Comparisons

Over 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.

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.

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. ”

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.

Brush Stroke or Watercolor Class Cont...

You may be wondering… Why on earth would I return to a class with such a chaotic beginning?

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.

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.

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.
She commented, “Oh, you were a teacher too?
Then she proceeded to ask the same litany of questions as before and was equally surprised by each of my answers.
Hmmm I thought the “senior” in Senior University is becoming a reocurring staple.

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.

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.

And  despite the quirkiness of the class environment I'll conclude with my first painting which is featured below.

Yeah, I know. But it's a start!

Retired On Course

I worried. I planned. I partied.  
                                              

And now I’m retired!


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.


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.

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.

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.”

And so my retirement adventure’s begun…

Big Sur

I 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.

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. 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. 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!

way over yonder
is a place that i know
where i can find shelter
from a hunger and cold
and the sweet tastin' good life
is so easily found a way over yonder, that's where i'm bound

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.

i know when i get there
the first thing i'll see
is the sun shining golden
shining right down on me
then trouble's gonna lose me
worry leave me behind…

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.

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
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.

and i'll stand up proudly
in true peace of mind
talkin' about
talkin' about
a way over yonder
is a place i have seen
in a garden of wisdom
from some long ago dream
oh yeah

After greeting everyone, I walked along a footpath to a nearby water fall.

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!

maybe tomorrow
i'll  find my way
to the land where the honey runs
in rivers each day
and the sweet tastin' good life
is so easily found
a way over yonder
that's where i'm bound
oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh
a way over yonder
that's where i'm bound.

Preparing to Party

Ditch 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!

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.

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:

• Rake yard, sweep leaves, trim flower beds

• Iron 4 huge table cloths

• Clear out refrigerator debris

• Place Prosecco bottles in refrigerator

• Set out serving platters, napkins, plates, and eating utensils

• Make appetizers

• Iron outfit

• Put CD’s in player

• Relax

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Not so Ritzy Ritz

Our 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.

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.

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.

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.
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.

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?

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!

On to the Shacks

Once our breakfast was inhaled and dessert consumed, we began the required trek up four rickety flights of wooden stairs to the parking lot.

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?
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.


Within minutes we approached, what appeared to be, a pocket sized museum.

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 your 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.

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 Jeu de Paume. 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.

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 this 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, trash, 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 found sexagarian who wished to be reassembled in to a new improved object de arte.  It was well worth the entry fee.

A Hermes Creation