If Robbie had moved to South Bend in the mid-1960s

Blogger friend Roderick "Robbie" Robinson left a provocative comment on my last post. It inspired me to imagine what might have happened if he moved to South Bend, Indiana in the mid-1960's.  Instead, he spent a few of those years in Pittsburgh trying to figure out what this America thing was all about.  

South Bend was smaller, but still akin to Pittsburg then; industrial and gloriously ethnic. Had you moved to SB in the mid-1960s, Robbie, you might have hung out at bars my Dad frequented. He could be charming or he could be loutish. Totally up to you. But he would have initially tried to befriend you. And if some lunkhead made fun of you for being a "foreigner" he would have had your back. Seriously, he would have thrown the first punch.  

Dad often brought home people from other countries who had interesting accents. Sometimes he brought them home in the middle of the night. There might be singing. My personal favorite was the Irishman who told us about leprechauns. Dad would have put on music that he thought you MUST hear, like "Cleanhead's Back in Town" by Eddie Vinson. Perhaps you and he would have sang together? Unlikely, but this IS my fantasy. And if you had told him how you liked classical music, he would have listened with an ear to hear.  

He might have had you eat kielbasa with his Polish friends, or goulash with the Hungarians at the South Side Democratic Club. Certainly you and your wife would have joined my parents at a local joint for a Friday night fish fry.  

My Kentucky-born grandfather would have distrusted you, of course, but he might have taken you pistol shooting at the gravel pit. Or shown you his mermaid tattoo, or the American Eagle imprinted across his chest. He would have certainly taken you in his basement to show you how he made his own bullets, really an interesting process. Grandma would have made you Southern fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy, and fried corn as the side. 

Well, that was fun. If only you hadn't moved to Pittsburgh instead.

Intersection of South Bend's Michigan and Jefferson Streets, 1968. Photo credit to Lou Szabo.

Peach Pie and Politics

I'm eating peach pie. My husband's pie crust is remarkable. We are a team; he makes the crust and I make the filling. I must confess this is my lunch today. It was either leftover pie or a salad - no contest! Actually, I am only pretending this is my lunch. I know for a fact I will eat that salad, too. 

While indulging, I am researching candidates for circuit and county judges. I have my mail-in-ballot for the Florida Democratic primary sitting on my desk, and I am trying to figure out some of the more arcane choices so I can finish up and mail it in. Florida's primary August 28.

I'm fairly certain who I will vote for as Governor, positive about Commissioner of Agriculture, and struggling with Attorney General. I love my U.S. Congresswoman, so will definitely be voting for her again. The judicial candidates and the school board elections are the tough ones for me, there is not nearly enough information available.

Florida has had Republican rule for 20 years. During that time they've controlled the Governorship, the State House and the State Senate. The Democrats got sloppy as a result, and became less effective at choosing and pushing good, competitive candidates...until now. We have a wealth of great candidates, many of them new. The Democratic party is being transformed by progressives entering the arena. Big changes are coming in Florida in November, unless Voldemort tampers with our elections from afar. It seems they are already trying. Shame on them!

And that, my friends, is why I am voting by mail. I want a copy of what I did. 

Grounding myself

I went to see a Reiki master two weeks ago. Yep, my first time. I am open to and accepting of just about anything that doesn't hurt innocent people. But in my tight-fisted universe if it is not paid for by my health insurance, I usually don't go.

This Reiki master was having a sale, and you KNOW how hard it is to resist a sale! She's been learning Pranic Healing and needed warm bodies to practice on. My ailment? Anxiety, of course. What liberal American in their right mind is not experiencing anxiety at this point in time?

In my old stomping grounds in NYS, a practitioner might own an enormous, late 19th century Victorian house in town. S/he might rent apartments in the house to quirky graduate students who occasionally dropped by for tea. Everything she owned would be old, used and obviously potent. S/he would have ancient houseplants and overindulged pets.

This Orlando area practitioner lives in a modern, beautiful home in an upscale gated subdivision. Her house was elegantly appointed with stunning artifacts and fine art. The place was exquisitely tasteful. I experienced the sort of cognitive dissonance I suffer from ever since moving to Central Florida. I fear I will never belong here. The real problem is I am not sure I want to. I like old, used, and quirky. Don't get me wrong. She is a good person: kind, calm, and patient. I am the one who struggles with right and wrong.

I was laid out on her work table like a corpse, with my eyes closed. She worked slowly, walking around my body without touching me, except for my feet. She touched my feet. I wonder why?

The dark behind my closed eyes immediately changed to orange. That was strange; I do not see colors when my eyes are closed. I mentioned it to her. After that we did not speak until she was done. I was aware of her movement around my body, because colors changed depending on where she was. When she was on my left side colors popped, ranging from white to gray to pea green, blue, and yellow; all bubbling together like a lava lamp. When she was on my right the colors exploded into magenta, maroon, pink, orange, and purple. I wish I knew the language of colors, because my unconscious mind was speaking eloquently in that foreign tongue.

When finished, she asked if I saw other colors. I said "Yes, it was like a light show that changed depending on where you were in relation to my body." She told me she had never known that to happen to anyone before. That surprised me, it seemed so obvious and apropos. Perhaps it does happen to others, but people don't mention it?

Her recommendation? Become more grounded. I like clear instructions so I asked,"What exactly does that mean?" "Feel the earth, touch a tree, walk in a forest, dig in the dirt" she replied with a comforting smile. I have been weeding my garden beds ever since, feeling the sandy Florida soil and claiming it as my own. Truthfully I do feel less anxious, even as the world falls apart around me. 

Being Home

We have been living in this house for a little over two years, and in Central Florida for 2 1/2. I love being close enough to my daughter and her family to babysit and go to school functions for the grandchildren. I like living someplace where it never snows and palm trees grow. I am also fascinated by alligators. My life is full to bursting and I am happy with this big change. 

However, I won't lie. In the past 3 years I retired, gave up my work persona, moved from the liberal north to the conservative south, and left our old home with acreage, dark forests, and beloved perennial gardens. In Florida we became strangers in a strange land. We adjusted to a different climate, learned about different flora and fauna, and started living in a freakin' neighborhood in a subdivision, dontcha know! 

Happy or not, I had a hard time adjusting to all these changes. Change can be traumatic. T and I had too many big life changes in a relatively short amount of time. He can roll with the punches, but it takes me a while to recover AND I want to hit back. It was probably not the best way to manage the first months of retirement. Still, it has been worth the struggle.

I expected it to be hard. I have been through big changes before. The knowledge of what to expect helped me prepare for and cope with this move. From experience I knew the unfamiliar would eventually become familiar if I just waited long enough. I did. It has. 

Like almost everyone else in the U.S.A., I descend from pioneers and immigrants. I recently read that trauma has a generational impact on families. The desire to move far away and start over is probably encoded in my DNA. I crave change even as I fear it. I have moved (or changed jobs) many times, always excited and happy to be starting over. This, in spite of the fact that I always know it won't be easy and will probably push me over the edge.

I grew up in Northern Indiana. My family moved to the Pacific Northwest when I was in middle school, and then we moved back to Northern Indiana three years later. I took off for San Francisco at 18, when that was the thing to do. With a few notable stops and starts in between, T and I, with toddler M in tow, eventually ended up in The Finger Lakes Region of New York State. We settled in, building an adult life and raising our daughter. I am not sure how well we managed the adult thing, but we did manage to raise our daughter. Then we retired and like all good New Yorkers we moved to Florida. I am not convinced this is our last move together.

I just tried to count up all the homes I have lived in during my life. I am only referring to the places I actually moved all my belongings into. I came up with 26. I might try writing about some of these homes. It would be fun, with plenty of social and cultural history.

This is a big country, and the last thing you would call it is homogeneous. It is a country of diverse regionalism. I find regionalism interesting, even though it is complex, often unwelcoming, and sometimes dangerous. I like to imagine having had the experience of living from sea to shining sea gives me an edge of sorts. I want to explore that edge without falling off the end of the world.

Affinity as a euphemism for belonging

A friend sent me the following poem. She knows I miss the trees that grew on our land when we lived in Upstate NY. 

The Mangroves
by Mary Oliver

As I said before, I am living now

in a warm place, surrounded by

mangroves.  Mostly I walk beside

them, they discourage entrance.

The black oaks and the pines

of my northern home are in my heart,

even as I hear them whisper, “Listen,

we are trees too.”  Okay, I’m trying.  They

certainly put on an endless performance

of leaves.  Admiring is easy, but affinity,

that does take some time.  So many

and so leggy and all of them rising as if

attempting to escape this world which, don’t

they know it, can’t be done.  “Are you

trying to fly or what?”  I ask, and they

answer back, “We are what we are, you

are what you are, love us if you can.”

I think about trees a lot.  I am thinking increasingly more about Central Florida trees.  I love the big shade trees that provide the forest canopy:  American Sycamores, Live Oaks, Laurel Oaks, Cabbage Palms, Southern Magnolias, Bald Cypress, and whatever the hell kind of pine trees those are.  There are many more. Unfortunately, I do not know what most of these native trees are called and it is frustrating to not know their names. 

I also think about the understory in natural areas; the smaller trees, palms, and shrubs that grow below the canopy trees providing the deep, dark, wild feeling to the woods.  Without the understory there would be no snakes, no lizards, no fairies!  Anyway, I especially want to thank who or whatever is in charge of creation for Saw Palmetto, Beautyberry, and Firebush.  Nice job!

We live near a really nice, long bike trail.  My husband, T, and I both have Electra Townie bikes.  I have heard them referred to as city bikes, or cruisers.  You can sit up fairly straight as you ride.  They are oldster bikes, and we love them. Mine has black and tan Hawaiian print plastic fenders.  I also have brown leather hand grips and seat, and a black mesh market basket for the front.  The basket comes off easily when we go to the Farmer's Market.  My bike is très chic! 


The younger bikers speed past me on the left, hunched over on their sleek, fast bikes with uncomfortable seats.  They are going places, I can see that.  I am simply meandering along with the trail. 

At what point did I go from being a dynamic youngster to a daydreaming oldster?  I don't remember.  Age snuck up on me.  However, by the time I noticed, I was ready to slow down.  So far I am reasonably happy with aging, except for this unfortunate thing that has become my neck.  I am definitely happy with retirement.  I do not miss being in a hurry.  I enjoy having time to think.  As long as we both stay healthy and active it is a pretty good gig.

Occasionally someone on a fast bike will yell "nice bike!" as they whizz by.  I have to confess; sometimes I wonder if they are laughing at me.  That's OK, sometimes I laugh at what they look like in their biking costumes.  Nevertheless, I admire their energy.  I hope they get wherever they are going on time and I send loving and encouraging thoughts their way 'cause, you know, they are the future and all that.  I prefer to believe they are happy to see older people still active on the bike trail.  If they are lucky, someday it could be them on the trail riding an Electra Townie with Hawaiian print fenders.  Maybe they are lusting after my bike!  Yeah, that's probably it.  Bikers, for the most part, seem like a pretty decent bunch.

On our morning bike rides we go through beautiful natural areas that are being bulldozed and razed for new housing developments.  There are more and more of them.  It scares me.  I fear someday there will no longer be a canopy or an understory surrounding any part of the trail.  The large, old trees are the first to come down.  They once shaded the trail. Now more and more of the trail is open to the blazing sun because of the developers' lack of vision.  It is hotter than hell down here, we NEED some shade.  I do not understand people who only care about making a profit.

I guess a developer can make more money if s/he eliminates all the mature trees on the site.  That way they can lay out the ever bigger houses closer and closer together, without regard for trees or tree roots, which are just an obstacle to development if you think about it... 

The newer subdivisions have huge houses that are unbelievably close together with virtually no back yard.  There is no way they can have pools, or trampolines, or swing sets out back.  There is no room.  Oh Gee, now I am filled with anxiety about the future of humanity.  I need to take a pill, and quick.

When you have a very tiny yard you cannot plant large shade trees to replace the ones that were destroyed when the house was built. Not only is there not enough space for them to grow, it would take 20 - 30 years for them to reach a decent size.  Instead, the developers "landscape" by sticking in spindly palms here and there.  I like palms but a single palm tree provides virtually no shade and anyway, most people trim them to look like trees that belong in a Dr. Seuss landscape.  I would laugh if it didn't make me want to cry.  It cannot be good for a palm tree to be over-manicured like that.  They are trees, too.

If only it WAS mangroves I was seeing when I walked outside my house in this damn Central Florida subdivision! Mangroves are seriously interesting trees. Why couldn't our daughter, M, and her family have moved to the Florida Keys so we could have followed them there to be near the grandkids?  I could have passed as normal in the Conch Republic.  Plus, I always figured retirement would be my last chance to be an outlaw.  Yet another dream deferred.

Just Plain Mean

When I was a little girl I liked to hide just out of sight on the breezeway steps so I could hear my mother and Bernie (the next door neighbor who also happened to be my adored and adoring godmother) gossip at the kitchen table.  They had a coffee klatch every morning while the men were at work, and I loved to hear those women talk.  I learned a lot that way. Most of what I learned while surreptitiously listening to The Women was about human nature, about people and what motivated their actions.  It was fascinating and my interest in analyzing people's motives and desires has never waned. 

I am fairly certain Mom never realized I was there, listening.  She probably never knew what a treasure trove of illicit information she was for me.  Talk about a liberal education in the humanities!  Those two women were pretty insightful.  Not only did they do a close reading of most people, they deconstructed them to the bare bone.  I think that is one of the reasons I did not want to go to kindergarten.  Good stuff was happening at home in the kitchen.  That and I did not want to miss watching Captain Kangaroo.  I loved Bunny Rabbit. Not as much as Mighty Mouse, but almost.

One thing I suspected back then, and have since learned to be true, is that some people are just plain mean.

If you do not believe me, move someplace new or start a different job where you do not know anyone and they do not know you.  The Big Meanies will step up to bat and reveal themselves to be players, quick as shit.

I am beginning to understand meanness.  I think it is a strategy insecure people use to maintain the status quo and to ensure that others will not be mean to them.  Big Meanies are cruel to newcomers as a means to establish their authority and mark their territory.  We really are just base human animals when we do not take the time to think or feel. 

Newcomers suffer accordingly; eventually the Big Meanies throw them a bone of kindness to test the waters and see if they will bite.  By then the newcomers are so traumatized by isolation and loneliness they will do anything to make the BM like them, including agreeing with everything the aggressive BM says or does for the rest of their natural born lives. Ick. It is all so disturbingly stupid.  I am determined to forgive people when they hurt me, because I know they often cannot help themselves.  However, I would have to be an idiot to then want to be around someone like that, or to forget what they are capable of.  Cruelty is a social game I prefer not to play.

Try not to take it personal if it happens to you.  It is almost always about them (the BM), and rarely about you.  You could be anyone and the mean person would respond in the same exact way.  They do not realize their insecurities are showing.  BMs mistake meanness of spirit for strength.  And they want to feel strong.  We all want to feel strong, and it is much easier to be mean than to be kind.  It just is.

I hate to say it... but exposing yourself to a Big Meanie from time to time might just be good for what my Father used to refer to as "your immortal soul."  Allowing yourself to be vulnerable is brave.  Only when you are vulnerable will you notice the scarcity of good intentions that exist in this old world.  This is information you need to know and can definitely use!  Understanding meanness just might tip the scales as to whether you become a Big Meanie yourself or not.  We all have that meanness in us.  I try to control mine each and every day.  Mean is one of those things you have to actually try hard not to be.  Making that noble effort is part of our humanity.  When we think and feel and empathize, we become more fully human.

You really notice meanness when you become a stranger.  Middle class culture did not invent the Welcome Wagon to make newcomers feel welcome, they invented it as a marketing tool to get newbies to spend their money at local businesses and to introduce them to local norms.  If your neighbor brings you a cake as a "welcome to the neighborhood present" for no other reason than s/he wants to make you feel welcome, then by all means glom on to her/him.  S/he is a kind person - a rare find.

What I really hate are cliques.  I hated them a million years ago when I was in high school and I hate them now.  Is there anything more distasteful than adults  circling the wagons for no better reason than to exclude others so as to maintain the status quo? 

I guess I understand how cliques happen and why they exist.  Belonging to one is the easy way out.  We work hard to build relationships with people who are like us, who share our values.  I am not saying values are good or bad, I am just saying all too often what is most important in cliques is that the values are shared.

I know, I know, it feels good when everyone is just like you. But a personality can molder if life is too straight and narrow. All too often "easy" just turns out to mean dumb, and "safe" turns out to mean lazy.  Most of us will not put in the effort required to think about an issue unless we are challenged.

So why am I bringing this up?  Someone was mean to me, and it got me thinking.  See what I mean?

When You're a Stranger

It has been a year and a half since I retired and a full year since we sold our house and moved to Central Florida.  T and I gave up many things during this time period.  We gave up our jobs, our friends, our gardens, Wegmans (!) and more.

The people in my NYS life knew me and what I was capable of.  I was respected, appreciated, sometimes disliked, occasionally loved.  I was someone specific and unique. I was not a stranger.

In considering retirement it is important to know giving up your job means giving up your identity.  Be forewarned so you can be prepared.  For our entire adult lives we define ourselves by the titles we hold and the work we perform.  Like many retirees, not only did T and I retire but we moved to a strange, far away place where no one knew us, where there was no external memory of who we had once been.

It is true that we live close to family now. That was the purpose of the move and the biggest joy of my post-retirement life.  Living near family provides roles to perform rather than a personal identity.  Our daughter and her family have a vague idea of who we are and the work we once did, vague being the key word.  We are their parents, in-laws, grandparents.  I love having those roles.  They suit me well. 

We are also a husband and a wife.  So yes, we still have a variety of roles to fill, and they are satisfying and enjoyable roles.  However, I have yet to redefine myself for myself.  I once knew how to do that.  I am not quite sure how to do that in retirement, but I trust it will happen over time. The fun comes in wondering who I will end up being.

What I learned from experiencing change is this: if you keep going eventually life settles in and evens out. I trust in that notion because in spite of some initial discomfort, I have always acclimated to the cultural norms in each new situations.  In the course of those struggles I developed new ideas and learned to adapt and become flexible in my views of what normal might be. Those were valuable real-life lessons.  In spite of the underlying sadness and very real loss brought on by each change, I learned to trust my abilities to rise to the occasion. But in my work years, I did not have to be particularly pro-active.  Life came to ME.  You take a new job and stimulating challenges happen all around you.  The outer world takes charge of you.

The difference in retirement is that there are no ready made communities provided by the job you are taking on.  Sure, there are institutions I could join and places I could go to build a community, I just have not wanted to "go there" yet.  For now I savor the freedom of being an outsider, of being a stranger.  In theory, I guess it seems too much like work to join or belong to an institution. In practice, it would take some effort on my part.  For now, a day that I have something I must do still seems like a day that is lost to me. I guess the identity one cultivates in the post-retirement years is more personal and private.  As we age, it makes sense that we exert more energy exploring our inner life rather than our outer life?  There are fewer distractions.  That's a thought.

Concrete Jungle

This is Florida where there are new housing developments popping up all over.  One day you are driving down a country road enjoying the view and thinking, “Hey, Florida is actually pretty out here in the country.”  The next day you are shocked to see that all the trees have been felled and a new development is being built.  The land is lost and will never be the country again.  The natural world is replaced by suburban gated communities with restrictive Home Owners Associations telling everyone how many animals they can have, what color they can paint their houses, and what kind of plants they can plant on their property.  All the houses look alike.  I thought Floridians were mostly conservative Republicans?  I thought conservative Republicans were against oppressive big government?   Why do they choose to live like this, without personal freedoms?  Where are the rugged individualists?   Or have the rugged individualists all become Libertarians?  These are the things I wonder now that I have been retired for six full months!

And now a few words about our current living situation: The Concrete Jungle, aka RV Vacation Resort.  In truth, it is quiet and pleasant to be here.  There is a total vacation vibe.  Everyone is taking it easy.  The RV’s and trailers are parked herringbone style, fairly close to each other.  This is a large park with a lot of units, and across from us is a row of small, prefab houses that are referred to as cottages.  The cottages were once rentals.  The resort is slowly selling them off.  A few of the owners may or may not live in their cottages year round.  When we first moved in (early April) there were a lot more RV’s parked in unit spaces.  By May 1^st, about half have moved out – theoretically to go back north?  Some have left, but continue to rent the unit space and leave their RV parked here.  I am not sure what the draw is about this place.  It is backed up against a Publix grocery store and strip mall on one side.  The other sides are surrounded by the ubiquitous new housing developments.

There is a clubhouse, pool, and administrative complex in the middle of the park.  The office manager is British.  She is kick-ass efficient and keeps everything running smoothly.  She is also da boss.  I so wanted to like her.  But, we pissed her off right away when we first arrived because we tried to get both cars in under only one gate opening.  My husband loves the challenge.  We managed, but it really made her angry.  She wanted us to be punished.  She scolded us soundly.  I think she might have waved her finger at us, too.  I felt rebuked and ashamed for our transgression.  My husband, T, being a former lost boy and all, thought it was funny and wanted to do it again.  He was not sufficiently obsequious or sorry.  She knew.  She can tell when you are bad to the bone.  Other residents seem to have an electronic pass that opens the gate.  We did not receive one.  I can only imagine why.  We have to punch the *&^%$! code in each and every time.  I have seen her flirt with some of the old men who come in to hang out with her or to pick up their mail.  “Here comes trouble!” she will say in her slightly higher and more feminine “nice voice.”  I have never seen her pal around or joke with a woman.  I tried to be funny with her once, but only ended up laughing at my own joke a little too shrill as she stared a hole through me.  I might have even displayed some facial heaves as the air became thicker...very awkward. She reminds me of a couple of office professionals I have worked with over the years.  She controls the atmosphere within her sphere and only dispenses good vibes on her favorites – the ones who suck up to her regularly.  The rest of us are beneath her notice.  Thank you, God, for not making me her supervisor.