retirement week four I think

Well, if I'm losing track of time I guess retirement is working.

retirement, actually

I have to correct this missile of disinformation. After a moment of surprise which I mistakenly read as rage, Kurt has been monumentally kind and supportive during this surprisingly difficult transition. So. After managing the finances, what little there are, I'm working in my yard, watching Fixer Upper, writing, and making art. I am trying to get enough work done to get juried in to a local group of artists and have enough pieces to sell in the studio tour next fall. It is now two weeks into this thing, this retirement. My mood vacillates between delight and resentment. With social security and unemployment I will be fine. I'd be fine anyway. I know how to cook rice. Our home is ours, bills are small, student loan payments put off for now. I have enough wax to make art for centuries and can string words together in enjoyable ways if I choose. I don't think I've talked about my studio. Our new house, now four years old, has always been too nice to turn one of the rooms into a space to do encaustics. Fire and wax have been messy in my hands, so I'd been putting off any artistic endeavors in favor of a clean house. If you know me, you will know that to be a lie. I put little stock in a clean house. A cute house, now that is a priority, but clean? not really. I am the worst housekeeper I know. It drives Kurt mad, ocd as he is, and if you've been reading along, I don't care. So, one thing K is really good at is finding things for me to spend (my) money on. I happened to mention that I was dead serious about building some sort of structure to use as an art studio. I didn't care what it looked like (lie) meaning, I didn't need it to be fancy, was, in fact, more interested in a functionally funky structure. Rather than get himself into a honey-do situation, my darling husband began searching for sheds. Brilliant! I sincerely didn't expect it to go so well, but we ran into this little Amish-ish company that makes small-batch, artisan quality sheds. It was on. They just happened to have an 8x12 that was either a repo or the deal fell through--I don't know or care. The point is that it was precisely the design and siding choice that I wanted. Two windows and a four-foot barn door with lateral siding, not the vertical cheap T111 siding you usually see on those things. I didn't like the color, but do know how to paint. We made the deal. I wrote the check and they dropped it in the backyard a week and 15 minutes later. The only challenge so far is convincing the world that it is not a "she-shed." My first introduction to the she-shed concept was at our yard sale a couple of years ago. A large-ish, bleachy-fluffy woman bailed out of her car as her husband was slowing to a stop. She began stuffing her large floral bag with my girlish cast-offs, anything frilly, anything candle-ish. "For my she-shed," she shrilled. "Isn't it just a-DOR-able?" So. yeah. My studio is NOT a fucking she shed. It is a hot-wax-flinging-bead-strung-leather-strapped-wire-wrapped nightmare of sweet disorganization. There is no art supply I do not own. Yesterday, while hanging things up for me, Kurt broke my little hammer. Did I mention he was helping me? Did I meention I hadn't requested help? Anyhow, he thought a good place to find another one would be Harbor Freight. This place is like Michael's for guys. We found a little hammer and all kinds of other stuff. Over the 15-plus year life of this blog I may have mentioned that I own beads. I don't think I own them all, but easily most. They live in little boxes here and there and I move them with me from place to place. Several multi-compartmented plastic containers house the majority -- these containers were probably meant for fishing lures; then there are clever little boxes that, at the time of purchase, I was certain were the solution to my organization problem. Kind of like a new shade of lipstick. I realize I may have lost some readers with that last comment, but these are the chances an edgy writer takes. So there I was in Harbor Freight and right in front of me was a 40 compartment, stand-alone plastic box for only 14.99. The same thing at Michael's would cost you at least 500.00. Maybe not quite that, but seriously, it would be sixtyish. Anyhow, I bought it and have now spent the past two days reorganizing my beads and bead-related contraband. I have reduced my stash from a b'zillion disparate containers to three. That is success on a huge scale. It is also a lie. I probably have five. Still. Days such as these, days wasted in bead-sorting, put me in mind of a time back in the late seventies or early eighties when I was shooting speed for a living. I'd found myself holed up in Sweet Home for three days and nights without sleep, searching inch by inch through deep red-orange shag carpet for a single red bead. Which I never did find. Anyhow. Those days were a long life. So, we bought the sweet little hammer and a set of small screwdrivers, a mallet, sandpaper and a hand broom. Then we walked over to Goodwill where Kurt found another thing my money just had to have. One of the many things I love about this guy is how he sees things. I had mentioned needing a stand to hold my work-in-progress encaustic pieces while I finish the sides (most have a cradled edge one to two inches deep) while keeping my hands free of hot wax. I was thinking wood, nails/screws, etc. So he guides me down the kitchen gadget aisle in Goodwill and he points to this two foot tall, chrome, robotic looking thing with four arms and three levels and I cannot imagine what, for the love of the Sweet Baby Jesus, he sees in it. Then he touches it. It spins. I begin to step into his vision. Ten dollars later -- mine -- we stripped all the non-essential pieces from this magic little spinning robot and it is perfect. Perfect. A wide base, effortless spinning capability, exact height. I won't hold the fact that it is chrome against him. So, retirement. It happened a couple of years earlier than I expected, but I am so thrilled not to have to take care of the dying any more. 46 years all together. Now I feel like I can write that book. Here I go.

back in black

I've been asked to start writing again. By Lorretta. And others. They know me. They know I'm better when I empty my head from time to time. If you'd asked me last Saturday what my plans were, I would have included retirement among the first few. Others being, get those weeds pulled, make the bed. There is a meme going around facebook telling you at which intervals various housework tasks need to be accomplished. It includes cleaning the dishwasher. I wasn't aware of that. I thought it CLEANED. I do little in the way of housework. I am a decorator, not a maid. Ask anybody. I'm tired of working, but still like having something interesting to be in charge of. I just still don't like having anyone else in charge of me. So. A trip to the redwoods cleared my head and here I am, typing for the first time in years. Asha, Kristi, Annie, Jessica, Lorretta. Thanks for the pushes over time. I'd say, "after you," but why? I hope you find time to move your fingers across the keys. You each have so much to say. So spring vacation, now in a pop-up Chalet trailer -- the canned ham went the way of craigslist -- began on a warmish Saturday morning. Sunny, mild. The first good day in a long wet Yamhill spring. So why leave, you might ask. I don't know. The redwoods seem like church to me and I wanted that deep green feeling. The problem is, the vacation, scheduled months in advance, fell on easter weekend. I'm sure there are previous postings about easter weekends with my heathen in-laws so I won't belabor the history lesson. I married into a pack of wolves. They'd like it that I said that. Anyhow, there goes three days of a seven day vacation spent in the midst of people who don't much like me and I don't find much common ground with. I do own a calendar in case you were wondering. I could have planned differently but didn't see the designation as a holiday weekend. I don't think it hardly is anymore, but given my druthers, I'd get up early on easter sunday and consider god. It doesn't have to make sense. A sunrise service of my own suits me. We finally finished seeing family, and to be fair, I did get an hour with my son. It was great to see him. He is well and healthy and when I told him my bloodwork was wierd, he said, "We have to have dinner. I love you mom." So, all I have to do is threaten death and he'll find some time. I do love that kid and his ability to set family boundaries. And I got to see Rita for half an hour and Cooky for a few minutes. Two solid days with my mother in law does me no good whatsoever. Either one. Snakes. So we set off down I-5 to take the scenic Klamath River Highway to the coast. Highway 96, I think. It put me in mind of the land we set aside for reservations. Dry, scrubby. But as we got to the Seiad Valley, things began to green up a bit. The red bud tree grows wild alongside the road along that river. And as close as I've lived to the Klamath most of my life, I had no idea what a big river it is. Something between the Willamette and the Applegate, although not as pretty inland. I fell in love with Happy Camp and would go back, just to see what goes on that far from anywhere. No logging to speak of, so I'm not sure what the draw is. Didn't see any weed fences, so it didn't seem like cannabis culture either. I stopped to use the bathroom in an art cooperative in some tiny place. I've looked at a map but can't find it... I liked it there. Reminded me of Ruch in the old days. Simple. Making art, making life. Eventually, we found our way to Hoopa, where I have cousins and family stories. Gary Morris married the Hoopa princess, Maydean. Not a pretty woman, but kind. They had a child, called him Gary, and he took after his native roots and is a beautiful native man last I saw him at the funeral for his paternal grandmother. We eveetually landed at the funky little rv park we like in Trinidad, stayed a couple nights and went home. It was beautiful there, camping in the big trees, walking down to the boats. Cooking outside. The sun was up, the fog out until the day we were to leave. A goodbye fog.

retirement

I was retired today. Put out to pasture. There is the meme making its way through facebook that says, "those who say go big or go home have no idea how bad I want to go home." So, I am done working in senior living. For good, I think. And for the good of all, I think. It is changing, and I can't change with it. Not that much. I'm old school. And old. 66 just this month. I am tired of working. I want to make art and clean my house. I want to feel inspired and happy. I do, in fact, most days. Today is bittersweet. I'd rather have left on my own terms, but that is not to be. I want to drive to the Southlands to see my son. He asked me when I was going to stop. Kurt is mad at me for failing. Or for not flipping out about it. I can't really tell. He has only one setting and it looks like anger to me. Like it is happening to him. I have to fight for a bad day of my own. Today is it. A happily bad day.