Monday, October 17, 2016

Possible Lives

Road to One-Eye Lake. Plein air painting completed this summer.

Sometimes in life we reach a turning point, and turning sixty is one of those times for me.

I have always seen life as full of possibilities, and have had a constantly evolving list of things I want to do some day (as contrasted with a list of things I have to do, which is a different story). To be fair, I have accomplished a great many things on that list. I am very good at focusing, figuring out a step by step plan, and buckling down to do the actual work. What I have not been so good at is committing to a particular line of inquiry, career plan, or workplace over the long term. Or to a particular vision of who I am and the life I want to lead.

I have taken to heart the adage, "follow your passions," although with considerable introspection at each major zig or zag of my life and career. While at each major turning point I knew with certainty it was time to make a change, the direction of the change was less clear. I have an eclectic set of passions and interests that have pulled me in various directions. A partial list includes the following: language, writing, art, outdoors, wilderness, skiing, family, food, environment, health, design/development, teaching, problem solving, organic food gardening, stories, reading, travel, parenting, leadership, ideas, communication, human relationships....

My decisions also have been shaped by a healthy dose of pragmatism. For example, from the time I was in my teens, I have always known that I wanted to have skills that would allow me to independently support myself throughout my life. So, for example, when I was seventeen, trying to decide between whether to go to art school or university, I chose university. And when I graduated with a BA in Linguistics, I then went on to further education that allowed entree into a profession where there were lots of jobs. This choice was practical, but also followed my passions for language, teaching, and communication (but backgrounded my passion for art).

There are trade-offs in every decision. For every path followed, there are many paths not followed. You can never go back in time to take those other paths. Take my possible life as an artist. What would my life have looked like if I had followed that path instead? Now I will never know.

At this point, you, the reader might be saying, "Oh, come on! There's nothing to stop you from throwing yourself into your art now, if that's what you really want to do. After all, that is the beauty of retirement. You are not required to work for a living once you retire, using up all your time and energy in the employ of someone else. So it is a golden opportunity to pursue those deferred passions. Or even to let go of all that anxious striving and just be."

And you, dear reader, would be right. I am standing on the threshold of this period of open possibilities, looking out toward the future. After a zig into senior administration, I am now about to zag to...something else. The trouble is, I don't know what. There are so many possibilities.

It is much easier to look backwards. When I look back, I can see that aside from the life changing events that fate dealt me, every major decision about a change in direction in my life or career was preceded by a period of reflection, weighing of factors, and goal setting. For better or worse, I have ended up here, author of a good life, but struggling to write the next chapter.

There are so many choices! In the past, the way I responded to having to choose one direction over another was to console myself that it was only temporary -- somehow I would find a way to do it all. Maybe I wouldn't be able to do it all simultaneously, but surely I could do it all consecutively.

As I have considered the possibility of leaving my career altogether and fully retiring, I have suddenly come up with a plethora of new projects that I would like to do within my career before I step away, enough exciting ideas to keep me going until I am 90! But if I go down that path, I will never find out what it is like to devote myself to my art. I will never finish writing those novels.

The thing is, now that I am sixty, I realize that my time horizon is getting shorter. Choosing one thing over another has consequences, because I don't have all the time in the world. (Of course, I never did, but that was easier to ignore when my own mortality wasn't staring me in the face quite so obviously.) If I buckle down and use my remaining time to do those work projects that I am inventing for myself, Rob and I will just keep getting older and at some point we will be too old to ski that powder or hike in the Alps.

I think that some day I might get to a point where I'll say, okay, enough with all these goals and this striving. This is it with trying to achieve in this area or that. This is as far as I get. And guess what -- because of never committing to any one thing but trying to do it all, I will see that I didn't do any of those things as well as I might have if I had been more focused. I hope that I will judge myself with compassion. My old self will know that life really isn't about what you do and accomplish at all.

But I'm not there yet. I still have so much I want to do. However, time is getting shorter, so I have to choose wisely where to put my efforts. I have come face to face with the realization that I can't do it all, after all. That realization is having a paralyzing effect on my decision making about what comes next. Whatever choice I make feels too much like choosing to put all my eggs in one basket, too much like closing down possibilities, too much like giving up.

Monday, October 10, 2016

Sometimes Life Happens: Story of the Moose

Over the last few months, I have continued with my avid reading of FI (Financial Independence) and retirement blogs. There is a lot of great information out there in the blogosphere, and I have been impressed with the thoughtful exploration of topics, willingness to share personal stories, and the positive support bloggers provide for each other. I have learned a lot. One of the big themes is that through mindful planning and effort, both financially and personally, people can prepare for a successful and fulfilling (and possibly early) retirement. I find that people's stories really speak to me, and help me visualize my own transition to retirement.

I have always been a planner. I opened an RHOSP when I was still a university student living below the poverty line. (An RHOSP was a tax sheltered savings account for saving for your first house down payment that used to be available in Canada in the late 1970's and early '80's -- okay, I know I am dating myself.) Once I graduated and got my first career-related job, one of the first things I did was open an RRSP (Registered Retirement Savings Plan). So yes, I plan.

However, sometimes life is what happens while you are making other plans. I have learned that it is important to leave enough flexibility in a plan -- to not get too rigidly committed to it -- so that you can accommodate, adjust directions, and also stay open to unexpected opportunities. Here is my moose story. It happened fifteen or twenty years ago.

Image from Clipart Panda.

It was Christmas time. I was living in a northern part of Canada where the winters are cold and snowy. At winter solstice, just before Christmas, the days are very short. The sun comes up around 9 and sets around 4. We were driving in my extended mini-van to go to spend Christmas with my parents, a five-hour drive on icy roads.

I was tired. My job at that time always became especially frantic just before the winter break, and required long hours and intense focus. I had just finished up at work the day before. As well, I had had to do all of the shopping and other Christmas preparations, and get everything ready and packed for the trip. I was a single parent of three children aged eleven and under. Sometimes I look back at that period of my life and wonder where I found the energy.

My brother had arrived the night before and was travelling with us. We also brought the cat. The van was packed with skis, boots, and poles (both downhill and cross-country sets) for the five of us, skates, winter clothes, Christmas presents, and 20-25 of my oil paintings. I was putting on an exhibition of my work at an art gallery in a small city a couple hours from my parents. So I planned to travel to that city for two days during the break, leaving the kids with my parents, and hang the exhibition and attend the gallery opening.

After about four hours on the road, we stopped for gas in a little town. That was a signal to the kids to pile out of the van and race into the gas station store to buy candy and junk food with their allowance. It was also a chance for all of us to use the washroom. That brief little stop seemed to take forever. I was trying to get to our destination by 6 o'clock, as my Mom was expecting us for supper.

Impatient and grumpy, I herded everyone back into the van. As we left the little town, and climbed up out of the river valley, the last light of the twilight had disappeared. My headlights illuminated little but the dark track of the narrow highway and the high shadowy snowbanks on either side.

Suddenly, just to the left and ahead, a huge dark form exploded out of the snowbank. "Moose!" my brother shouted.

It ran across the road, on a collision course with the van. Moose run very fast, and I had only a split second to respond. In that split second, I debated my options: speed up so that the moose would pass behind us? Risk slamming on my brakes on an icy road? Steer into the snowbank at highway speed?

As I slammed on the brakes and steered to the right toward the snowbank, I saw the top of the moose's front legs just outside my driver's side window. The moose was so close it was within arm's length. We were all going to die. The luggage flew forward onto my children in the back seats, and the cat flew forward into the front seat.

Somehow, we didn't hit the moose. Or, the moose didn't hit us. I didn't even put the van into the snowbank, but veered around the moose and back onto the road. As the moose disappeared into the darkness behind us, I found a place to pull over and sat there shaking. A fraction of a second later or a different driving maneuver, and I certainly would have been crushed by the moose. My brother and all of my children would have been killed or severely injured.

My brother said that the moose had seemed to hesitate, or check its speed, just as it was about to hit the van. He speculated that as I turned toward the ditch, the headlights were no longer blinding the moose, and so it saw us and avoided hitting us.

We could have all died. In a split second, our dinner plans, my art exhibition plans, our Christmas holiday, and the rest of my children's lives would have been forever altered. I would not be presently planning my retirement. Or, if we had left the gas station five minutes earlier or later, we might have never even seen the moose.

But this isn't the end of the story.

Twenty minutes later on a straight stretch, a deer suddenly appeared in front of me in the circle of headlights. It was running like crazy, from left to right in front of the van. I barely had time to brake before it disappeared into the blackness again. I may have grazed its hind end slightly with the passenger side of the van.

I commented to my brother, "At least that one wouldn't have killed us all." I think I was still in shock from the near miss with the moose. I had never almost hit a deer or moose before, nor have I since. What was the chance of two near misses in one night?

We arrived at my parents' place alive, had a family dinner, and made plans to go skiing the next morning, a Saturday.

There was a big snowfall overnight. I headed up to the ski hill with the kids. We were all going to meet up at the ski lodge. Although the ski hill road is steep and tricky with lots of switchbacks, I had driven it dozens of times. I had studded winter tires on the van. Even though the van was a gutless wonder, I had always managed to make it up the hill.

Not this time. When I got to the section of road where there is a long steep hill immediately followed by three switchbacks, I discovered a long lineup of cars stuck on the hill. I knew the van would only make it up the hill if I took a run at it. So I waited at the bottom of the hill with a line of cars behind me until the road looked clear. Then I headed up the hill. I made it to the top of the straight stretch only to discover cars ahead of me stuck on the switchback. I had to stop. The road was polished to ice from all the vehicles that had been spinning their wheels. I backed over to the side so that others could pass, and ended up with my back wheel in the ditch.

At this point, one of my brothers came by in his pickup truck. "Leave the van and we'll get it out later," he said. "Jump in with us." And so we did. After all, there was some great powder waiting for us on the hill!

This still isn't the end of the story.

Last run of the day, and by late afternoon, it had warmed up and the foot of fresh powder was now heavy, wet, and chopped up. I was on a black diamond run, near the bottom, and for some reason I was skiing by myself. As I cranked a turn with my ancient heavy old Dynastar straight-cut racing skis, I felt my left knee tear. I knew I had seriously injured my knee. So, I sat down in the snow and waited for the safety patrol to come.

I ended up being taken down the ski hill in the ski corporation van to the hospital emergency room. I had torn my medial meniscus cartilage in my left knee, and spent the rest of the Christmas holidays and half of January at work on crutches, and then used a cane for a long time.

My brothers dug out the van, and brought my children down from the ski hill that day. One of my brothers drove my van full of paintings to the other town and hung the exhibition for me.

It took a long time to rehabilitate my knee. Not only did I miss the ski season, but it took until September before my ability to walk was fully recovered.

I could have been angry, resentful, or anxious about whether my knee would ever fully recover (the sports physio said I might need surgery, and might not be able to ski again). In previous years, I would have responded with those emotions. But this time I did not. I was at peace. I just kept thinking how fortunate we all were to be alive, and how close we had come to all being killed by colliding with the moose. My knee injury seemed completely trivial in comparison.

So, back to retirement planning. Am I saying don't plan? Or that we are subject to fate, so there is no point in worrying about things?

Not at all. What I took away from this experience is that it is important to plan, and to put forward your very best effort in the moment (e.g., my driving maneuver when about to hit the moose), but at the same time I recognize that I do not have full control over what happens in life. I have to be ready to accept and adjust when experiences and events do not match my plan.

Thursday, September 29, 2016

Finding My Purpose

Last night I was reading a great blog, Our Next Life. A young couple, currently aged 39 and 41, is on the fast track to early retirement. They have done the planning and the math, and anticipate both of them being ready to retire at some point in 2017, this coming year. Wow -- I am impressed! I never could have retired in my forties.

In my online retirement reading, I have found that there is a considerable community of bloggers out there writing on Personal Finance (PF) and specifically on Financial Independence (FI). They discuss how to calculate the point at which you have accumulated sufficient savings and/or non-employment income to no longer need to work for pay for the rest of your life, and strategies for getting to that point. For most people writing on the topic, achieving FI is a goal that they have set as a prerequisite for retirement. With financial independence, your time can become your own. You are no longer obligated to sell your time in order to receive money to live.

A subset of younger bloggers have the objective of "Financial Independence - Retire Early" (FIRE). Many of these younger folks go to quite extraordinary lengths to establish a long stretch of future life for themselves unimpeded by the necessity of paid employment. One line of thinking is, why wait to retire until you are too old to enjoy it?

Mr. and Ms. ONL are on the FIRE path, and have written about their strategies and the process particularly thoughtfully. Browsing through their blog, I came across a post entitled: What Do You Want Your Tombstone to Say? // Defining Our Purpose. They make the point that retiring early is not just about escaping from unfulfilling or overwhelming work, but rather about the rich purposeful lives that they will be able to lead when the majority of the hours of the day are no longer committed to an employer. They present some simple exercises that they did (and that you or I can do) to help define their life purposes.

An interesting article I read recently related to this topic is: "Why You Wake Up Each Day" by Mike Drak and Jonathan Chevreau published in the Summer 2016 issue of Money Sense magazine (pages 27-30). In it they discuss the concept of "ikigai," a Japanese word that refers to having a sense of life purpose. They ask, "Once you have found your ikigai, why would you ever want to retire? What would you wish to retire to?" They argue that instead of working crazy hours and slaving to save for retirement, a better strategy would be to find your life purpose now, and re-balance your time and priorities to include a mix of purposeful work and increased leisure that will be sustainable throughout your life.

First, a couple of quibbles and asides. Many, and perhaps most people do not have work that aligns with their life purpose (assuming they know it) in a meaningful way. Second, it is devilishly hard to balance work and leisure, especially if you do have a satisfying, rewarding job. Our current economic system is designed as all or nothing: you have a fabulous well-paid job but you are expected to work 60+ hours a week at it, or you have no job at all (or a McJob). Finally, there is something deeply discouraging, even twisted, about young people and also our knowledgeable elders being so eager to divest themselves of work. There was a time when work was a primary way for a person to contribute their knowledge, skills and labour for the benefit of their family, community, and the world. How is it that our society has turned work into mindless drudgery, or into value-conflict-ridden excessive overwork, while the things we really care about must be pursued in our ever-decreasing leisure time?

Okay, now that I have that rant off my chest, my question is, what is my life purpose, my ikigai? I have to admit, that question fills me with anxiety. My gosh, I am sixty years old! Why haven't I figured out my life purpose yet?

Mr. and Ms. ONL's exercises have you start by generating a list of things you like to do and would do more of if you had the time, and then you work through to identifying themes, and ultimately your key life purposes. However, I have already done that. I have lists of what I would do more of (many of which I have written about in earlier posts on this blog.) In brief, if I were retired, I would write, paint, garden, travel, pursue outdoor adventures, volunteer for causes I care about/become engaged in community initiatives, and be more present in the lives of my grandchildren. I might "keep a hand in" at work, engaging in or continuing on with certain projects that I am very interested in.

That is not just one thing, a life purpose, but a whole bunch of things, none of which seem particularly earth shattering. I have tended to think of "life purpose" as something at a higher level, more significant. Long ago, I identified a "three-legged stool" that expresses my core directions and commitments: knowledge, creativity, and love. As I have revisited that stool over the years, it hasn't really changed. Perhaps I would add two more legs now, which are earth/nature, and health.

I was talking to Rob this afternoon, and he said he has never felt a need for a life purpose or any consequences for the lack of one. He is content to just be. (He is not an A-type personality.)

I, on the other hand, am an A-type controlling controller perfectionistic over-achiever. Deep down, although I know this may sound silly, arrogant, and unrealistic, I really do feel a huge sense of responsibility for doing my part to contribute to a better world, and a sense of duty to keep at it, retired or not. Whatever "it" is (that elusive life purpose). Certainly it's not just indulging myself in painting landscapes, writing fiction, or having fun playing with my grandkids -- is it?

Maybe I am thinking of life purpose in a way that is too grandiose and hierarchical. In fact, I have always had a wide range of eclectic interests and pursuits. Perhaps it is enough to have shorter term goals and pursuits that feed my brain, my heart, and my creative soul, and let the world look after itself. Maybe I need to take a page from Rob, and learn to just be (a little, from time to time). What could be better than really getting to know my grandchildren and being part of their lives as they grow up?

Maybe, if I do this, when I am 95 it will all come clear in retrospect: "Aha! So that was my life purpose!" Just as long as my epitaph does not say: "She always worked really hard."

Saturday, September 17, 2016

Home Again - Let's Clean the Fridge

Our House on Wheels

We have returned from our seven week epic camper trip, and have been home for a couple of days. The last few days of travelling were focused on driving and getting home, rather than seeking out new adventures. We both felt sad that our holiday was coming to an end. We had visited friends and family, and spent lots of time in towns where we used to live. As we turned our truck east towards the prairies, it felt almost like we were leaving home rather than returning home. It was hard to say good-bye.

Cousins Having Fun at the Fair

And yet, after seven weeks of living in our tiny little house on wheels with a floor space the size of the bed of a pickup truck, we were starting to become tired of living in the camper. (I never thought I would say that; I love the camper!). Certainly, the fact that our refrigerator stopped working halfway through the trip didn't help matters. There were no more gourmet camper dinners for us as we became dependent on a cooler and ice. After awhile, the novelty of roughing it with brief camper showers and a hair wash only every second day, begins to pale.

I must mention that our friends and family cooked us some wonderful dinners in those last three weeks, and we also had some great family restaurant meals, not to mention delicious fare at my women's retreat. So we didn't suffer lack of nutrition due to the broken fridge, as our waistlines will attest. 

Still, we both felt ambivalent about coming home. We do not have a big network of friends where we live now. Even after four years of living here, we still feel like "come-from-aways." We know that when I retire, we will be moving back to British Columbia, our home province where all of our family and many of our friends live. So we haven't tried very hard to set down roots here. In fact, our holiday felt a little bit like a fact-finding mission: would this town be a good place to move to, or this one, or this one?

Last Night on the Road

So when we rolled into our driveway, I was surprised at how happy I felt to be home. Our lawns looked green and lush, and our gardens were still thriving. Our house seemed huge, luxurious, and welcoming. Our pets were delighted to see us, and happy to be released from pet jail (the kennel). A big shout-out to our son, who looked after the house, yard and pets all summer, except for the first bit of September when he left for university. It was so nice to return home to a clean house, healthy gardens, and happy pets. 

Of course, there was the drudgery of unpacking the camper, which does not have the same fun factor as packing to go away. Doing the laundry, listening to the phone messages, dealing with a huge pile of bills and other mail, watering the gardens, mowing the lawns, as well as restocking the groceries were all immediate tasks. As happens to me every time I return from a trip, I took one look inside the refrigerator, and decided that I would not put any food into it until the fridge had a good cleaning. So we spent our first morning back emptying and cleaning every part of the fridge. I went into a frenzy of doing laundry, and Rob vacuumed and washed the kitchen floor, and mowed the lawns. 

I've rejoined my evening art group. We made plans to go to a concert tomorrow and invited a friend to join us. I have been to the farmers' market to stock up on organic veggies, baking, and locally raised meats. I have spent an afternoon at my office, setting out a plan for some the work that I will accomplish during this study leave. We have gone for a couple of long walks, and will do a bike ride this afternoon. It feels good to be home. 

Monday, September 12, 2016

Women's Rejuvenation Retreat

As I lay naked on the table under a blanket in the attic of a former fish cannery, Sunflower, the massage therapist, assessed my body with her deft, strong hands. 

"I sprained my thumb on my left hand and it is still quite sore," I informed her. "And I broke the fifth metatarsal bone of my left foot last year, but now it has healed." I wanted her to know about these injury sites so that she would be gentle if necessary, and so that she could work her healing magic. 

"How did you sprain your thumb?" she asked. 

"I crashed my mountain bike," I answered, feeling sheepish. 

She gave a sudden laugh. "Were you riding down a mountain?" 

I admitted that yes, I had been riding down a steep trail, although it was more of a big hill than a mountain. Surprised, she wondered how old I was. 

"I am turning sixty this month."

"You don't look sixty. You look much younger. Are you someone who enjoys extreme sports?"

"No," I said. "But I do love all kinds of outdoor activities." 

We went on to talk about how I broke the bone in my foot (I stepped in a pothole and turned my ankle), and about hiking, skiing, and cycling, sports that I regularly engage in, and soccer, one that I have had to give up on because of my knees. In the course of the massage, Sunflower told me that I had strong muscular legs, and that I had beautiful feet with high arches. She asked whether I had developed the strong muscles in my arms by working out in a gym. 

I said that no, I had strengthened my arms by walking with crutches for four months. More recently, my arms have been exercised by carrying my grandchildren about. 

Sunflower, who looked like she was about my age or a little older, also is a skier. She said that she was much like me in terms of the outdoor activities that she enjoys. As we get older, we learn to do the same activities in a more gentle way she suggested. (This is something that I need to learn. I haven't quite accepted that I am not in my twenties any more.) 

It was an excellent massage. I came away from it feeling very relaxed and calm. As well, I felt a sense of love for my body (my beautiful feet!). I seldom think about my body, but just take it for granted. I usually treat my body as if it is merely the vessel that carries my head around so that my brain and ears, eyes, and mouth can do the work they need to do. My experience last fall of injuring my foot and being unable to walk for so many months caused me to begin to question my neglect of and lack of respect for my body. I have begun to open up to learning ways to honour and be kind to my body. 

I am presently attending a women's rejuvenation retreat weekend. On the first day of the retreat, we meditated, did yoga, went for a walk in the rain, dyed silk scarves using natural plant dyes, had a cooking demonstration, and I had the massage described above. As well, we ate lovely, healthy food prepared by a calm, capable chef, and enjoyed a glass of wine or two. 

The retreat is being held at the Cassiar Cannery, near Prince Rupert, BC. There used to be many fish canneries in and near Prince Rupert and Port Edward, and at the mouth of the Skeena River. This cannery was one of the last to close, in 1983. It is a wild and beautiful place. The owners have begun to restore the old buildings, and this is the first year that they have hosted women's retreats. 

Last night and during the morning, there was a wild storm of wind and rain. A mudslide on the the mountain nearby has blocked the road and knocked down the power line. We now have no electricity, cell service, landline, or Internet. We ate dinner by candlelight. The train roars by on the tracks a couple of times a day. We will flag down the train and board it when the retreat ends. It is an adventure, and a wonderful opportunity to meet new friends.

It is also a chance to develop a more holistic awareness and appreciation of my self in this world. Kathleen over at The Best Is Yet To Be blog* has been writing a series of posts on learning to love oneself. For me, perhaps a first step is to acknowledge the physical and spiritual aspects of myself. Those are the parts that I routinely have neglected in favour of intellectual, emotional, and creative components. 

I have strong legs and arms. I have a youthful body. I have beautiful feet. Sunflower says so. 

*As I am writing this on a tablet using battery power and a bare-bones app, with no internet access, I can't provide a link, but the blog is listed in my blog roll. 

Wednesday, August 31, 2016

Francois Lake Memories

We are camped at a rec site on the north shore of Francois Lake. Francois Lake is a long narrow lake lake in northwestern BC south of Highway 16 that is oriented west to east. It stretches from south of Houston to south of Fraser Lake. Coming here has reminded me of a time that my family camped here when I was a child. That memory is very vivid. 

We came to Francois Lake in mid to late August. My birthday is in the Fall, and I was just about to turn 8. The oldest of my brothers was just about to turn 7, my middle brother was almost 4, and my youngest brother had just turned 2. I think my parents had just bought the tent that we would use on many subsequent family summer holidays, and that this was our first use of it. It was a large green and khaki coloured canvas six-person tent. My parents had canvas cots to sleep on and we slept in cotton sleeping bags on air mattresses. I remember that the weather was chilly and damp, and we were cold at night. 

We camped at a fishing resort that seemed like a wonderful magical place to us. Our tent was in a large grassy area back from the lake. In front of us to the right was a stand of huge evergreens, fallen trees, and big old stumps. For us, the stumps became forts and castles, and the fallen trees a playground climbing apparatus. We soon had other children at the campsite engaged in play, gathering rocks to make pretend fire pit rings, and pine cones were the fish that we caught and cooked. 

Even the pit toilet holds a memory for me. On the wall of the outhouse there was a sign with a simple cartoon. It read, "Gentlemen, we aim to please. You aim too, please." In the interest of equality, there was another sign: "Ladies, please remain seated until operation is complete." I suppose even at the age of eight, I was enamoured of language as I can remember these puns more than fifty years later. 

While we were at the resort, my Dad rented a boat and we went out for a day of fishing. We trolled two lines from the boat, from my Dad's rod and a second rod that we children took turns with. I was always lucky fishing as a child, and I remember that I caught two or three fish, one quite large. Of course, what really happened was that when I got a bite, my Dad probably took the rod from me and played the fish and brought it in. My oldest brother was aggrieved that I was catching fish and he had not, so demanded an extra long turn, which I deeply resented. 

While we were fishing, my middle brother had to pee. We were a long way from shore, and my Dad did not want to go to shore, and in any case, there was no easy place to beach the boat. So he told my brother to pee over the side of the boat. He was horrified at the idea and refused. He was then convinced to pee into a pink melamine cup that Mom provided out of the picnic supplies. That cup remained in the picnic supplies for years, and even though it had been scalded and scrubbed in soapy water, I always refused to drink out of that cup. 

At lunch time, we beached on an island that we "discovered." It was a steep-sided island with lots of trees, but it had a gravel beach in a little cove that was covered with agates. There were also gulls wheeling and screeching overhead, hoping for fish and picnic leftovers, I guess. I imagined that we were the first to have discovered the island, and like explorers, I thought we should name it. There was a great debate, with some members of the family wanting to name it "Gull Island" and others wanting to name it "Agate Island." In the end, we settled on "Gull Agate Island." Fifty years later, I am still searching for agates on every gravel beach. 

Our new sweatshirts are another vivid memory about that trip. When we first arrived at the resort, my parents presented each of us with a new sweatshirt. Our family was not well to do at that time, so getting new clothes was something very special. My oldest brother and I each received a grey cotton sweatshirt with a hood. It was my first "hoodie." They were much too big for us and the sleeves had to be rolled up multiple times. My middle brother received a red hooded sweatshirt, and my baby brother a white one. 

Later in October, those sweatshirts served double duty as Halloween costumes. With the addition of masks and tails, my brother and I wore our grey sweatshirts with hoods and were cats. My middle brother had red face paint, horns, and a tail and was a devil. My little brother had floppy ears, a pink nose, and a cotton ball tail, and was a bunny rabbit. Before supper on Halloween, We put him in the wagon and pulled him around to a few house nearby to trick or treat. He made a very cute bunny. 

Yesterday afternoon, we came to the same resort which is still there, thinking we might camp there. As we started to pull into the access road, I could see that it was nothing like the place I remember from childhood. The trailers and RVs were packed in like sardines, so we decided not to stay. Instead we camped at a rec site a little ways down the road. Last night we watched a golden eagle eating his dinner in a tree beside our campsite and then we sat at a picnic table and watched the sunset as the waves rolled in. 

Thursday, August 25, 2016

Grandma and Grandpa Come for a Visit

One of the frustrating things about where we live right now is that we are far away from our kids and grandkids. Between the two of us, we have five kids, Rob's daughter and son, and my two daughters and son. All five of them are adults now, and they all live in various parts of British Columbia. 

We are also fortunate to have four grandchildren, two little boys from my eldest daughter and husband, and a little boy and girl from Rob's daughter and her husband. The grandchildren are all close in age, ranging from 15 months to 4 years old. 

From where we live, it is a 2 to 3 day trip by car to visit any of them. Flying is expensive, and usually requires 2 or 3 connections. We have been further hindered by my crazy work schedule. We have managed to visit each set of grandchildren a few times each year, but often the visits have been quite short. We feel that we never have enough time with them. 

So one of the important goals of our epic camper trip was to visit the kids, grandkids, and other family and friends. We spent a few days in Prince George after the ArtsWells Festival, and both families of grandchildren were there, and we all got together for dinner. The kids had a wonderful time playing. Then following our trip to Bella Coola, we made our way back to Prince George, and spent a week there with Rob's daughter and her family. In fact, as their daycare was closed for summer break, we looked after the two children while their parents were at work that week. It was a wonderful chance to spend some time with the kids and really get to know them. 

A Ride on the Miniature Railway

It was also a chance to do some grandparent-type things with the kids. Every day we went on an excursion. We went to the water park, to various playgrounds, and for a ride on the miniature railway. We had ice cream and stories and cuddles. On the weekend, we went with the kids and their parents to the fair, and took a million pictures of our grandson going on the rides, fishing for prizes, and racing through the obstacle course/climbing apparatus over and over again. 

Eating Chocolate Ice Cream

We felt so lucky to have had this time with the grandkids and also a good visit with Rob's daughter and our son in law. We were sad to leave. We are now heading further west to visit my Mom and some other family members. My daughter is going to fly in with her two kids, so soon we will have another visit with our other set of grandchildren. We are so happy to be grandparents!

This week in Prince George has given me some insight into what the grandparenting role might be like if we lived close-by. It also has given me a little kick in the pants in the direction of retiring. After all, kids grow up fast. 

One dilemma is where to relocate to. Our four oldest grown kids each live in a different city, and the youngest is still moving around, having decided to go back to school this fall. We can't live in four places at once. If we decide to settle near one set of grandchildren or the other, there is no guarantee that they will stay in that community, as both couples have busy careers that could take them elsewhere. So we will need to choose a place that we will be happy in over the long term, whatever our kids do. 

But one thing for sure is that once I have retired, I will have lots more time. We can travel to visit the grandkids more often and stay longer. If we settle just about anywhere in BC, we will be closer to all the kids, grandkids, and other family and friends. 

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