The extra-slow cooker and me

I haven’t been writing much, and that’s never good. But I have been thinking a lot about writing, so go me.

In the absence of words, I decided to update my blog pictures. Updated banner and “About me” photos now feature my 67-year-old face and my current hair, a bob I refused to get when I was working because it seemed so cliché. But now that I’m a woman of leisure, it’s like, look at me, not the slug you thought I was!

My big news is that I bought the KitchenAid slow cooker and used it for the first time this weekend. Dinner was Dijon and Cognac Beef Stew from the NY Times. The cooking section is now subscription-based, which originally pissed me off. I was reluctant to sign up, but I did it and have no regrets. I like the variety of recipes, which you can save and organize in a recipe box.

The comments are particularly entertaining. There’s always somebody who says something like I’m allergic to kale, can I substitute canned beets? Or, I was born in wherever, and this recipe isn’t anything like the way my mother made it. Eventually, somebody says, no, if you can’t eat kale, find something else to eat or if we wanted your mother’s recipe, we would have asked for it. While the substitutions can get carried away, there are also some great tips from home chefs who have actually made the dish.

But I digress. We loved this stew when I made it on the cooktop, but there’s also a slow cooker version, so I thought I’d check it out.

Although I cut the beef up the night before, I chopped the vegetables and browned the meat in the morning. So, this is embarrassing. But Dale does most of the grocery shopping. I really didn’t know how much chuck roast cost. Now I do, and let’s just say I was careful trimming, as I didn’t want any of that precious jewel to go down the drain.

Anyway, I also now understand why I didn’t buy a slow cooker when I was gainfully employed. Who has time to do all that before work? I got up at 4 a.m., and it was a close run thing to make it out the door on schedule.

The slow cooker, in concept, now seems rather perfect for retirement. Some prep in the morning, but no super-early rise. A little clean-up, and then we can pretty much goof off all day. Ideally, it’s golf-friendly appliance. Returning home after a long day of recreation, dinner awaits! But then I have Dale for that, so I’m not really sure I need a slow cooker.

I like to make soups and stews and missed tending to it. It made me nervous. Like, is this thing really going to cook? I’ve read you’re not supposed to take off the lid, so no tasting as you go, but leaving it completely alone is kind of weird. Now that I think about it, if I had actually gone somewhere, I wouldn’t have even noticed it.

But it was Sunday, and we usually do our fun things during the week, when it’s less crowded. So, we just hung out, avoiding the siren call to stir that damned thing. Instead of bread, I made two small rounds of pie crust, baked them on a cookie sheet and then used them as toppers for the stew.

Dale had to toss our other little treat so as to save us from ourselves. The meat was browned in the fat from rendered chopped salt pork. Those crispy pork nuggets are salty but rather delicious. Dale said his mother used to fry up little chunks and sprinkle it over fish chowder or boiled potatoes – just mash them right in with your fork.

The outcome? Well, at low, the stew never reached a simmer, even after six hours. That’s when I breached the seal, and the beef was still tough, the carrots nearly raw. I had a slow cooker cookbook from the library, so I studied up a bit and set the heat at high for two hours. The book said some cooks use high for an hour at the beginning to raise the temperature and then set it back to low.

The stew was good, but Dale thought it was hammered. But yes, that’s feedback from the human slow cooker, who just might want to preserve his legacy as the best cooker in the house. My complaint is that I thought these things were supposed to be “set it and forget it.” I went back to the Cook’s Illustrated review, and it appears I purchased the extra-slow cooker, which they still claim is a better machine.

But it still has to reach a simmer in this lifetime, so there’s that.

After reading all that and the consumer reviews, it appears I have to tinker with the times and settings, which annoys me, but OK, I’m in.

I’m ready to try again and would welcome any tips you may have.

The slower the better

Life is pretty slow around here, so it came as kind of a surprise to find myself thinking about ways to take it down a notch. As many of us discover in retirement, there’s something rather comforting in the opposite of fast.

One of the very best things about retirement is the new way of getting up in the morning. I call it the slow rise … it’s not just for bread anymore. Plump the pillows, stay cozy, do Wordle perhaps, doze off again. Think positive thoughts. Ease out of bed around 7 a.m. The slower the better.

But I’m not here to talk about bread or wakening rituals.

Maybe it was 2020, or was it 2021? I started to think about a slow cooker. It’s one of the few kitchen appliances we don’t own, and there must have been a hint of Fall in the air when I began to think about soups and stews and chowders and chilis, oh my.

You can’t rush these things. It’s not like I don’t have the time to make them the old-fashioned way. And I’ve got Dale. He’s the human slow cooker. But it’s not like we need another appliance. Ever the dutiful student, I spent a couple of years looking at slow cooker recipes, to see if I’d use the appliance as much as I imagine. I’m saying yes.

I experimented with the Instant Pot, to see if it’s a suitable replacement. I’m saying no.

Then I read the reviews. America’s Test Kitchen likes this one.

Finally, I looked at our space. We have three small appliances we’re not likely to use anymore, so I could easily imagine donating them to free up a spot for a new slow cooker. The stainless steel fish poacher was an ambitious leftover from the 80s, when we thought whole fish was cool and we hadn’t yet surrendered to the ease of filets. Before we learned poached is not quite the same as roasted, baked, sautéed, simmered, fried or frosted.

Then there’s climate change, nuclear war – what could be so wrong about a little appliance that could bring me such joy in my final years?

I’m running out of arguments and am close to pushing the button, as in low, 6 to 8 hours.

What do you think? Unnecessary indulgence or kitchen essential? Busy retirees want to know.

Cats in high places

Mr. High and Mighty.

Cat food-powered entertainment centers

Usually on Saturdays I run my robot vacuum cleaner downstairs. There are a couple of footstools I stow out of the way, but I’ve never bothered to move the breakfast area chairs. This morning I noticed the floor was kind of messy where we eat, so I put the chairs up on the counter and the table to give the robot full access to said mess.

Well, it was a bonus day for Riley, our cat. Dale and I went to the grocery store while Robo was working hard, and when we returned, there was Riley, Mr. High and Mighty, resting happily in the chair. Cats are so funny. Dale calls them cat food-powered entertainment centers.   

Two shots, same arm, same day

We got our Covid boosters and flu shots. Same arm, same day. Dale said his arm hurt, and he didn’t sleep well. My arm didn’t hurt too much, but I had my usual fever and chills following the flu shot. It’s just something I get. I used to premedicate with Tylenol three days prior, and that fixed it, but they don’t like you to premedicate with Covid shots, so I stopped doing it.

I like getting it all over at once, otherwise I could just space them out and premedicate again. But it’s only for a few hours while I’m sleeping. Still, it was a rough night, and I was pretty whipped first thing in the morning. By lunchtime, I felt OK, and today I feel GREAT.

Feeling so much better is like the opposite of yesterday, and it reminds me of that quote, “I feel sorry for people who don’t drink. When they wake up in the morning, that’s as good as they’re going to feel all day.”

Technology Upgrade

I love technology for the most part, but I hate this constant need to upgrade. My 2016 Kindle Fire has been misbehaving, so I finally caved and bought a new one. It was actually cheaper.

Here’s the rub. I ordered it this morning, and it arrived a few hours later. I mean, I’m not sure Jeff Bezos needs all that money, but damn, that’s pretty slick. I should also give him credit for free shipping both ways. For me, that was a game-changer. Although, I’m just going to say it. I hate Alexa, so no points there.

I just disabled her on my new Fire. That felt good.

Interesting credit card fraud

I was paying my credit card bill and reviewing charges when I saw a $175 purchase from Etsy and a $175 credit from Etsy. Now that’s interesting.

For the record, I have not been shopping on Etsy. But the credit? What’s up with that? I called my bank, and they said it was rather odd. I wondered if the criminals were somehow testing it? Anyway, I had to get a new credit card (again) and re-do all my autopays. I hate that.

However, I did learn one thing. They said it would take 7-10 business days, and I asked, “Is there anyway to expedite that?” And they said sure! I received my new card the next day. Lesson learned. Ask for what you want.

Men without hats

He wasn’t doing the safety dance, but when Dale and I were leaving for the grocery store, he put on his running hat, and I don’t know what made me notice it all of the sudden, but it is disgusting. I lovingly mentioned this to him, and he said when he was visiting his sister in August, she wanted to throw it away.

That made me laugh, so I texted his sister, and she said their other sister just threw her husband’s hat away and made him wear a new one. Clean hat? It’s not that hard.

I’ll close by wishing all the best to our friends in Florida and along the Eastern Seaboard. Ian is a monster. I will confess I briefly wished Ian would make landfall in Lindsey Graham’s backyard. You know, since it bypassed Mar-a-Lago? But then my better self took over, and I just kind of went with a general request for world peace and everyone’s safety.  

Gratitude and expectations

The gold mining ghost town of Bodie.
A peek inside one of Bodie’s abandoned homes.

It occurred to me I’m entering my sixth year of retirement, and it seems like it gets better every year. I still rather like the image of me as a slightly eccentric Bohemian heiress who dabbles in what amuses her. Although I am of Bohemian stock, nothing in my lineage includes money, so sadly, I had to earn my little nest egg.

Although I always had creative drive and longed to be a free agent, writing and puttering as I pleased, I didn’t have the will to live in poverty, as is so often the case with idealistic free agents. Instead, I chose a life of working for the man until there was enough to retire, and now I can dabble to my heart’s delight. Some of my jobs were pretty darned good and some sucked, but now I’m glad I stayed the course.

I’m reminded of a woman I use to work with. I made director before she did and was included in a variety of events for “directors and above.” When she wasn’t invited to said events, she’d say, “Another year of being a nobody.” She eventually got promoted and is presumably happy being somebody. I don’t miss all that faux specialness and have settled quite nicely into being a nobody.

While I do believe in the power of positive thinking, I also think there’s a case for not wanting too much. Not everything has to be bigger, faster, stronger or better in every way. For example, I’m a decent golfer, but I tell myself it’s OK to just play. Sometimes you will play well and sometimes you will not.

Hit the ball, hit the ball again. That’s my new mantra.

I also love word games and can be quite competitive. I quit playing Wordle for a few weeks because I was so angry I lost a game. I’m back to playing and have a nice streak going, but before I play, I tell myself, “You will lose. Accept it.” Somehow preparing for less than stellar results keeps me grounded.

Which brings me to Ray Wylie Hubbard, the renowned Texas musician. One of his notable songs is Mother Blues, a song where he and his guitar tell a richly layered life story. It’s such a cool song, and the last lines are pretty powerful.

And the days that I keep my gratitude

Higher than my expectations

Ah! Well, I have really good days

That’s kind of where I’m at.

In other news, Dale and I took a little overnight road trip to Bodie, CA, a state historic park and famous gold mining ghost town in the High Sierra’s. Like 8,000 feet high. From our house, we drove almost to South Lake Tahoe on the western side of the Sierra’s and then turned off to cross a high pass that takes you to the eastern side. I’m geographically challenged, so I hope I’m explaining this correctly. In any event, the scenery was spectacular.

The closest town is Bridgeport, and then it’s another 30 minutes to Bodie – the last 10 miles on an unpaved road. There’s a short window of opportunity to see Bodie because the road is closed most of the year due to snow.     

The park is in the state of “arrested decay.” Homes and commercial businesses still stand with the remnants of furniture and goods inside. You can wander freely and peek through the windows, and see what was left when the town was abandoned. It’s pretty amazing.

The gold there was not panned from rivers like you see in the movies. It was hard rock mining, where gold was extracted from quartz they dug out of the mountains. There’s a huge mill that crushes the rocks, much of which is still standing.

We spent the night at an inn in Bridgeport. There was a restaurant inside, but it was sort of high-end dining, and we weren’t really in the mood. Instead, we walked across the street and had burgers and beer. We haven’t been out to eat much since the pandemic and the prices were rather surprising. Cheeseburger for $16. However, it was a great burger, I’ll give them that.

Both of us enjoy these short trips. We had a great time, but even after one night away, I can’t wait to get home. We are planning more, especially since I’ve finally come to terms with Covid and am now thinking of the risk as something like the flu. I’ll get my shots every year and take reasonable precautions when the numbers are high, but by and large, I’m going back to business as usual.

Practicing creativity

Number 30

I had a birthday … 67 and damned glad to see it. We did the usual. I made coconut layer cake and helped Dale make my favorite mushroom and Italian sausage lasagna with red pepper tomato sauce. It takes the two of us most of the day to make it.

We each had a piece of cake, and the rest went into the freezer. We’ll see how long it lasts there! I made a vow to quit eating candy, mostly jelly beans and my all-time favorite, Bottle Caps (a Wonka product).

But I did not give up sugar completely – just trying to be more sensible about the whole thing. I figure a piece of cake or pie now and then is an essential and joyous part of life, but lying in bed with a book and a bowl of compressed dextrose is unnecessary.

Tonight is another run at lasagna, and then it’s off to the freezer for him. The last piece usually goes down around January. For two people who love to cook and eat, plenty of freezer space is a gift.  

I was feeling out of sorts about the creative activities that fuel my retirement and spent some time reflecting on why I continue to beat myself up for not doing more or being better at it. I think it goes back to childhood – wanting to be seen and heard by parents who were largely absent. There’s this drive to succeed at all costs, but the true cost is the toll it takes on my self-esteem because I’m mostly disappointed in the outcome.

As I was browsing around looking for a lifeline, I stumbled on an article by Elizabeth Gilbert, who wrote, Eat, Pray Love, a book I could hardly get through. There’s also a notable TED talk on the same subject. All of it relates to her book called Big Magic. My library had it, so I hopped on over there, killed it with my library card and dragged it home, whereupon I found my spot on the comfy couch and spent the day reading.

The book was published in 2015, but it was new to me, and I loved it. It is hands-down the best thing I’ve read about creativity and how to deal with the frustrations of fear, expectations, success, failure – all the little demons that try to drag us down.   

In one of my favorite passages, she compared being creative to having a border collie. She said you have to give it something to do or it will find something to do, and you will not like the thing it finds to do.

“A creative mind is exactly the same. My experience with having a creative mind is that if I don’t give it a task, a ball to chase, a stick to run after, some ducks to herd, I don’t know, something, it will turn on itself. It’s really important for my mental health that I keep this dog running. So give your dog a job, and don’t worry about whether the outcome is magnificent or eternal, whether it changes people’s lives, whether it changes the world, whether it changes you, whether it’s original, whether it’s groundbreaking, whether it’s marketable. Just give the dog a job, and you’ll have a much happier life, regardless of how it turns out.”

I know there are a lot of creative dabblers out there – if you need some positive reinforcement, I highly recommend this book. I should probably just go ahead and buy it in case I need a booster shot. It was exactly the medicine I needed to keep this dog running.

Which leaves me with my latest piece of woodburning art. You got a peek at this earlier, when I burned in a couple of the golfing cats. I like it, but I don’t love it yet. However, it’s early in our courtship. I wasn’t even going to share it, but after reading the book, I said, who cares if it isn’t perfect, put it out there. You can see the details better in the image I uploaded to the gallery.

Just keep practicing creativity. Give the dog a job.

In search of pleasantly predictable

Exercise is a big part of my retired life, and right now it’s in a state of flux. My lower back issues are under control, and just when I thought everything was pleasantly predictable, the universe is making me adapt to change.

I hate it when that happens.

Let’s start with swimming. One good thing about the pandemic was the introduction of lane reservations at the club where I swim. I guess they decided the pandemic is over, and now it’s every man for himself. No reservations. Shared lanes. Complete mayhem.

I have some serious thinking to do. I really don’t get my money’s worth out of the membership anyway, but it’s a great pool, I love to swim and believe it’s good for my body, so I accept the price. Now I’m not sure it’s a reasonable trade-off. I could take my chances with getting a lane, but I’ve encountered some pushy people out there, and I’m not at all confident in how lane etiquette will play out.

Very stressful.

While I could continue my deep water running in our backyard pool, that window closes by the end of September. Ah, I have another idea. I could check out another part of the club pool and see if my deep water running rig works there, and that pool is heated year-round. And I would only take up a tiny corner of this much-coveted space. But I’m still not sure it’s worth the money.

I’m annoyed. It’s always something. The club also offers gentle yoga and mat Pilates. I’m interested in both, but I’m worried about introducing another variable to my back. Like maybe leave well enough alone?

Then there’s golf. We had our women’s club championship. I’ve struggled with performance anxiety for years, but I keep trying to work through it and have improved considerably. Still, in the final round, I choked on the front nine and shot a 48.

It was looking as though I wouldn’t even break 90, which for me, is not a good score. I willed myself to relax and just try to enjoy the rest of the round. I tried really hard not to be grumpy and chit-chatted more than usual just to keep it light.

I rarely shoot a low score on the back nine, but I have done it, so I know it’s possible. I figured a 41 would give me an 89, and somehow, the possibility made me feel better. I had a string of pars toward the end and finished with a 39 for a total of 87! Still not my best round ever, but I felt like it was a huge victory for my mental game.

The mental game is my weakness, so after that experience, I thought, let’s build on that success. I bought yet another book on, oh, let’s call it the mental game. I tried some of the mind-over-matter strategies on the driving range with spectacular success. I was on fire! I couldn’t wait to get back out there and put it into action.

Once again, it’s all about expectations. On Monday, I could barely hit the ball. I just cannot understand the gap between the driving range and real golf. It is so frustrating. You’d think with enough practice, I could improve to my satisfaction, but that is not the case.

Anyway, I’m back to just relaxing about golf. I don’t know what else to do. I’m feeling a little worn out anyway, so I may also take a week off. We are experiencing some pretty intense heat, and it wouldn’t hurt me to sit this one out. I’ve never been particularly good about listening to my body, but I did say this was about adapting to change. I said that, right?

Other than my sports drama, all is well. I visited the dermatologist because I didn’t like the looks of a little spot on my face. That spot turned out to be normal age-related nonsense, but there was another spot I didn’t give a hoot about, and that one was pre-cancerous, so she froze it off. Just another reminder that for all intents and purposes, we know nothing! Get checked out.

My sister turned me onto this show I mistakenly believed was free on Amazon Prime. It turns out the first episode was free, but then you have to subscribe to one of the lesser-known streaming services. The show is The Discovery of Witches. I loved it but didn’t want to mess around with Sundance or Shudder.

Instead, I went to the library and checked out the first book in the trilogy … The Discovery of Witches. It’s a great read! I’m almost finished and ready to go for the second book. However, it has just scratched the itch, and now I want to see the TV version. I could skip the subscription thing and buy the first season for about $20, but that seems wasteful to me.

I love all the entertainment content that’s available now, but anti-trust be damned, I wish there was one giant streaming service in the sky. I think Sundance is only $6.99 a month, but it’s just one more thing.

Did I mention I’m grateful these are my biggest issues of the day? The scrubbed Artemis launch brought back a lot of memories from my years in the space business, and while reading about it made me proud to have been involved, the work was intense, and honestly, at this stage of my life, I’d rather be worried about who’s going to fuck up my swim.

So, pleasantly predictable. Perhaps it’s an aspirational thing.

Trust issues

I shuffled Dale off to Maine yesterday. The idea of Covid travel stressed me out, so I elected not to go, but then I had “cancellation remorse.” By the time I was semi-comfortable with the idea of going, it was too late.

Hmmm. Too late. How convenient.

My sister-in-law was incredibly understanding when I apologized for canceling and called myself out for overreacting. She said, “You are not overreacting. You are just taking appropriate precautions. I am immune-compromised, but I have not had my medical blinker on for possible death more than once like you have.”

She’s referring to my diagnosis of ovarian cancer in 1999 and breast cancer in 2015. She gets it. Right? She’s not just saying that to be nice?

It’s not that my immune system hasn’t recovered; it most certainly has. I don’t trust that something won’t get me again. Staring down cancer twice changes you, and I’ve decided to accept I will always be influenced by those experiences. I’m not crazy.

Dale, who was an absolute saint getting me through my illnesses seems to think I’m invincible. Like, what could stop me now? Covid schmovid! He said he was perfectly OK with whatever I decided, but methinks that was a wee bit of bullshit. He wanted me to go, and I wanted to go, but in the end, I made the best decision I could for my particular neurosis.

By coincidence, my key word of the year is trust. I didn’t make a formal announcement as other bloggers do, because I didn’t trust that it mattered or that I would even care about it six months later. Here we are at the mid-point of the year, and I would say I hit the mark with this one.

Let’s just say I have trust issues.

I want to trust others more and not assume I know what they think or what they are going to do … as in Nostradonna predicts. Getting out of the prediction business would be a good start. I cannot read minds! I also want to trust myself more and not always question or ruminate over all my decisions.

And so it has come to pass – I am reasonably happy with the decision I made, and I have a week or so to enjoy being at home by myself. Before he left, Dale said he always enjoys it when I go away, so we’re on the same page in that regard. I’ve actually never been in this house by myself, and so far, it’s kind of nice. Just me and the kitty, who I believe is mourning Dale’s absence and looks at me like I’m spoiled cat food.

But after a week of me piling extra kibble into his bowl, I believe we might be friends.

No big party plans. I played golf yesterday, but it was exceptionally hot, and I wanted to save myself for Wednesday’s league play, so I quit after nine holes. This is progress. The last time Dale went somewhere, we were living in Texas, it was exceptionally hot, and I quit after 27 holes, but only because I was throwing up.

But that’s the old Donna. The new, retired version is much smarter. Prudent, shall we say. I will swim or do my deep water running today, but that’s about it. Trying to stay hydrated.

One fun activity was tidying up the freezer. Dale saves little plastic-wrapped globs of pork and chicken fat for various dishes, and he just tosses them in the freezer willy-nilly. I guess he knows where they are, and I try not to mess with his space, except it’s my space, too. This morning I scooped them all up and put the individual globs in a Ziplock.

Oh, and orphaned sesame seed buns sealed with twist ties in their original bags. I found a home of them in the Land of Zips, and they seem much happier there, hanging out together in a neat little package.

I’m imagining Dale’s return and the eventual discussion about the fat globs not being where they were. How buns last longer in their original bags. Where are the used twist ties? We’re using too much plastic.

But I’m making this up.

Purging old slides

Pussy Baby, the benchmark cat.

Early in my husband’s career, someone gave him a huge stash of 35mm slide film, so that’s what he used when he took pictures. Free is good. He was still burning through the film when I met him in 1976, but I guess he was close to the finish line, because most pictures of our life together are prints.

We’ve been hauling those slides around for 43 years and have never looked at them. I’ve wanted to do something about it for ages, but Dale is typically resistant to my purging efforts. However, when I was visiting my sister last month, she loaned me a slide projector, and I convinced him it was time to go give it a go.

I closed the blinds in our guest bedroom and set up the projector in there. I loaded the first tray, and I flipped through them while Dale said keep or toss. We didn’t really come up with a good system for tracking which was which, so if he said keep, I pulled the tray out and retrieved the slide. Then we’d resume the slide show.

We tossed almost everything. Most were taken before he met me. There were lots of photos of marginally scenic landscapes taken from the window of a car. Mountains, woods. Darkened living rooms with fuzzy people and empty beer bottles. One guy, Bones, was a frequent flyer.

I said, wow, you wasted a lot of film on Bones. Or let me rephrase that … a lot of film on Bones wasted.

There were a few pictures of Dale that were very cute, but we have the same era covered in our scrapbooks. Same for me, except for the cute part. I truly got better looking as I aged. It was like Dale bought Donna futures.

Oh, and whoever convinced me to get bangs and perm my hair should be shot.

We kept less than a dozen out of several hundred. There were two of his childhood pet, Pussy Baby, wearing a little hat Dale’s mother knitted. I call him the benchmark cat, because all cat stories eventually lead to Pussy Baby.

Other keepers included a few from a military ceremony, a picture of his grandmother’s house, Uncle Harvey by his lobster boat and an image from Little Big Horn, because he said it meant something to him.

Just so you know, in 43 years of marriage, he has never mentioned Little Big Horn.

I’m happy that’s done. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, mostly because we just zipped through them and said toss, toss, toss. I was worried he’d want to hang onto everything, but he surprised me. Dale said he found the whole thing a little depressing – reflecting on an era that is long behind us and you look around and wonder if it’s any better. And the whole aging thing.

I said, hey, you looked good! I, on the other hand, looked awful. What did you see in me aside from my caustic wit and unlimited potential?

He said, “I thought you were beautiful.”

So, purging. It’s not all bad.

Why cats golf

One of my golf buddies worked at the course as a volunteer in exchange for playing privileges. But then he got uppity and got fired. As he shared the story with me, I realized I’m probably unemployable at this point. Not that I’m uppity, but my bullshit meter is pegged. Oh, and my inside voice is now my outside voice. You can see where this is going.

Lucky me! While I salute those who want and/or need to keep working, I was born to retire. People ask what we do all day. Like working for the man is all there is. Don’t they know there’s a whole life beyond what we do or did for a living? I’m not saying I’m productive, but my dance card is full.

As I wrote on my About Me profile, “My full-time job is to take care of myself, be kind to others, enjoy simple pleasures and indulge in creative pursuits. I especially like to play golf, walk, swim, cook, read, write, watch TV, listen to music, make art and grow cannabis.”

Deep Water Running

I’ve added a couple of new things. In addition to regularly swimming laps, I now do what is called deep water running. In this exercise, one wears a floatation belt and mimics jogging. Your head is above water, and your feet don’t touch the bottom. You do travel a bit, but it’s easy to maneuver to keep yourself in roughly the same area.

It’s great because it’s something you can do in your backyard pool. The downside is that it’s kind of boring. However, I’ve noticed a huge improvement in my chronic lower back pain. I don’t know if it’s strengthening my core or what, but I must figure out a way to keep this up all year. It’s that good.   

There are other exercises you can do in the deep end, and I’m beginning to explore those. I tried cross-country skiing, but that one seems to aggravate an old knee injury. So, he got chopped.

If you’re going to try this out, my suggestion is to go slow. No more than 10 minutes at first to see which body parts react. With running, I did feel a reaction in my back at first, but it wasn’t pain. It was more like muscle fatigue, but that has passed.

Learning to draw

My last piece of art motivated me to try and get better at drawing. For many years, I’ve said if I could draw, I’d draw cats golfing. Sure, there’s the lingering question about why cats golf, but it’s also a thing I have … a fixation.

Surprisingly, the art world is largely devoid of golfing cats. Finally, I said, well, shit, I guess I’ll just have to teach myself.

I started with the Ben Hogan classic book, The Modern Fundamentals of Golf, which is finely illustrated. I practiced drawing the humans and then tried to convert them to cats. I also Googled golf clip art and copied some of those positions. It’s still hit or miss, but I find this activity disturbingly satisfying.

For next steps, I ordered a book from Amazon on how to draw cats. A bit of professional help, as it were. You would be shocked by the huge selection! My tribe is out there … I just haven’t found them yet. I’m also trying to translate the drawing to my woodburning. It’s hard to get the detail, so I’ve had to make some accommodations.

Overall, I have a lot to learn about drawing. I’m not sure where to start. There are boatloads of books and websites on the subject, and it’s a bit overwhelming. I’m thinking basics. Special pencils? Paper?

As with all things retirement and maybe life if I had to do it all over again, I think it’s important to resist the impulse to seek quantifiable results and simply enjoy the experience of seeing how it all unfolds.

Finding your inner artist

My friend, Carole, is an amazing artist. Her house is filled with all kinds of creations using different mediums, different techniques. She casts a wide net when it comes to art. I love it all, but my favorite is what you see in the pictures above. Paper mache (or papier-mâché for you fancy folks).

I didn’t even know it was possible to do what she does. I’m a novice artist, a dabbler, really, but every time I see Carole’s work, I am inspired to take a leap.

While Carole has been at it for years, I didn’t even consider trying to create art until retirement. I’ve always messed around with writing, but other than a little photography many moons ago, I avoided anything visual or hands-on.

And then as the story goes, I salvaged some wood from my neighbor and couldn’t decide what to do with it. Eventually, I landed on burning designs with a pyrography tool and then filling in the designs with color. Kind of like making my own coloring book. And yes, I always colored inside the lines.

I’ve previously suggested I would be interested in selling my pieces, but I’ve decided to keep them. They are part of my life experience, and I like looking at them.

The latest is slightly different than the rest.

My other neighbor was doing some work around his cabin in the mountains and brought this back for me to play with. I don’t know what kind of wood it is, but it was hard to burn. It’s a good bit larger than my typical pallet scraps.

After visiting Carole’s home recently, I realized there is no end to her artistic drive and creativity. I mean, I’m just a grasshopper, but couldn’t I stretch myself at least a little?

This time around, I attempted to draw a few real things other than just random doodles. I’m not particularly good at what I call representational art, but who cares? The thing I love about art is that it doesn’t have to be realistic. I decide what a mermaid looks like. Mine has gray hair!

I’ve learned a lot from my experiments with art … and from seeing different types of art and hanging out with people like Carole and my sister, who is an accomplished quilter and fabric artist. So many different ideas! So much to learn!

All it takes is commitment. Curiosity. As a friend of mine used to say, you don’t need talent. You either do art or you don’t. Some other revelations:

  • Perfection is overrated.  
  • Art teaches you to trust yourself.
  • The act of creating art might be as free as you’ll ever be.
  • Retirement is the perfect time to find your inner artist.