Posted on September 15, 2011
Two years ago we sold our home on the St. Joseph River. We loved that home, but it was time to downsize even though it was the middle of the housing depression. Our property was on the market almost a year and a half; in that time, it felt as if we lived in a fishbowl.
We did all the things Realtors® say to do: Took down the personal photos, removed the valuables, stored medications safely, and made our bed every day. We haggled for a couple months with the potential buyers, suspecting they were in the middle of a divorce but not being able to prove it. Yet their attitude suggested it. Sure enough, two years later suspicion is reality.
That said, we finally came to an accommodation, and on September 15, 2009 we signed the papers that removed us from the deed on the river property.
Fast forward. Tonight we are in The Thayer Hotel on the West Point Military Academy property, having enjoyed pizza and pasta in a local restaurant. A divorced woman owns our former house; and, had she and her ex-husband not come along, it’s possible we would still be there. We saluted her at dinner.
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Posted on September 4, 2011
It’s the last gasp of summer, although autumn doesn’t officially start for another couple weeks. Still those activities for which summer is noted pretty much come to an end tomorrow, Labor Day.
I was in downtown St. Joseph this morning visiting a friend, and already the parking spaces were filled. The antique dealers were out in full force. So were American flags. And children. And dogs. Families strolled along the bluff. Others sat at cafй tables outside various eateries. A cool breeze wafted over everything as if it were a harbinger of things to come.
And it probably is. This time next week there will be fewer automobiles with Illinois license plates parked in the downtown area. Consequently there will be fewer tourists and less ice cream sold. Michigan children will all have returned to school, and inevitably the temperature – which is balmy today – will get hot and make for sticky classrooms.
I Googled® “Labor Day” for a definition of what we’re acknowledging and learned the holiday’s purpose is “to honor the social and economic achievements of American workers.” I wonder how many people actually think about this as their summer winds down.
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Posted on September 1, 2011
Another week has rolled by since we returned from our fishing trip. I’m becoming a slug. Without the scheduled hours of a job, I find I’m less organized, less compulsive, less achievement oriented. Instead, I’m more interested in cooking (Really!), reading, napping, and working out. I make a list each day, but not much from it gets done.
At book club this morning, a friend asked me how it felt to be among the unemployed. She had already made the adjustment from employee to retiree, but before I could respond we started discussing the book for this month.
Nevertheless, the question stayed with me: “How does it feel?”
It feels strange. I have worked almost all my life, as most people my age probably have. I’ve worked for corporations, non-profits, and as a self-employed consultant. I’ve worked full time, part-time, any time. But I’ve always had deadlines of one kind or another, a schedule to plan my personal life around, and a structure that prompted me to get things done in a timely manner. Now that’s gone.
That is, the outside imposition of a structure is gone. Instead, it’s up to me to determine what I want to do with my time and then do it. I am now my own boss.
This is the last weekend of the summer; where I live students don’t return to the classroom until the day after Labor Day. On Tuesday, the school bell will ring as they form lines on the playground and enter their classes to meet their teachers.
I feel like those students. I’m entering a new grade in my life, and I’m reminded of the poem by John Donne that ends: “Therefore, send not to know for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee.”
I must listen for that school bell.
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Posted on August 24, 2011
This is our first day home from our vacation. I had high expectations as I made my list of things to accomplish today. Now that it’s bedtime, a tally shows I did little on that list.
I did, however, do things that weren’t on it. I got a perm when I was only going for a haircut. I caught up with the lady who provides weekly organic vegetables. I talked on the phone with friends. I read. I reviewed photos of our trip. And I realized that, had I still been working, I would have had to handle payroll.
It felt good not to worry about part-timers’ hours and full timers’ vacation pay. Which made me realize that there is life after work. I look forward to enjoying more of it.
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Posted on August 23, 2011
We’re driving home from our fishing vacation; it’s almost a thousand miles from Winnipeg, where we left our car, to our home in Benton Harbor, Michigan. And it’s two days at best.
For five days we didn’t read a newspaper or see a television newscast. We didn’t listen to talking heads on either side of any debate. We didn’t check the stock market. And, until yesterday afternoon, we didn’t know that rebels are on the final offense in Libya.
I can’t say I felt deprived. In fact, I loved the focus on the present, on our lives, and the lives of the people we met. I even loved the focus on fish. After all, knowing about the sliding stock market or the Libyan rebels didn’t mean we could do anything about it, except feel anguished. And wouldn’t that have detracted from our immediate pleasures?
So I didn’t miss television or that our cell phones didn’t work well or that the paper wasn’t delivered to our front door. I didn’t miss the daily mail or persistent email or even a fax now and then.
As we wend our way home, I’m conscious of these intrusions that are beginning to push our memories aside. Maybe after this vacation we might want to consider what’s really important.
See more 10 Minutes in category Things to Ponder, Travel
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Posted on August 22, 2011
It’s six in the morning. Our luggage has already been picked up at the door and we’re about to head to breakfast, then start the trek home. I’m not particularly functional at this hour, but I’m conscious enough to realize that we are the last group of guests to visit the lodge this season.
There’s a bittersweet quality about it. You can feel it in the air.
Once the final guest leaves, staff members begin shuttering the lodge until next June. Our cabin is stripped of bedding and coffee mugs and shampoo. The water lines are blown out and the heat is adjusted. Every cabin receives this winterizing treatment.
In the main lodge, there are dishes and silver to clean for the last time; lures and clothing to box in the store; computers and files in the office to consider. On the dock all the motors are removed from the boats and stored. The tackle is checked for wear. And I’m sure there are a myriad of things I am not even aware of that go into closing Wollaston Lake Lodge and leaving it to nature.
Nature must sense this too. As I brush my teeth, I see a spider on the wall for the first time; and I imagine it’s waiting for us to leave.
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Posted on August 21, 2011
This was our last full day at Wollaston Lake Lodge, and we spent it on the water still searching for Big Fish. By the end of the day, Earl had caught a 44” pike and will have to be content with that, since we leave tomorrow.
It’s been a wonderful vacation – it always is up here. Still I am exhausted. My arms ache from casting for hours. My legs are knotted from bracing myself in the boat. My jeans are tight in the middle from eating too much. My hair is dull. My nails need a good manicure.
But along with these conditions – all fixable – is the feeling of exhilaration that always waves over me as we come to the end. And which is responsible for our probable return.
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Posted on August 19, 2011
This is our fifth year at Wollaston Lake Lodge, and I am still inspired by the service we receive here. Earl and I have stayed on the grounds of Biltmore; we’ve slept in a fancy resort in Tahiti; we’ve taken numerous cruises to various destinations. But no experience rivals this for attention to the comfort of the guests. And no experience is in as remote a destination, which makes it all the more amazing.
On Wollaston’s website, you can read about the five star chef who prepares the evening meals. You can check on the fishing boats, the guides, the flyouts. And you can meet the owner and his staff at various trade shows in the off season.
But what you can’t do until you get here is appreciate the littler things. Like how everyone knows your name from the get-go even though guests don’t wear nametags. Like how once you ask for something, the staff remembers it for the next time. Even if next time is next year.
For instance Earl hates flannel sheets, and flannel sheets are the standard in the cabins. But after our first visit in 2006 when Earl mentioned he preferred cotton sheets, the staff has made sure we’ve slept on them every single night. Does the Hilton remember these details?
Coffee is delivered to our cabin every morning. All we had to do is say we prefer decaf and that’s what we get. Since women are in the minority, cabins don’t have a hair dryer unless you ask. But just tell a staff member, and you’ll have one in no time. How often does that happen at a Holiday Inn?
The lights work, the thermostat is under your control, the laundry service is impeccable, and the masseuse can work out the worst kink from a day on the waters. What fancy spa can claim all that?
I’m not particularly interested in fishing, and I’m not sure subsequent visits to Wollaston Lake Lodge will change that. But I am totally interested in returning again for the opportunity to leave civilization behind, enjoy a patch of wilderness, and yet experience unbelievable attention to guest comfort.
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Posted on August 18, 2011
We are at Wollaston Lake Lodge in northwestern Saskatchewan, approximately three hundred miles beyond the last paved road. Some of the maps I have don’t even show Wollaston Lake, and certainly none of them show the lodge. That’s all right; too many people would learn of it and perhaps the atmosphere would change.
Before this happens, Earl is in search of another 40” or longer fish, forty inches being the cut-off for a “Big Fish.” Earl considers anything less than that an affront to his lure. He still includes them in the daily count, but he frowns as the guide releases them back into the chilly waters. “Send your Momma,” he’s apt to yell as the grateful fish disappears.
Today, we caught a total of thirty-six fish; I use the editorial “we” here, since I probably caught six or seven. But my largest was thirty-seven inches; and, for a city girl who hadn’t held a rod until six years ago, that’s not too shabby.
Earl did catch a 40”. But here’s the rub. Now he wants a bigger fish. I checked the log he keeps of his fishing exploits and learned he caught a 43” Pike when we were here in 2008. So I better tell Mark, our guide, that Earl is like Captain Ahab. He is not going to be content until he catches the largest fish in the waters.
See more 10 Minutes in category Flora/Fauna, Special Events
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Posted on August 17, 2011
You could say I’m obsessed with the butterfly; or, as swimmers who have actually mastered the stroke call it, the “fly.” In the past two years I’ve taken fly lessons from two different competitive swimmers to learn how to coordinate the arms, the legs, and the breathing. Last week, I finally put the three together in the correct rhythm.
It was an “aha!” moment, and it got me thinking. Why this interest in a stroke that I’ve avoided all my life?
When I took the first set of lessons, they were primarily a refresher course on the other strokes; although my instructor was a stickler for perfection and found a lot of flaws in the way I did them. I appreciated that since I’m of the opinion that if you’re going to spend time doing something you might as well do it correctly. Lessons are one way to go about this.
We reviewed the freestyle and the backstroke and the breaststroke and the elementary backstroke. Nobody reviews the sidestroke these days, so the only thing left was the butterfly. What the heck, I told myself, why not learn the proper way to throw oneself above the water, grab some air while defying gravity, keep your legs as one long fin, and gracefully move forward? Then do it with ease and gracefulness.
At my request, the second instructor focused only on the butterfly; and I began to feel the various parts coming together. For instance, you must start your breath at the moment your hands go into the water in front of you. You must breathe quickly and move your arms along your body. Then your head and chest must be down before your hands come out. Otherwise, they’ll never clear the water for the next stroke.
I am old enough to be either swim instructor’s grandmother. I am not built for speed. Nor do I desire to join the Senior Olympics. But learning something new that most people don’t attempt at my age was exhilarating. It makes me want to find something else and do it again.
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