Category: Simple Pleasures

Yard work! A retirement hobby!

I said I wouldn’t do it, but I did. I signed up for yard work.

Dale and I wanted a retirement home with a modest yard, but in a planning oversight, we never actually agreed on who was going to do what. Fortunately, our Homeowner’s Association maintains the front yard. And that is probably why I haven’t killed him while he sleeps.

The back yard is a different story. The yard is not large, but neither one of us has been interested in general upkeep. We have a small patch of lawn, this is California after all, and we use a push mower. That’s Dale’s job, but I have been known to break out a push while Dale admires the scientific miracle of growing grass.

We were sitting outside last evening enjoying happy hour, and after the appropriate amount of lubrication, I said we should make it prettier out here! Something simple we can maintain ourselves! He happily agreed.

It was going so well until I said it. Said that thing.

I would like to see a defined edge around the lawn.

He thinks I’m obsessive. Who needs a crisp edge on their lawn? We do. We need an edger. We have one. Really? We certainly seem to be devoid of edges. He said we have a weed wacker, and apparently it has been resting in the garage with the rest of his power tools.

OK, I do know a thing or two about edging. I had a gas-powered Echo Grassmaster 5000 several houses ago, and dang, you could race trucks through the deep gap between the lawn and the beds.

When the Echo died, I gave up yard work for, oh, I don’t know, my real job? Dale assumed lawn duties and bought a week wacker because it sounds like something he would buy. Wacky weeds! What’s up with that?

We get this thing out, and he demonstrates. He said the string will wear out fast when it hits the brick trim, so you have to stop about every 30 seconds to pull the string. What happened to the function where you just tap it and more string comes out? Oh, that hasn’t worked in years. But doing it manually doesn’t work either. It’s impossible to yank that string out. I said this is a pain in the ass, and he said yes.

I butchered a strip of lawn and I said, that’s it. This is a piece of shit. This is the wrong tool for the job. This belongs in the trash. He said yeah, probably. I said I’m buying a real edger. He said absolutely, you should have one.

And all of the sudden he is Johnny Mission – let’s go to Home Depot and buy you an edger! He went to hold my hand as we walked in, and I gave him the Melania swat. I said you’re just happy I’m signing up for this. He said, oh, come on, but I saw the lazy little gleam in his eyes.

We ended up buying a lightweight Ryobi – I mean, I am not the strapping lass of my youth, and neither one of us is young anymore. I do not believe it will give me the precise military edge of my dreams, but it has a pivoting head that puts down some sort of edge. A less compulsive edge both of us can master. Because I recognize yard work, like marriage, is all about compromise.

And that’s how I got signed up for sucked into yard work.

Work? Not missing it.

You know the scene from Office Space, where Peter pretty much stops going to the office? The consultant – one of the Bobs – calls him in and says, “Looks like you’ve been missing quite a bit of work lately.”

Peter replies, “Well, I wouldn’t say I’ve been MISSING it, Bob.”

Exactly. I’ve been retired five full months, and I love it. I read about baby boomers who are all, oh, work, work, I can’t quit you. I was one of them earlier in my career, but now it’s hard to imagine what the attraction was other than money.

Of course, I did work I’m proud of, and I met smart, wonderful friends I still care about, but I also encountered seriously damaged people who poisoned the workplace and made everyone miserable. Regrettably, the crazies seem to do just fine.

It’s hard to be happy in a workplace where sociopaths are protected and rewarded. The damage done stays with you a long time. I’m not picking on any particular company – I had lots of jobs in my career – and I saw it over and over again.

So, work? I wouldn’t say missing it. At the same time, I’m grateful. My career funded a good life, and I gained more than I lost. I just wanted to do something else with the rest of my time on the planet.

I had the good sense and good fortune to plan and save enough money to fund my freedom. If I’d been smarter, I could have done it even sooner, but the outcome is sweet nonetheless. And I’m still working! Perhaps it’s more accurate to say I don’t miss a traditional job.

These days, I’m doing a bit of freelancing for a firm in my field. Plus, I’ve always wanted to be a writer. I chose steady income instead. Now I’m writing just to write, without pressure to make a living at it. Learning a lot, still doing work I’m proud of and still connected to wonderful friends I care about.

And I don’t have to get up early. Never underestimate the power of a woman without an alarm clock.

Looking for money

My mother and I used to go for long walks, usually ending up at one of the strip malls that punctuated our southern California town. As we stood on the front porch ready to go, she’d lock the door, check it and recheck it before turning to me to share her time-honored parental advice:

Remember. Look for money.

Seriously. Mom’s thing was to look for money as we walked, I guess because there was never enough. And the funny thing is – we usually found it! Scattered coins in the sidewalk cracks, a dollar blowing in the breeze. Once we found two $5 bills, and it was as though we’d won the lottery.

Sometimes we’d celebrate with a bite to eat at the dime store lunch counter. Was it J.J. Newberry or Woolworth’s? I can’t remember, and they’re both gone now. Mom got Jello because it wasn’t fattening. Grilled cheese for me because it was cheap.

Money was in short supply at our house, and perhaps that is why I grew up obsessed with making sure I had enough. And with this mindset, it’s easy to believe there will never be enough. No sacrifice to great, no cushion to thick – more money always wins.

Some baby boomers are reluctant to retire, in part because they haven’t saved enough and in part because they can’t give it up. Boomers say it’s the work they can’t give up, and I get that, because what we do for a living is part of our identity. But I also wonder if it’s the need to make money and the habit of spending money we can’t quite quit.

Only in the last few years did I begin to reconsider my relationship with money. I had a nice nest egg from years of saving, and that helped. But as I closed in on the concept of retirement, it occurred to me I could feel more secure with that nest egg if I spent less. You don’t need as much stuff as you think.

It is scary when the regular paychecks stop. I’m not super-frugal, and I’m not a financial whiz. Preparing for retirement was more about changing my mindset … believing I could live differently and gain back what we used to call a life. Time to sleep late, read, write and cook from scratch. Meet with friends, volunteer, maybe a little side hustle just in case.

I still love my long walks, and now I have time for them. Sometimes I enjoy a mindless loop, and other times I like walking toward a destination. There’s a little strip mall at the bottom of the hill, and I often think about stopping for a bite to eat. For now, I just keep going, occasionally scanning the grass that lines the sidewalk, looking for money.

 

 

 

Best places to retire (with snakes)

Many of you considering retirement will choose to stay where you are and “age in place.” I say go for it, if you can! We had no ties to our previous community and needed to move to a more affordable housing market. To help us decide where to live after retirement, I created a spreadsheet with 21 columns, and we factored in everything from air quality and healthcare to walkability and distance to Whole Foods. We did not account for snakes.

The possibility of encountering snakes came as a complete surprise when we were welcomed by our representative at the homeowner’s association. Oh, just one thing, she confided, in the spring you might see a rattlesnake in your garage! At first, I thought she meant there was one rattlesnake that occasionally gets out and visits the neighbors, perhaps someone’s pet with a name. Oh, be sure to watch out for Mr. Slithers! She meant rattlesnakes, plural.

I was calm until a few days later in October, which is not in the spring, and I saw a snake in the garage. Actually seeing a snake squirming around our garage was more of a surprise than hearing one might live next door.

Once I saw the snake, I ever so slowly retreated and made my way back into the house. I said Dale, um, there’s a snake in the garage. He’s all manly and says, oh, let’s just go see what all the fuss is about. He grabs a broom and starts looking but doesn’t see it. All of the sudden, I said, there! For the record, I did not scream. It was the kind of “there” you say when you’re right and he is wrong.

Dale suddenly sees the snake and screams. But after a moment, he remembers feeling manly, so he said, oh, it’s just a little garden snake. I’m like, are you sure? It’s not a rattler? No, he said, and he gingerly used the broom to shew Mr. Slithers out into the driveway.

After that, I avoided the garage. Seriously, I didn’t need anything out there anyway. I Googled rattlesnakes, so I would know exactly what they look like. I also read up on what to do if you encounter a snake of any variety and what to do if a snake bites you. Don’t cut yourself and suck out the blood. Do get to the hospital right away, because you will probably live.

I kept all this to myself, but then the damn broke on the way to the grocery store. I get in the car, and it’s like truth serum. I said, you know, we probably made a mistake buying this house.

What? Are you smoking crack? It’s great! We love it here!

But that was before I knew we lived in snake country.

We do not live in snake country. 

Snake country! How did we not know? The thing is, I’m over it already. Now it’s our little joke. And we love it here, we love our home, we love the community. I was not going to let snakes ruin my retirement – do you hear that snakes? You don’t own me! To be fair, it has been quiet since that first siting. I mean, here it is January, and I haven’t seen another one.

Probably resting up for spring.

In the meantime, here are the 21 columns:

  1. State
  2. State taxes
  3. County
  4. Town
  5. Population
  6. Home prices
  7. State-wide smoking ordinance
  8. Medical cannabis
  9. Miles to ocean
  10. Miles to Whole Foods
  11. Miles to commissary (retired military)
  12. Miles to airport
  13. Healthcare
  14. Average summer lows over 60 degrees
  15. Air quality
  16. AARP Livability Score
  17. Walkability
  18. Golf
  19. Wineries
  20. Public transit
  21. Other amenities
  22. Snakes

The best thing about retirement

I think one reason people are often unhappy in their jobs is the lack of control. For many, you are at the mercy of The Man, and you don’t realize the toll that takes until it’s gone. One of the best things about retirement has been the absence of what felt like constant electric prods – an email, a phone call, an IM, some executive or somebody somewhere is unhappy and needs something now. Drop everything!

Stress and even mind-numbing activity can be stimulating, but life without the prods makes me happy. It’s like there’s extra space in my brain. I love simple pleasures and having time to explore whatever I fancy. Breakfast with my husband, sharing sections of the newspaper. The library! Shopping for groceries in the middle of the day in the middle of the week. A crossword puzzle or a good book. Long walks and sunshine. Happy hour at 4.

To be fair, I should mention a couple of things about retirement I don’t like. For starters, I feel like the house elf. My husband does chores, but he really needs to be on a performance improvement plan. Stupidly, I signed up for floors – all the floors in the house, so that includes mopping and vacuuming. I probably need to renegotiate that deal.

Clutter and dirt screams out at me now that I am not at work all day. It’s in my face! I’m getting used to cleaning more, and I figure it’s good for me to keep moving. Housework is movement, after all.

Trips to Target are more complicated. I used to go by myself. Now, I say, hey, I’m going to Target, and my husband says, “Oh, yay, road trip.” Well, it was not exactly an invitation. We’ve reached a truce. If it’s a task-oriented trip all about hunting it down, killing it with a credit card and dragging it back home, fine, come along. But if I want to wander, I set expectations early. You can wander with me, but do not mess with my Target run.

The other surprise was anxiety. I’ve always been somewhat of a worry wart, but most of my energy was directed at work. I had very little time to let my mind drift to all the things that can go wrong. Suddenly I had a bunch of free time to think about the worst that could happen.

For example, we moved when I retired, and for a couple of months, we owned two houses. I would ruminate in bed at night: What if North Korea bombs us, and nobody buys our house? My husband was like, if North Korea bombs us, I assure you the house will be the least of our worries. But I would dig deeper. What if it’s just a mini-attack, the kind that dampens the market but doesn’t destroy civilization? Could we still sell the house?

Of course, the house did sell, and that was a relief. I still think about North Korea, but at least I only have one mortgage.