerator to the floor board and grab that breakfast at the Beach Comber?” “I’m always ready to eat, Carol”, was her reply. You could feel the mounds of tension from our combined 63 years of service as teachers evaporate as we sped down Pacific Coast Highway. It was as if we had hit the fountain of youth and dropped back into our early twenties with its accompanying vastness of opportunities spread before us. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Soon I turned and asked if she would take over the wheel. I explained my plan to text my teacher friends a salutation timed to go off during the faculty meeting. Then I chuckled over the vision of all the messages pinging and ringing at once while the principal was delivering his message. Karen threw me a barely tolerable look. I’m not sure if it was my immaturity, inappropriate tech obsession, or both that elicited her response but she agreed to drive for awhile. I giggled on and defended myself with an, “I gotta be me,” statement. Transparency is the companion of good friendship. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaa7ucOo3LaO108jULOVxMm51FO2GDSiaJ2aGJXrccupdocgEiBDvBNDgwrkkc-yTEJM1PB5LuQwEJISagReALtauPLWn9tDq11x9t6TuwD1rAgdrUHkxKRDZoSEgOWEI4oUeLAtFYeMI/s1600/texting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaa7ucOo3LaO108jULOVxMm51FO2GDSiaJ2aGJXrccupdocgEiBDvBNDgwrkkc-yTEJM1PB5LuQwEJISagReALtauPLWn9tDq11x9t6TuwD1rAgdrUHkxKRDZoSEgOWEI4oUeLAtFYeMI/s320/texting.jpg" /></a></div><br />
The trouble I faced which is not uncommon among texters is a new phone. I couldn’t figure out how to punch out the message. I knew I better solve it soon since the meeting was about to begin. The stop and go of the brakes reflecting the recent construction in the area set my stomach into queasy. That motivated me into getting the job done quickly. Eventually I pecked out~<br />
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I ditched. I’m following Tara’s footsteps. On my way to the Ritz Carlton. <br />
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Then I clicked the names of the recipients and pressed send. What I noticed was that the message was sent sequentially rather than simultaneously which was even better. The cacophony of ringers would create a crescendo effect of distraction. Content, I sat back and enjoyed the scenery.Carol Keenanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05230141197326070569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-297133263205698049.post-948689156919646202010-08-27T19:55:00.000-07:002010-09-19T11:26:15.172-07:00Dork No MoreFortunately, over the years, that uptight teenage girl was transformed. Blame it on the fact that I liberated myself from my parent’s influence and actually moved out. This happened during the sixties which launched a lifting of my world view. The culture, music, strivings for equality and efforts for peace, pushed me beyond my black and white thinking. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHkpVRZYNwSA_222-POpm_TDUHU0l6-ixLILDJJEBfNfjlHV8ulZe36ar82ugfGTHKUmsA21xvLeRmEPDdQrOEzsHUNXHqyaXBi48s8MUWidyC6vr-nTZ7L2FPkoNhIaDW1JFcXj9il-8/s1600/sixties.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="130" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHkpVRZYNwSA_222-POpm_TDUHU0l6-ixLILDJJEBfNfjlHV8ulZe36ar82ugfGTHKUmsA21xvLeRmEPDdQrOEzsHUNXHqyaXBi48s8MUWidyC6vr-nTZ7L2FPkoNhIaDW1JFcXj9il-8/s200/sixties.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I had no desire to sit at attention in a stark room with peeling paint again simply because it was the right thing to do. Once I tasted choice, I never went back. <br />
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So how does this tie into my retirement? I realized the last day of my career would be spent pupil free. I would be expected to enter data into school records, prepare work samples to give to all the student’s new teachers, and attend the last day luncheon. <br />
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Ugh! It was the luncheon that revulsed me.I knew the score on that one. People would stand up and say nicety things while I cringed. Then there would be the goodbyes. And I hate goodbyes. I would rather be drizzled in fat, pan fried, and served as the main dish. I wanted to leave quietly. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYMSIo3fwtbm98LP_iR0W085u2smjRVulIRiaFOYnKcjViEs8DnYCJ9A-eeTCd2R0HlTdgKEBuDHcAXt0dUJ1rgaWys9f1No_DP4qRRUTHB_Sj0AqzPIxj-o-Cq7GDDYRlvvlfKbadwhw/s1600/luncheon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYMSIo3fwtbm98LP_iR0W085u2smjRVulIRiaFOYnKcjViEs8DnYCJ9A-eeTCd2R0HlTdgKEBuDHcAXt0dUJ1rgaWys9f1No_DP4qRRUTHB_Sj0AqzPIxj-o-Cq7GDDYRlvvlfKbadwhw/s200/luncheon.jpg" width="125" /></a></div><br />
This wasn't the time to slide back into my old childhood ways. I had a alternate plan. I could negotiate for what I wanted and, at the same time, redeem my dorky past. Fifty years later, I would join those with the spirit of adventure. I would DITCH! That’s right I would fling aside my compulsion to act appropriately. I would escape. I knew just the right person to accompany me.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirpCATb4R-nbMqJwDqOpHh42MPzUAxiNb4exHitKKSGQJvwjtMZqnZT5htmFc_IjCSs1CkPZ3ve5t5qzFLIgH85jXTxFU_4_zrw7M48vZxC0TI0BmApIH637vyItJRj0JimmWnvBpO6SE/s1600/highway.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirpCATb4R-nbMqJwDqOpHh42MPzUAxiNb4exHitKKSGQJvwjtMZqnZT5htmFc_IjCSs1CkPZ3ve5t5qzFLIgH85jXTxFU_4_zrw7M48vZxC0TI0BmApIH637vyItJRj0JimmWnvBpO6SE/s200/highway.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Carol Keenanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05230141197326070569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-297133263205698049.post-81975036715376088352010-08-26T22:23:00.000-07:002010-09-19T11:27:10.541-07:00Digging up the BonesThe final day of school was fast approaching I began to dust off the artifacts of my past in order to piece together the essence of the "me" before I chose teaching as a career. While digging up these old bones, I uncovered a relic that reflected the crescendo of my teenage life as a <em>dork.</em> That's right <em>dork,</em> one who experiences uneasiness living in one’s flesh. A person who doesn’t beat to one’s own drum but can’t even find a drum to beat...<br />
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It was the last day of my junior year of high school, I sat in choir waiting for class to begin. A voice rang out over the loudspeaker. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiYS9eMnuvEmGzZAeoKzXxYAX2uOExx09t6fc0SteuGx7yFj7QzYhRfCjN2C8DipQ_w7Wf_SLN16Wn-jJ1kT5-6cvcQFLGixYTw7kLf0o8Dnitcvn5kL-PV8Cq4suaSm_djNDcXxauZPI/s1600/radio+announcer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiYS9eMnuvEmGzZAeoKzXxYAX2uOExx09t6fc0SteuGx7yFj7QzYhRfCjN2C8DipQ_w7Wf_SLN16Wn-jJ1kT5-6cvcQFLGixYTw7kLf0o8Dnitcvn5kL-PV8Cq4suaSm_djNDcXxauZPI/s200/radio+announcer.jpg" width="185" /></a></div>It was rare to be interrupted during instructional time. It sounded official, but not familiar. The voice started by congratulating the senior class for its academic excellence and outstanding citizenship. Other accolades were mentioned of which I can’t remember. Then it exclaimed that, as a reward, the entire student body was dismissed. At first, an eerie hush swept over the class. Then a deafening cheer rang through out the school. Students bolted from their chairs. I watched familiar bodies pressing to squeeze through the door frame. Some carried expressions of disbelief while others looked as though the just pressed off on a descent down a Raging Water slide. But a few of us lingered. Dutifully we sat in our chairs and looked up at our teacher. He was stunned. “That wasn’t official,” he announced. Then he reached for the intercom phone and called the office. "Uh huh. Yes. Really, who was it? A student! Unbelievable.” When he hung up, he turned to us and said, “You need to stay here. Go to your classes as usual.” A military brat, it never occurred for me to do anything but what I was told. The dork in me stayed. Yet as I eyed the other students back sides racing through the door and out into a world of freedom, another part of me wished I had joined them.Carol Keenanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05230141197326070569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-297133263205698049.post-84017528312461597042010-08-24T13:31:00.000-07:002010-09-19T11:29:47.893-07:00Count DownIt was 7:50 a.m. As I walked up the grey slanted ramp to my classroom, a feeling of disbelief overcame me. Gees, I thought, just thirty more turns of the key in the lock and tugs on the door, and I’m out of here. These last few months seemed like a blur. Then, while balancing my coffee cup, I slipped the key in the lock and yanked the door open. Once inside the students clambered around me vying for my attention. “My momma’s gonna have a baby.” “Look at my new shoes.” “Teacher, I like your dress.” A little finger with a miniscule scrape is thrust in my face as a voice rings out, “I’m bleeding.” One child offers me a smudged and crumbled piece of paper. “Here’s my homework.” My chest tightened as I absorbed the call of so many. I always wished I had the energy and stamina to meet the needs of each scrubbed and unscrubbed face that looked up at me throughout my career. Today was no different. I took a deep breath.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxzAfEhi40JhFNq1g6duJanzU1EFhoDkQfYpOuhy72kVf2Ds9KYl_Qw8wGPrndiUIItl4V0IdrYeHGSvMiP_J_cnbEBZYcQ2w3o3K4z8QeDOQ3Fh91BdO0vDKweOLNi_IpxnL6uFaWk3Y/s1600/teacher+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="141" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxzAfEhi40JhFNq1g6duJanzU1EFhoDkQfYpOuhy72kVf2Ds9KYl_Qw8wGPrndiUIItl4V0IdrYeHGSvMiP_J_cnbEBZYcQ2w3o3K4z8QeDOQ3Fh91BdO0vDKweOLNi_IpxnL6uFaWk3Y/s200/teacher+2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>My eyes circled the room. The white board, word wall, art work, student writing, math, and science bulletin boards decorating the walls of this bungalow, that housed so many students over the years, soon would be torn down and enter my past. A sense of relief mixed with hesitancy overcame me. It marked the beginning of shedding “the teacher” and reclaiming the person that lived years before deciding upon a teaching career. Then I walked to my teaching chair, called the class to order, and began the day. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoVcQtNqQqyf8MMMLCSr1UNdWtNSQhNH-zEyG5ZL5BsoVnHsWTNAuLGgRY7KBvGLY4LoF2gA19LUVS861eBjUPTeIEJsPvOzf8duA8qAPbV2qBF7zby8VTHrQoHDPEs71krr8YJfSou5E/s1600/bulliten+board.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoVcQtNqQqyf8MMMLCSr1UNdWtNSQhNH-zEyG5ZL5BsoVnHsWTNAuLGgRY7KBvGLY4LoF2gA19LUVS861eBjUPTeIEJsPvOzf8duA8qAPbV2qBF7zby8VTHrQoHDPEs71krr8YJfSou5E/s200/bulliten+board.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Carol Keenanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05230141197326070569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-297133263205698049.post-45771499873042074242010-08-18T20:13:00.000-07:002010-09-19T11:30:33.652-07:00Pontificating Potluck<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUvhc2G0Pd0l9SdpGvxKRtB6cEuh3CDILaCbp-GZnYNMc5LaTYAYetMbq1ItSqVYxwp-bDpZZNWF7U9WuNX1pgDvDHjBTJKx1FtY8clMsd69rQZHbBOnDT9FdtLv4r6WX2rpJBl9w7CVY/s1600/appetizer+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUvhc2G0Pd0l9SdpGvxKRtB6cEuh3CDILaCbp-GZnYNMc5LaTYAYetMbq1ItSqVYxwp-bDpZZNWF7U9WuNX1pgDvDHjBTJKx1FtY8clMsd69rQZHbBOnDT9FdtLv4r6WX2rpJBl9w7CVY/s320/appetizer+3.jpg" /></a></div>Once I reached the stage of celebrating, it kept on growing. I knew I wanted others to join me including family, friends, and colleagues who worked at my first school. What could be casual enough for me to feel comfortable and enjoyable for everyone else? Immediately I thought of a potluck. Potlucks have always held a warm place in my heart. They have been a way to mark changes and share food, as well as, catch up on each other’s lives. Since we have grown in closeness, age, and broadening girths over the past twenty five years, a potluck featuring everyone’s favorite appetizer seemed perfect. Nibbling on small morsels of tasty food would be just right. <br />
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I envisioned everyone gathering around the dining room table, sampling the shared treats while joining in on conversation. When my sister heard of my plans, she immediately offered to provide Prosecco, Italian champagne. Now that would add a party spirit and a little reminder of Tuscany. The plans seemed solid, so I created an Evite, and watched the names in the confirmation column roll in. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZnd5AOUFzBqLiPEZW_NW1-qsThNOhyTdnCqoS1V4k7k2lJz198ZEoERX_Ixz6vubtaopPCkjN4eLjVqHRnUnpUQd4fVWodEyGv3pDURAYhLpZ3sixD6aSTLtIvoNtFSaEQPgCLl1RScE/s1600/champagne.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZnd5AOUFzBqLiPEZW_NW1-qsThNOhyTdnCqoS1V4k7k2lJz198ZEoERX_Ixz6vubtaopPCkjN4eLjVqHRnUnpUQd4fVWodEyGv3pDURAYhLpZ3sixD6aSTLtIvoNtFSaEQPgCLl1RScE/s320/champagne.jpg" /></a></div>Weeks later, my plans kept growing. I began to chuckle, as a thought occurred to me. Wouldn’t it be great to have a corner of my yard devoted to “Old Geezer” games? Everyone could play these games and help me transtion into the spirit of retirement. I knew horse shoes is typically an older person’s game. So I spoke to a friend who loaned me her antique set. That made it even more fitting. I considered shuffle board, but that was too complicated to set up. Bingo was a must. Again, my sister stepped up. A few days after she heard my idea, there was a knock on my door. There she stood with a retirement bingo game. Great! I decided that card games were another must. I caught myself laughing whenever I was hit with a visual of my friends playing a circuit of geriatric games.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU42n3lpV65XU31ArcZ6bfZYCrxVsvxcwHFt2QQJEgXqXhN4QhE2ts976bvQfGtG34KzJeFNLtPpFEQKAlQawxxcS_AYxHcV2eK2T3vBhP0VqRqtiqgmtK2bj_smsz7-6qMppMWrNeSP4/s1600/horseshoe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU42n3lpV65XU31ArcZ6bfZYCrxVsvxcwHFt2QQJEgXqXhN4QhE2ts976bvQfGtG34KzJeFNLtPpFEQKAlQawxxcS_AYxHcV2eK2T3vBhP0VqRqtiqgmtK2bj_smsz7-6qMppMWrNeSP4/s320/horseshoe.jpg" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">While in public, these giggles would raise a few eyebrows. In the past, I would have felt a tinge of embarrassment. Instead, I thought, Who cares! Aren't seniors allowed to live outside the typical social constraints? I can laugh myself silly if I want.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The anxieties I experienced in the earlier phase of my decision to retire faded. I was too busy for that nonsense. I had to immerse myself in preparing for these parties</div>Carol Keenanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05230141197326070569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-297133263205698049.post-7887960753052527362010-08-14T09:43:00.000-07:002010-09-19T11:31:18.584-07:00Hmmm How to Celebrate!<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Over the years, I have hosted many retirement parties in my home. Typically the invitation was posted and all were welcome. Former principals were contacted and gave testimony to the person’s career accomplishments. In some cases it turned into a hilarious roast. Yet I’m not one for pomp and circumstance. Nor do I like to be the center of attention. Thoughts of a traditional party caused me to want to duck and cover.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSMub7abVnM_suhdI0zIYzeeRXLx_4hoD6h7pqevPdNLjHkZwrEYyqEIsanx9fmMOC5uK-0ykVQpJzxgVW83bO7nT9VgS0LYW17qDZYD0ylKmBo1DaDmcPAAH0W4p9ktwyEWc2ix5SEmA/s1600/duck+and+cover.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: right; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="156" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSMub7abVnM_suhdI0zIYzeeRXLx_4hoD6h7pqevPdNLjHkZwrEYyqEIsanx9fmMOC5uK-0ykVQpJzxgVW83bO7nT9VgS0LYW17qDZYD0ylKmBo1DaDmcPAAH0W4p9ktwyEWc2ix5SEmA/s200/duck+and+cover.gif" width="200" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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Each day I glanced at my retirement clock and watched the numbers move to the negative. Time was closing in. I hadn’t formally let the entire staff know of my plans to retire. Although I didn’t want to go out in the typical way, a small voice echoed inside me. ‘You can’t just walk away, go home, and read a book. You know the value of acknowledging important crossings. Where is that person who planned a party when turning 50? What happened to the woman who invited friends to reign in her 60th at a farmhouse in Tuscany?’ Then I quickly shoved the issue into the recesses of my mind and went on about my day. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgebnulArDlwBO3CRJzK2V9pLNHS9MCIjd1bMYSjKtARMol8PR7PmNSvTD8E0m_OL3674AWxezTyJm-5TKrHPERtPemEzDeHXeAVR4mTqiOuqI7hpJkweFoj7WcVl1jVuhBYDnFs9PsVAs/s1600/Big+sur+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgebnulArDlwBO3CRJzK2V9pLNHS9MCIjd1bMYSjKtARMol8PR7PmNSvTD8E0m_OL3674AWxezTyJm-5TKrHPERtPemEzDeHXeAVR4mTqiOuqI7hpJkweFoj7WcVl1jVuhBYDnFs9PsVAs/s320/Big+sur+2.jpg" /></a></div>One morning I awoke with such clarity. Big Sur was it. I could invite those who shared a kindred spirit to join me. That is where I wanted to celebrate. It was the perfect place. The contrast of the soothing sound of the ocean crashing against a craggy weather beaten coast was metaphorical. In my life, there were times when I faced overwhelming challenges only to be soothed by the comforting support of others. When standing on the edge of the Big Sur Coast, the synergy of these forces has always energized me and, at the same time, brought me peace. A sense of excitement overcame me. I couldn’t wait to travel up the coast into this piece of paradise. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivG0idsRnyQKbZZ02lZSfYyxqIMmzjGuyL1TkaSPrCP9qsFmARIRqEdMS2Vi6l3vScHVLed-z2gjF1mI0u2F8P8FyvNB5FPbz5CN2oQgAzyHEYJyKsRY5cYtuuhomMMsD-sksW6e7Q33M/s1600/Big+sur+waterfall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivG0idsRnyQKbZZ02lZSfYyxqIMmzjGuyL1TkaSPrCP9qsFmARIRqEdMS2Vi6l3vScHVLed-z2gjF1mI0u2F8P8FyvNB5FPbz5CN2oQgAzyHEYJyKsRY5cYtuuhomMMsD-sksW6e7Q33M/s200/Big+sur+waterfall.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>Carol Keenanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05230141197326070569noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-297133263205698049.post-55133057379604570662010-08-12T07:19:00.000-07:002010-09-19T11:32:04.214-07:00VolunteeringI can recall the slightest nuances of my surroundings the morning of 911: the darkness of the room before sunlight, the fabric of the blouse I wore, even the color of my shoes. I turned the T.V. on and left the room as the newscaster’s startled voices rose to a pitch. I rushed back to witness the impact of a plane as it hit the Twin Towers. I watched the replay over and over again stunned. When an image of the second plane entered the screen and crashed, its impact was more devastating than the first. It was clear that our country had been attacked. Then those massive buildings collapsed into an enormous cloud of dust, a moving remnant of the remains. The horror on the faces of those it chased throughout the New York streets, stole my sense of security. While they raced for refuge, I longed for a retreat as well. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj21QZNxACqy5_I-1yfrDw3AP7SRCyND1izRaTFaKUOrDjarMrIZzgiot8oV5u2U3h196XHKYUFni83iAXe1JCBohjMXJrVBB0DHTp3fwULgTJnQX4_1dd_RaSRvMFOCcZZw9Co6_OG8N8/s1600/twin+towers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="138" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj21QZNxACqy5_I-1yfrDw3AP7SRCyND1izRaTFaKUOrDjarMrIZzgiot8oV5u2U3h196XHKYUFni83iAXe1JCBohjMXJrVBB0DHTp3fwULgTJnQX4_1dd_RaSRvMFOCcZZw9Co6_OG8N8/s200/twin+towers.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>With most disasters, one can file away the images and return to routine. The impact is short-lived. This was different. The reports of security blunderings and rise of extremists were alarming. Our lives were not temporarily changed. This was permanent. The constant diet of report after report left me feeling disheartened about humanity and the future. The political world appeared disconnected from reality. There was a residue of uneasiness and uncertainty. The remnants of 911 spread from days into months into years.<br />
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Some years later, on a Saturday evening, I turned on CNN. The images of ordinary people moved across the screen. It drew my attention. I leaned in. These people were being honored for extraordinary contributions to humanity. Their humble backgrounds were being outlined along with the pivotal point in wich they decided to make a commitment to relieve other's sufferings. I choked up hearing how each had taken a step outside themselves to notice a unique need. Not only did they see a crack in our social strata but their hearts lead them to take the necessary steps to make a change. Each one’s contribution was unique. Each brought comfort and help to the forgotten. My spirits lifted. <br />
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We ourselves feel that what we are doing is just a drop in the ocean. But the ocean would be less because of that missing drop.<br />
- Mother Theresa<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1tUmNMNemPqAlg0cpT14RENbPK3rrFAkHCdihw0zwYpPsbj8Q1bXKEMQdVN1TkPXolmCTFY2CsGKZULqQiAQAmm9dONkq_qKZObaC6DpJ-zKq_-dkCImEW_uv9_Q8pzQpX-TPcXPc5Jo/s1600/ocean.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1tUmNMNemPqAlg0cpT14RENbPK3rrFAkHCdihw0zwYpPsbj8Q1bXKEMQdVN1TkPXolmCTFY2CsGKZULqQiAQAmm9dONkq_qKZObaC6DpJ-zKq_-dkCImEW_uv9_Q8pzQpX-TPcXPc5Jo/s320/ocean.jpg" /></a></div>My Retirement Plan would be incomplete if I failed to make a contribute to others. How could I make an impact upon the world even if it were microscopic? The heroes and I were separated by one factor. They took action. I wanted to do the same. Volunteer became my last column. <br />
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I am drawn to working at Crystal Cove as a docent in the tide pools. The intricate balance of life in those habitats and the the geology surrounding them interests me. I could combine my teaching background with a new adventure. Teaching children a reverence for living things would ripple into the future. So I included Crystal Cove in the column. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ZdhIi-8P-R0BzA5s2cx5gIs2jSudPS6evkmKLDJkdi2lWZXx9sLFNv35a8uPpVlgrfB5kZXLvA3qmVwebY4ed4i3cs5AsG8NSoyAVDISWvhHDqeg-tOKE7D3hPdlMItaQK0KT6o2cdY/s1600/tidepools.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ZdhIi-8P-R0BzA5s2cx5gIs2jSudPS6evkmKLDJkdi2lWZXx9sLFNv35a8uPpVlgrfB5kZXLvA3qmVwebY4ed4i3cs5AsG8NSoyAVDISWvhHDqeg-tOKE7D3hPdlMItaQK0KT6o2cdY/s320/tidepools.jpg" /></a>The lack of financial support for teachers, due to our current financial crisis, leaves many of my teaching friends without support. Since reading is my area of interest, I plan to help organize their reading programs. I typed Alvarado under Crystal Cove. </div><br />
There is another area I would like to explore. I have a desire to volunteer for an organization or political cause that advances the welfare of children. Right now it is an unknown Yet as I volunteer in these other areas, I will wait for it to reveal itself. <br />
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Stare into a bucket of water until your reflection appears. Then gently pour the reflection out onto the ground. Soon it will evaporate and become a cloud. Then it will rain and you will be part of the great cycle of replenishments and growth.<br />
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--Michael Leung<br />
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The structure of my plan is complete. Yet it is just that, a plan, a start. It remains on my desktop as a guide. I intend for it to be flexible and serve as a resource. As I put it into practice, I will delete those that are not a match and include others in its place. <br />
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Hmm…I just reread it. I need a nap!Carol Keenanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05230141197326070569noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-297133263205698049.post-86192706241891076092010-08-09T14:26:00.000-07:002010-09-19T11:32:48.876-07:00Loss and Spiritual QuestThe real voyage of discovery<br />
consists not in seeing new landscapes,<br />
but in having new eyes.<br />
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~ Marcel Proust ~<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2PIcIn0rLUYKdAsj1Vf0mT0W9B4Sixzkg0vnV0jCcE5rBJuvkH9B7BBCcZF9tomDhlcD3nTGUUv5EllaanLApoW9avD-UhNfsxzWoLqZQ9EsOdmeOLAyk8pnlvgWEL53NBgDw5o-iLQ8/s1600/lily+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2PIcIn0rLUYKdAsj1Vf0mT0W9B4Sixzkg0vnV0jCcE5rBJuvkH9B7BBCcZF9tomDhlcD3nTGUUv5EllaanLApoW9avD-UhNfsxzWoLqZQ9EsOdmeOLAyk8pnlvgWEL53NBgDw5o-iLQ8/s320/lily+1.jpg" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">After the death of my mother and ex-husband, I felt abandoned. The mystery of life itself possessed me. One late afternoon, I cut a lily from a plant once preened by my mother. It's slick stem, broad venous white petal, and deep yellow stamen enraptured me. While slipping it into a water filled vase, I was struck by the inexplicable. This lily plant, formerly nutured by my mother, had outlived her. How could that be?<br />
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I traveled the old haunts my ex and I once rollicked. Sand that had seeped between our toes and swept against our faces continued to rearrange itself in the shifting currents of the beach breezes. That sand now grated against my skin. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKNqBZxwLEnlnM7_4zIIQmXLGzwwHeVaOJF8qInAaPcCY3Dt8IVLIwyAVn_wRPWn_57Rg3W09M-UkpMyFHFKPqlEYRg0DJU98Q0jftnrpfeKb-426JyY9DBhVuOBelJG_uAeFqOKgflXQ/s1600/sandy+beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: right; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKNqBZxwLEnlnM7_4zIIQmXLGzwwHeVaOJF8qInAaPcCY3Dt8IVLIwyAVn_wRPWn_57Rg3W09M-UkpMyFHFKPqlEYRg0DJU98Q0jftnrpfeKb-426JyY9DBhVuOBelJG_uAeFqOKgflXQ/s320/sandy+beach.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">While driving throughout the city of my childhood, the grayness of familiar concrete streets stretched out before me, a solid reminder that life ultimately betrays us. Jaunts we frequented still stood upright. But he remained a shadow in my mind. This promise of life appeared so hollow. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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Late one night, while walking along the boardwalk , a cold breeze pressed against my cheeks. As the union of my mother and father’s flesh encased me, my path was lit by the soft reflection of the sun upon an otherwised darkened moon. The contrast of these bodies was ominous. Looking out upon the water that night, I reconciled with the inequity of my existence. I was determined to defy death’s separation. Although the presence of those I loved had darkened, I would serve as a source of light. I would invite my mother and ex into my new life. Not morbidly but in a comfortng way. I would live life for three.<br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGc78ZCtg5cUXqbCwTf4Bl8hImKSU2dNM3fN69T3PtO5N4SRRRokrlUXDn9x2EOq8MjWEbHALQSlOdZywMwGhqPecx1RJfGbY6G-zXN3_1JygCYM3SMiXphtmfgBIs4-mgbOVghnMXda4/s1600/Italy+Pictures+302.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGc78ZCtg5cUXqbCwTf4Bl8hImKSU2dNM3fN69T3PtO5N4SRRRokrlUXDn9x2EOq8MjWEbHALQSlOdZywMwGhqPecx1RJfGbY6G-zXN3_1JygCYM3SMiXphtmfgBIs4-mgbOVghnMXda4/s200/Italy+Pictures+302.jpg" width="112" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Spirituality was another area I wanted to explore in retirement. Yet I struggled to add entries to this column. It would have to remain open. As a child I was raised in a fundamental religious household. Like all children, I was a literalist. I accepted the teachings of my childhood at face value. As I grew, so did my awareness of the vastness of other religions. The inconsistencies of mine began to haunt me. I do crave a spiritual community. So far I have not found one. I would have to be content with the act of exploring rather than arriving. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Carl Jung’s observation rings true…<br />
<em>The shoe that fits one person pinches another; there is no recipe for living that suits all cases.</em></div></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Carol Keenanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05230141197326070569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-297133263205698049.post-63802516590576554982010-08-07T17:42:00.000-07:002010-09-19T08:05:51.346-07:00Getting PhysicalI awoke this morning convinced that I solved one of mankind's enigmas, human weight gain. It was clear to me that one's life span is directly related to body weight. Well, isn’t it? A case in point, I graduated from high school forty five years ago. So with each advancing year, my weight increased by …? Let me check. <br />
Yikes! After stepping on the scale, I could swear I heard myself screaming.<br />
Enough of this theory.<br />
Back to my mission, charting my <strong>RETIREMENT </strong>plans. <br />
<br />
The next column I created was entitled, Physical Wellbeing, which is pivotal to an active and joyful retirement. This is surely an area I could improve upon. Several years ago, while working on my master’s degree, I experienced a personal evolution. I was slowly transformed from an upright position to a slouched sit. My core muscles turned to jello. I was sure others were snickering as I girated from one place to the other. Excruciating back pain came in waves. My chiropractor, Dr. Betty, recommended Yoga. The results were amazing. No more spasms, as long as I attended regularly. Yet those core muscles are hungry beasts screaming, flex, flex, flex. Yoga (3-5x’s per week) appeared under the heading, <strong>Physical Wellbeing</strong>.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi63A4l8bVYXymiBC2S16JrhEOyONyBaPybSOXA_quOMToipMxY_SivWUSGWjfDRwwq0SdqMPgWU8-ZdTrQXYk73SHMbMTLt6Z17Un2KfRP8oylNUInC-O-pGePHYPMxTY7ZNW5-XJq_YM/s1600/yoga.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi63A4l8bVYXymiBC2S16JrhEOyONyBaPybSOXA_quOMToipMxY_SivWUSGWjfDRwwq0SdqMPgWU8-ZdTrQXYk73SHMbMTLt6Z17Un2KfRP8oylNUInC-O-pGePHYPMxTY7ZNW5-XJq_YM/s320/yoga.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXbGVZaxImZ_Bz29z33HL7lhRkWHvU2Vky4fDq9bme6X-4ddRtKOJcb7I2G_cpmkFsQU3AutZ_Xn6lPTD3bnPXkeqVMJ_HfgcSNmav837tfBYAd6ln2RhGivhVb_eFWfY55iKhz7jayPY/s1600/weightlifting+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" bx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXbGVZaxImZ_Bz29z33HL7lhRkWHvU2Vky4fDq9bme6X-4ddRtKOJcb7I2G_cpmkFsQU3AutZ_Xn6lPTD3bnPXkeqVMJ_HfgcSNmav837tfBYAd6ln2RhGivhVb_eFWfY55iKhz7jayPY/s320/weightlifting+1.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">OUCH </td></tr>
</tbody></table>When considering exercise, I felt drawn to the opportunities like a small child at a Carney show. The booths of possibilities were expansive. Yet I quickly chose weight lifting. I’m aware that it is one way to score points toward reducing bone loss, a plus to an aging woman. Right now my time is too limited. But when my retirement days begin to ebb and flow, I surely could insert weight lifting into my routine. My muscles ached already as I tapped out <em>Weight Lifting (4-5x’s per week)</em>. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Although walking was already a part of my weekly schedule, I could make it a little more enticing by matching </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">it with scenic locations. I would have plenty of time to drive a little further and enjoy some of Southern California sights. Simple, so</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I entered <em>Walking</em> followed by the bullets: <em>Seal Beach, Boardwalk, Marina, Bluffs, Crystal Cove</em>. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwb2NYbAeMcQLE4N-CODNDvEq_LQUMLt5XqczCo6vl9TsaD5PONyXXkOnP_8YKE9MRATwk30IzXAdvziMmyUDH-TeNdnrAgN0UdKrfd3jVHA0Elm8T4isvHw70r8SC08e8m3-MTrgEp10/s1600/bicycling+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwb2NYbAeMcQLE4N-CODNDvEq_LQUMLt5XqczCo6vl9TsaD5PONyXXkOnP_8YKE9MRATwk30IzXAdvziMmyUDH-TeNdnrAgN0UdKrfd3jVHA0Elm8T4isvHw70r8SC08e8m3-MTrgEp10/s320/bicycling+1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I expired all of my plans for regular activity. A few more were of interest but would probably not be as frequent: <em>Bicycling</em> and <em>Kayaking</em>. Collectively they would all keep my endorphins pumping while reducing body weight. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5dBqlSS9wZxmmR33yMVeKL9ylYef3jIfJNWSbAu-E5dSKpe6MG8f5jodkzQJurNHtVKD_9umq0hevCq69Gl3gUMZC4ttNnJ0mTOCFPV4_3mfrwjn1pqBcXCdCRD7PnFPzp6ng65NVoGA/s1600/kayaking+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" bx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5dBqlSS9wZxmmR33yMVeKL9ylYef3jIfJNWSbAu-E5dSKpe6MG8f5jodkzQJurNHtVKD_9umq0hevCq69Gl3gUMZC4ttNnJ0mTOCFPV4_3mfrwjn1pqBcXCdCRD7PnFPzp6ng65NVoGA/s320/kayaking+3.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Retirement Bliss</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Carol Keenanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05230141197326070569noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-297133263205698049.post-87127862000771824672010-08-05T21:21:00.000-07:002010-09-19T08:03:39.242-07:00Staying ActiveHmmm…I knew the days were about to stretch out before me. I was determined to avoid a future of chair breathing exercises and day dreaming so tap pity tap my fingers translated the next heading into, Activities. Since writing is entertainment and I have hopes of becoming a children’s picture book author, I entered, Daily Writing (2 hrs.). <br />
I took a deep breath; sounded good. So I moved on to consider other ways of extending my interest. Perhaps I could combine writing with my enjoyment of others. Often friends have suggested that a writing group might be just the right formula. So Writing Group was my next entry. I looked up, pushed away from my computer. This is getting a bit serious, I thought. It was time for a break. I headed for Peet’s Coffee. After grabbing a cappuccino, I sat down and sipped the steaming coffee. Just before I gazed into the bottom of my cup, a reference to the Senior University at California State University at Long Beach came to mind. It offers a writing class. I recall my sister mentioning that she attended a forum of those who completed the spring class. Their readings were excellent. What better way to improve my craft and enjoy the comrade of other writers? When I returned home, the sound of my keyboard echoed as I typed Writing Class. <br />
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlr2KKDeYs6AN3tQ1y1roKZyoeRVlzr8LMes0EikPSxFCiOJm1rDpxm8LOEfD3V73L4BI_khnbqqsf8JO6fbz-AJ4TX89OqUfDoB5QIFpEPcCKwVI-0RHVKp-x9NHslP3Lgrmp2NJ8poE/s1600/writing+group.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlr2KKDeYs6AN3tQ1y1roKZyoeRVlzr8LMes0EikPSxFCiOJm1rDpxm8LOEfD3V73L4BI_khnbqqsf8JO6fbz-AJ4TX89OqUfDoB5QIFpEPcCKwVI-0RHVKp-x9NHslP3Lgrmp2NJ8poE/s320/writing+group.jpg" /></a> </div>What next?<br />
<br />
As a teacher I am aware that reading and writing are reciprocal. I often used mentor authors to teach my students the craft of writing. So why not be inspired by other children’s authors.<br />
<br />
Reading quality literature and the experiences of fellow writers was the obvious next step. I decided to create a list of award winning children’s picture books and research books about the writing process. Writing Down the Bones is just one example. Reading appeared as the next entry. <br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>I took a week end trip to visit my dear friends Judy and Robert in Los Osos. Judy is an “ancient history” expert who has a wide assortment of drums. She learned the art of drumming over the years and participated in drumming circles at spiritual gatherings. Robert recently joined a local drumming group. So when I walked into her living room I was surrounded by an assortment of drums. Scenes of the movie The Visitor flashed in front of me. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSZ4mpbRG98QwkCh5MVZ_xRHFBFGAcRWPJI0NRD0eJRcemrhJVL5kMedRWYhmLZOi3KFlEmhwE79hNjCKcDoVko6vEaCK9n-6t_gDj2um_xLyyHw2YKWNwC7cm_yVim0r47yt_GEkydxM/s1600/drummer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSZ4mpbRG98QwkCh5MVZ_xRHFBFGAcRWPJI0NRD0eJRcemrhJVL5kMedRWYhmLZOi3KFlEmhwE79hNjCKcDoVko6vEaCK9n-6t_gDj2um_xLyyHw2YKWNwC7cm_yVim0r47yt_GEkydxM/s320/drummer.jpg" /></a></div>I recall smiling as I watched the main character tentatively pick up a drum and begin his rhythmic journey. All I had to do was express an interest and my hosts encouraged me to drum while offering their tips about drumming. An evening with these dear people convinced me that drumming was another activity I could explore. When I returned I added, Drumming Lessons. Now I’m on a roll. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
When my interest in signing with Intervac, a teacher’s house exchange surfaced, I decide that I wanted to travel to Paris first. Then my dreams shifted to the South of France. I couldn’t image going either place without the very basics in French. A course is offered through the Senior University. French Lessons followed. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk7MtR6q6et8Fq9yGHFbgjDawmdB81V9r7zNGbCI-1v-VdCNrcrIQXPPnAtMoBxcSeJb0QNnEtwiNEtPoY9ndkT6H89hF4oaRnRtDpitM3rfWMDgykiZ06tDVIzd2A6FXj1Dfj7a2vzII/s1600/southern+france.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk7MtR6q6et8Fq9yGHFbgjDawmdB81V9r7zNGbCI-1v-VdCNrcrIQXPPnAtMoBxcSeJb0QNnEtwiNEtPoY9ndkT6H89hF4oaRnRtDpitM3rfWMDgykiZ06tDVIzd2A6FXj1Dfj7a2vzII/s200/southern+france.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> </div>Carol Keenanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05230141197326070569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-297133263205698049.post-58898956728203555162010-08-04T09:04:00.000-07:002010-09-19T07:59:34.950-07:00Making a Plan<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn3hLXyX2ugqxPxsPOOvaT7Apa1cq4sGfu_Y2Ssj2Bb9Kya6ssYsWw1BQQivnnfKv-Jp9VUf8Hl9_hTD9C-RxaXkmy6iM-3F6ptMjDeF82fL64qU_7QIA4i0pMZuIRCrVLovRcStwZYXY/s1600/book+club.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn3hLXyX2ugqxPxsPOOvaT7Apa1cq4sGfu_Y2Ssj2Bb9Kya6ssYsWw1BQQivnnfKv-Jp9VUf8Hl9_hTD9C-RxaXkmy6iM-3F6ptMjDeF82fL64qU_7QIA4i0pMZuIRCrVLovRcStwZYXY/s320/book+club.jpg" /></a></div>Years ago I joined a book club but found it difficult to squeeze in the required monthly read and charted meeting. I dropped out. Then I rejoined the same book club a year before retiring. Again I couldn't keep up with the commitment. Time continued to strangle my desire to attend. Now that problem’s solved; time is a pleasant stretch before me rather than an albatross. So I clicked in <strong><em>Book Club.</em></strong> <br />
<br />
A dear friend, Ellen, serves as a mainline to great people. Her thoughtfulness toward others and interest in photography draws interesting creative souls. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0bb_Adwjb9WTPcy4sXg8SM0W9Wq8QL9COYGz18QvV32qkBq-bcghNawerE0dIIm9hizoaNMs5wgYwd35JBqm64f1_-TvYuiFvEZcCKQcfb-4JzFL8BBenDCS9mVbE4LzWoisS0S4qnu4/s1600/IMG_0092.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0bb_Adwjb9WTPcy4sXg8SM0W9Wq8QL9COYGz18QvV32qkBq-bcghNawerE0dIIm9hizoaNMs5wgYwd35JBqm64f1_-TvYuiFvEZcCKQcfb-4JzFL8BBenDCS9mVbE4LzWoisS0S4qnu4/s200/IMG_0092.jpg" width="133" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Photo by Ellen</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>As our children were growing up, she formed a Wednesday Night Beach Club. We used to meet at Mother’s Beach in Long Beach each Wednesday and bring our little ones. That way, we let the beach entertain the children while we engaged in much needed adult talk. Once they grew up, these meetings transformed into the Wednesday Walking Group. Tat up tap-tat up tap <strong><em>Wednesday Walking Group</em></strong> appeared in the column. It would guaranteee a monthly walk while accompanied by interesting women friends. <br />
So what could be my next entry?<br />
Forty years ago I stuffed a back pack with the basics, strapped it on my back, purchased a ticket to London, and set out on a three month trek through the British Isles and the European mainline. My thumb served as my ticket to transportation. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The architecture, art museums, and expanse of cultures stunned me. It was one of the most glorious periods of my life. Before returning I stood in the streets of Paris determined that I would return within months. Well those months turned into years. Life has many distracters. <br />
A place in my head cleared as I neared my last few weeks before stepping away from the yolk of work. I found myself tapping out <strong><em>House Exchange</em></strong>. Although my finances are secure, my desire to travel would surely outstretch my income. I could expand my options for travel by joining Intervac.com and invite friends to join me on my planned excursions. After all the greatest expense when traveling is the cost of housing. I could virtually eliminate that cost and pass it on to others. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitag4D5mP8SItX8EDqZo-9o_WIvHLOuHw8sqA7k8evKNMhG3GgmgYF7QK8G6H5UJjeQI6FgvmSvav0LHQqTE8liB8CYIIKk7YiIBN6-m1U9iwharUtu9idPjCSASg5ZTo05hoNB34TIP4/s1600/Eiffel+tower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitag4D5mP8SItX8EDqZo-9o_WIvHLOuHw8sqA7k8evKNMhG3GgmgYF7QK8G6H5UJjeQI6FgvmSvav0LHQqTE8liB8CYIIKk7YiIBN6-m1U9iwharUtu9idPjCSASg5ZTo05hoNB34TIP4/s320/Eiffel+tower.jpg" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">A sigh of relief overcame me as I developed each plan to meet my emotional needs. It all looked so promising that I decided to move on and focus upon my daily activities. How would I structure them? What would replace my tightly organized work world…</div>Carol Keenanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05230141197326070569noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-297133263205698049.post-24390169844087964852010-08-03T21:04:00.000-07:002010-09-19T07:57:42.165-07:00Oy Vay! I'm RetiringOK, I’ll admit it. I take life a little too seriously sometimes. So when I decided to stop teaching and tap into my retirement stash I accumulated for, well, let’s say, a number of years, the timing seemed right. The death of my mother at the age of ninety five, and the sudden death of my ex-husband twenty days later heightened my awareness that life was evaporating around me. I could be next. It was time to retire. <br />
Although I was hit with a momentary surge of excitement, I soon took note of my internal dialogue and its sudden turn toward the dark side…<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvqzNQudu2mGIvja5D1Nao1d23e2O70sbqE_GGCG932ngUFB_BqI9TCPwD7dk5qp_dTW_pSzXIl1GjAQM7MKdKXLeyl66811obZdtu9kn-EEwFk-yjogN-vYrOCugspgMdcGyW3jRDtAM/s1600/Doubt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvqzNQudu2mGIvja5D1Nao1d23e2O70sbqE_GGCG932ngUFB_BqI9TCPwD7dk5qp_dTW_pSzXIl1GjAQM7MKdKXLeyl66811obZdtu9kn-EEwFk-yjogN-vYrOCugspgMdcGyW3jRDtAM/s200/Doubt.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>“Egad,” I thought. “I live alone. Who am I going to talk to…the cats? Ugh! My friends will be working and they’re the core of my social life. What am I doing? Maybe I should reconsider.” I even began to imagine buying a rocking chair.<br />
<br />
Did my negative obsession stop there? No…it accelerated. . . <br />
<br />
“I lived a highly structured life; up at 5:00 a.m. and off to teach my first grade students. In addition I typically attended meetings, engrossed myself in lesson plans and indulged in “happy hours”. In the absence of all these structured activities, what will I do with myself?”<br />
<br />
Moments of near panic dissolved into attempts to reassure myself, “Hey! You’ve got interests. You’ve been independent for years. So what’s the problem? <br />
<br />
Then more anxiety would seep in like a bad dream. People would congratulate me and inquire about my plans. Run was my first impulse, but I thought that might be alarming and a bit odd. So I stammered, cleared my throat and gave cursory responses or changed the subject. “Yeah, it’s going to be great. Did you watch Jimmy Fallon last night?” <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM-254EazBjWkcmg1e4EkTAMmMiXzU8D4DAOPh32OrfYPHYtpjr1EE3VEJWLw8CHv67eMkCESYnACyNRXT9WbRuZdgdaM0t6lcYadMqxuuKq8wAgRrBjyYOS5mpCkS6HIT3mChbFtcj_M/s1600/Jimmy+Fallon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM-254EazBjWkcmg1e4EkTAMmMiXzU8D4DAOPh32OrfYPHYtpjr1EE3VEJWLw8CHv67eMkCESYnACyNRXT9WbRuZdgdaM0t6lcYadMqxuuKq8wAgRrBjyYOS5mpCkS6HIT3mChbFtcj_M/s200/Jimmy+Fallon.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>As a take action person who enjoys problem solving, I began surfing the net to discover how others have managed their transition into retirement. I was especially interested in research featuring single women. Women alone…this had to be the population most adaptable to the changes. Or so I thought…<br />
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The reports basically concluded that single women suffer the worst adjustment in retirement. The main reason is the financial disadvantage of single women versus married. Now that problem, I aced. I planned for my financial future and money was not an issue. <br />
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After my internet surf, intermittent waves of more anxiety hit me while standing in line, sitting down, driving my car and even while lying down. I was literally mugged by my darkened internal dialogue. Fortunately my planning and organizational skills I developed as a teacher kicked in. I decided to improve the odds that my transition into retirement would be positive. I even took it a little further. I planned on defying research. I was going to be the one single woman that stepped into retirement prepared to have a blast. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLtMF19GoEXHwJ8HaetKwoMM2vcGKsVUkKAFTlcmsGnHrCsZjc9ynf3a3IrjmTc4LJ7ikLtaKc7IDSzsf4qWET4oWEI10IAutnRZQLeOMJkOeZVHz7TSweedG7SphFxQSej8aXXHUyljs/s1600/confetti+party.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLtMF19GoEXHwJ8HaetKwoMM2vcGKsVUkKAFTlcmsGnHrCsZjc9ynf3a3IrjmTc4LJ7ikLtaKc7IDSzsf4qWET4oWEI10IAutnRZQLeOMJkOeZVHz7TSweedG7SphFxQSej8aXXHUyljs/s200/confetti+party.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Transforming my anxieties in an active plan became my new focus. Instead of conjuring up more fears, I began to envision the factors that would contribute toward a well rounded use of my time. I created a table on my computer and saved it on my desk top. The months prior to retirement I kept adding new ideas as they occurred. Since socializing with friends keeps me happy and grounded, the initial column heading was <b>Social Emotional Needs</b>. The first entry, tat up tap- tat up tap, was Happy Hours. I realized that I had over twenty five friends between the two schools I worked at during my career. I was the one leaving. They weren’t going anywhere. I could join them once or twice a week. Then it occurred to me that I have a wide range of interests and a circle of friends who may want to join me on excursions to art museums, gardens, movies, theatre and day hikes. I also love to kayak. So once again I sat at my computer and tapped out the next heading, Weekly Outings. I listed those who may wish to join me. I planned to call one person a week after planning an interesting activity. Then I typed the list of friends who might join me.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIZwRgf_s9ScDUzQWdOnyFs8Vy2QxpY-iFzEnqd3e01_Z2-1roo6nNR4DQPW8EH4J5GUWEi0LhfmL_XOLozZLrJ8DxRsKhG1pTMe7LzHgEuGmX-ZovyDm9zACrSsnHifA2sVDcrODl7Gw/s1600/typing+hands.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="cssfloat: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIZwRgf_s9ScDUzQWdOnyFs8Vy2QxpY-iFzEnqd3e01_Z2-1roo6nNR4DQPW8EH4J5GUWEi0LhfmL_XOLozZLrJ8DxRsKhG1pTMe7LzHgEuGmX-ZovyDm9zACrSsnHifA2sVDcrODl7Gw/s320/typing+hands.jpg" /></a></div>Carol Keenanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05230141197326070569noreply@blogger.com3