sand and paws

During my benighted youth, I loved "sword and sandal" movies.


Those films from the 50s and 60s featuring heroic tales, men in shifts, and women who patiently and piously awaited the return of warring husbands.  The Robe.  Spartacus.  And the mother of them all: Cleopatra.


Yes, Captain Oveur, I did like Gladiator movies.


But this weekend was a sand only weekend.  But no sandals.  After all, it was the Oregon coast where sandals are as useful as a period in a Faulkner novel.


I have been in Oregon for six months now.  And not once have I made it to the beach.  This summer was custom-built for beach trips.  But I did not head over that way until this past Friday.


It was well worth the wait.  I will tell you a little more about the first day there.  But I wanted to share Saturday with you.


This was one of those unplanned trips.  A true mini-vacation where you get up and decide where to go.  And while you are going there, you just might completely change your plans.


The day began with a bit of nostalgia.  I wanted to take a look at some of the houses in Pacific City -- where I once planned to retire.  I thought most of the houses were grossly over-priced in 2007 and 2008 when I was shopping for a place to retire.


In 2007, I considered buying a recently-constructed house close to the beach with no view for $210,000.  The place was tiny with a one-car garage.  I eventually decided not to buy because my house in Salem was a one hour drive from the beach.


The same house is currently on the market.  I pulled out the flier -- thinking it would be for $200,000 or so.  The price?  $399,000.  And it was not an anomaly.  House after house was at least 100% higher in listing price than when I looked three years ago. 


At least, I knew I would not be tempted to staty in Oregon by picking up one on the cheap.


The real reason, though, for the stop was to hike over the dunes to the beach where Jiggs and I would take walks of indeterminate length.  Depending on his mercurial mood, we would be on the beach for any time between 15 minutes and four hours.


Saturday was the perfect memory day.  Temperatures in the 60s.  Clear skies.  Almost no wind.  And plenty of people sharing their lives with their dogs.


Having my fill of nostalgia, we decided to head north to Astoria, one of Oregon's oldest settlements, to see houses used for movie location filming.  In this case, the house used for Goonies.


But we never made it to Astoria.  While driving through Cannon Beach, we saw a helicopter stand offering tours of the area.  We pulled a fast u-turn, bought our tickets, and in 15 minutes, we were airborne over Seaside and Cannon Beach.


You know my rule about video in blogs.  I seldom use them.


But today is the exception.  I invite you to join me for a flight over some of the most beautiful coastline in America.


I will let the video speak to that part of our souls that yearns to fly.

beach daze

I should have let you know in advance, but I wandered off to the Oregon beach for the weekend -- and left comments piling up in my in box.  As soon as I get organized, I will fill you in on my fun weekend, how I am starting to feel REAL old, and my dinner with André (kind of).


But, right now, I am heading to bed.  And sleeping is something I do well no matter where I am.

waters of life

My good friend Laurie, over at Honduras Gumbo, has urged us fellow bloggers to join her in writing about water today.


She is a gracious southern lady, and I was raised never to disappoint the expectations of women.  A principle I have met far less often than my upbringing would have expected.


I have written before about water and its micro relationship with us.  It is easy to take water from granted.  Especially, when you grow up in Oregon where the excess of water is a constant complaint -- usually, in the form that falls from the sky.


But even Oregon is a western state.  Due to the summer weather patterns, we Oregonians often suffer summer droughts.  Farmers and ranchers are far too familiar with that cycle.  Without the series of dams that constipate our rivers, we Oregonians would be as parched as any Wyoming cattle man in the summer.


Even with that growing appreciation of water in my former home, my move to Mexico has taught me just how rare a consistent supply of high quality water can be.


Like most people in my small fishing village by the sea, I rely on the water man (and it always is a man in our traditional village) to deliver large bottles of drinking water to my house.  The bottles come in 20 litres.  And I consume at least two a week.


While I was recovering from my broken ankle, Ivan (my water man), took me to the small water plant that filters and bottles the water he delivers to me.  The water comes out of one of the local rivers just before it empties into the ocean.  I have no idea how it tastes in its natural state  -- though, I can imagine. But it quite pleasant after being filtered.  In fact, it is the sole source of drinking water in my house.


Our local municipality supplies water to the house.  But I do not drink it.  The water is treated.  But it is pumped from the street into a large black tank on the top of my house -- where the water sits fermenting in the sun.


I have been told that the water is perfectly safe to drink.  But even my Mexican neighbors drink bottled water.  Not to mention the fact that the street water will often simply stop for a week or two -- with no warning.  Usually, a malfunctioning pump.  Or thieves with a wiring fetish.


So, I rely on the kindness of vendors to bring water to me.  And if the river flow stops?  What then?


That scenario is certainly possible.  Mexico City's water infrastructure is, at best, tenuous.  Water to homes is regularly turned off for a day at a time.  Sometimes announced.  Sometimes not.


For today -- this special day of water action --, I will leave the editorializing to those who have better data at their fingertips.  What I intend to do is simply stay more aware and act as a good steward of the water God has placed in my hands.


And simply ask you to do the same.
 

spinning the wheel of life

My personality can be a bit quirky -- at times.


And, at 61, you would think I would stop developing new ones.  Quirks, that is.  Not, personalities.


But they keep popping up. 


A new quirk is: putting off decisions.  Big decisions.  I just ignore them.  This from a man who has spent his life as (if you will pardon the disinterment of the word) a "decider."


This trip north has turned out to be a perfect example of Ogden Nash's definition of a sin of omission:

And the other kind of sin is just the opposite and is called a sin of omission and is equally bad in the eyes of all right-thinking people, from Billy Sunday to Buddha,

And it consists of not having done something you shuddha.*

What I "shudda" taken care of was getting the house ready to sell.  My realtor was very candid with me.  Now is not the time to sell.  But she recommended I replace the windows.  I didn't.


Now, I am stuck in another Hamlet vortex.  A financial decision.  Should I apply for Social security benefits at 62?  Or 66?  Or 70?


We all know the logic.  The longer you wait, the higher the benefit. 


If a retiree takes Social Security benefits at 62 (with a 25-percent reduction), rather than waiting another 48 months for full benefits at 66, the break even point is 78. That means the retiree would have to die at 78 for the early benefits and full benefits to equal each other.


But, the world is not economically static.  Factoring in the current value of the benefit, assuming a 4% rate of return, the break even point increases. The retiree would have to live to 84 to make waiting for full benefits worthwhile.


That is how economists think.  I like to think of it as being a little bit like going to Las Vegas.  The government wants me to take early benefits and bets I have the genes of Methuselah.  I bet I will die young and leave a good-looking corpse.


I don't have the genes of Methuselah.  My nearest ancestors are a mixed bag of untimely deaths and healthy centenarians. 


The actuarial tables say I should live to be about 80.  My family tree says that is optimistic.


If I include three generations of ancestors, death seems to be on a rather erratic schedule -- running from 43 to 100.  I have already managed to live longer than a grandmother, grandfather, and great grandfather.  But the average life span is merely 74 years.  The median -- 77.


Those numbers tell me to take the money early and put my full bet on black.


Death may be a dark specter.  Politics is darker still.


Social Security is not as unhealthy fiscally as Medicare.  But it does have a rather serious cough.  Taking early retirement makes sense if only to get my salesman foot in the door before the whole program turns into a personal thank you note from the president to each retiree for being such a good citizen.


So, later this week, I will fill out the form that will start the trickle of Social Security checks down Mexico way in a short three months.


My windows in my unsold house may suffer from my indecision.  But I will soon join that "happy few, we band of brothers," who can speak without ceasing on such topics as COLA and direct deposit.

* -- Portrait of the Artist as a Prematurely Old Man has long been one of my favorite Ogden Nash poems.  It is well worth reading in full.

time out for wisdom

I just realized the tone of yesterday's post was a bit more pessimistic than I intended.  When I started the essay, I wanted to conclude with one of my favorite Sophocles quotations. 


But I forgot.


So here it is.


Sometimes one has to wait until the evening to see how glorious the day has been.
The author of Electra knew of what he wrote.


Or, better yet, the patron saint of expatriates -- T.S. Elliott:

Time you enjoyed wasting is not wasted time.

retirement -- round dos

  

The Starbucks was not unique.  But are they ever?  Manzanillo or Paris, you feel as if you are within walking distance of the Pike Place Fish Market.


A lawyer colleague had invited me to coffee to talk about my job duties over the summer.  She ordered coffee.  I was happy with a plate of conversation and a side of smug complacency.


Well, I was complacent until she said: "I see you flunked retirement -- just like my Dad.  He flunked twice.  What is it with lawyers?"


At the time, I was a bit offended.  No.  I was defensively offended.  Because she had hit a raw nerve.


When I came north, I told myself returning to work had nothing to do with flunking retirement.  I was simply returning to help my employer transition the new guy into my old job.


That exchange came back to me on Saturday afternoon.  School friends from Olympia drove down to spend the day with me.  Their daughter needed to do some shopping.  So, off we went to the local outlet mall.


I know it verges on sexist to say it out loud, but most women enjoy shopping.  Most men don't.


While the women folk went off to gather treasures, my friend Ken and I sat on a bench doing our best impression of two old guys waiting for a bus.  And we were good.


The topic quickly turned to retirement.  He told me he is making the jump soon.  He was amazed that all of his friends and colleagues ask him the same question: "But what will you do?"


"But what will you do?" I heard it a lot.  And still do.  One of our blog colleagues has grabbed irony by its horn and named her blog accordingly.


It was not until that afternoon that I realized the question is based on a false assumption.  Embedded in those five words is a far different question: "If you do not do what you are doing now, who will you be?"  The assumption comes from a society that defines its members by what they do.


I am not just Steve at work.  I am Steve the Attorney.  Just as there is Holly the Adjuster.  Mike the Vice President.  Brenda the CEO.


Strip those titles from our names, and we become as anonymous as a dethroned czar.  People with no apparent purpose.


Or so we think.  And perception matters.  Especially, our self-perception.  Until we are happy just being ourselves and are happy being alone with ourselves, slipping into retirement can be as frightening as creeping Alzheimer's.


Ken and I had quite an exchange on why "what we do" is irrelevant to retirement.  And I felt as if I had just had another side order of smug complacency.


That is, until I remembered my coffee get-together last spring.  I suspect I did flunk retirement.  When I heard my old job was being filled, I played with the idea of applying for the position.  That thought passed quickly.  But i did the second best thing.  I offered to return to train my replacement.  Because I thought I still needed something "to do."


And I am glad I did.  The last six months have taught me I made the correct decision -- to retire.  I am now ready for a titleless life.


A life that will resume in four more weeks.


Warm up that hammock.  I have a rendezvous with the rest of my life.

toe shoes and soldiers

Mother Nature could be one of my Mexican neighbors.  To her, time is not as important as relationships.


The calendar may say that fall arrived two weeks ago.  But Mother knows best.


For the past two weeks we have had mid-summer weather in the Willamette Valley.  Two weeks that now look like a lovely parting gift.  Because summer is at an end.


When I headed out the back door to work yesterday, the sky was almost clear.  But the light blanket of warm humidity I had grown accustomed to was gone.  Replaced by a lovely 45 degree briskness.  Perfect for an equally brisk walk to work.


But not everyone got the memo about fall.  Bushtits and sparrows were doing their melodic best to defend their ever-decreasing territories.  Before they pack up their bags and head south.  Leaving room for the juncos to move in once the snows start in the Cascades.


This blog once referred to the author as "a boy from Powers."  That was partially true.  My family lived in Powers when I was young.  But we moved to the Portland area after my third grade.


I have some very fond memories of living in Powers.  Especially, of my grandmother's house.  Whenever I would stay there.  I would rise early and feel the chill of fall mornings in the coastal mountains.  The same chill I felt this week.


There were always boyish battles to fight.  Over the years, I had collected a variety of toy soldiers I stored in an old Maxwell House can.  West Point cadets.  War of the Roses knights.  Roman legionnaires.  Battle of the Bulge infantry.  It was almost as if Toy Story had merged with Night at the Museum.


But battles need a purpose.  Each side in these vegetable garden set-tos had a queen.  A symbolic queen plucked from a fuchsia bush. 


For some reason, fuchsias always reminded me of ballerinas.  Perhaps it was the toxic of effect of too much Nutcracker Suite at a young age.  And I assumed all ballerinas were queens. 


By the time the battles were complete, the sun had its effect on the poor fuchsia blooms.  What was once a thing of beauty was soon reduced to a flattened mat of color.  An early lesson of the futility of war.


Yesterday morning I walked through the grounds of my old law school.  And there it was.  A fuchsia bush along the walkway.  Boyhood memories started tumbling out of my head.


I have no idea what became of my coffee can soldiers.  Maybe they are the playthings of another boy now.


Trying to fight off the effects of the seasons as futilely as the lonely bushtits and sparrows.