BLOG #5: Horses, Reading/Writing, and Blogging

BLOG #5: Horses, Reading/Writing, and Blogging

Not much has got done in the last five weeks. By now, the basement was to have been sorted out, the living room rearranged,  the garage tidied up, and the rough work in the back garden completed. I blame my lack of productivity on my busy social life, my time spent out at the barn with the horses, my willingness to jump in a car and go off on a road trip on short notice, and the catching up with friends.

Now that my mind isn’t chewing on work-related problems or solutions to projects, it’s free to meander and wander and make weird connections and so the connection between horses, reading/writing, blogging, and retirement is obvious to me and, I hope, it will become obvious to you.

HORSES

I’ve been a horse woman for, ummmm, maybe 60 years give or take a year. I’m not sure when I began my love affair with horses, but it may have started with the piebald cobs that pulled the rag-and-bone men’s carts around the neighbourhood. Yes, I am that old and yes, we still had some horse-drawn transportation back in the day. Those piebald/skewbald/pinto cobs were just Heinz 57s back in the day. Now they have pedigrees and go by the name of Gypsy Vanners. Then and now they were/are lovely critters.

 

Regardless of the equid’s breed, unless you grew up in Northern England and are of a similar vintage to me, I’m betting you have not a clue what a rag-and-bone man was? Think recycling. If you’d like to have a little bit of information on English history, check out this link: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rag-and-bone_man and check out the lovely horse in the bottom right image. Rag-and-bone men and their horses were an everyday occurrence back in 1950s/1960s northern England. But where I first got a taste of riding equids can only have been on the donkeys on either the Blackpool sands or the Morecombe sands. https://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=blackpool+beaach+and+donkey+rides&view=detail&mid=14EAA687F4B27CDCDD7A14EAA687F4B27CDCDD7A&FORM=VIRE. A hard life for the donkeys, but great fun for kids.

The love affair began and continues.

A week or so ago I was at the Charlotte Dujardin clinic at Rocky Mountain Show Jumping (Anderson’s place just south of Spruce Meadows). I reminded myself that even though I couldn’t achieve that level of riding with my current horse (or any horse for that matter), I could still enjoy dressage at my level, and I find that I am now (finally)  content to be what the Brits call a Happy Hacker (aka trail rider).

The clinic was marvellous. Charlotte is a great instructor with an excellent eye for small details and small tweaks that make a big difference in performance. I aspire to be that kind of teacher when or if I find myself back in a classroom (face-to-face or online). I was also impressed with Charlotte’s ability to talk non-stop for about six hours . . . and I enjoyed her British humour and sarcasm (which I can only assume she toned down for her Canadian audience). There were a few ladies-who-lunched in the 99% female audience, but most were horsey folks who had shown up looking like horsey Calgarians. Remember my concerns about how to dress for this event and settling on well-creased jeans and lipstick? I needn’t have worried and most folks were in jeans (and many crumpled rather than deliberately creased).

Attending clinics such as Charlotte’s and watching young women coming up through the ranks in their sports reminded me that I have not always felt so confident and comfortable with my acceptance of being a recreational rider. There have been many times when I have seriously questioned what the heck I am doing having any aspirations around riding and working with horses. Many of those times involve nasty tumbles and ending up in hospital, but two times do stand out. When I was 21, in Vienna, Austria, I watching the Spanish Riding School horses perform and I was ready to just give up because I’d never be able to work with a horse at that level (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spanish_Riding_School). Another time I was around 25 y.o. in the Sydney, Australia, area riding in the Outback and I watched a cowboy gallop his horse down a steep incline. Nope. Not me – and I thought I knew how to ride. Think that iconic scene from The Man from Snowy River where the dashingly-handsome cowboy rides his lovely dun horse down the mountain side (https://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=the+man+from+snowy+river+with+poem+and+music&view=detail&mid=4B17184615BF031076894B17184615BF03107689&FORM=VIRE – just watch from 2:39 to 3:09).

And the connection to retirement? I now have the leisure to ride during the week rather than trying to cram all my horsey stuff into the weekend because, well, I was always too pooped after work to drive out to Cochrane. Many of the folks at the barn are retired and so there’s always someone to hang out with and ride with. Hasty is now a well-seasoned 24 y.o.; and although our first eight years were a bit rocky,  we’ve now been together about 16 years so we know each other very well and work together very well.

And so while Hasty’s more mellow than he was as a youngster, he is also 24 and getting just a little stiff. Just as I’ve moved into semi-retirement from paid work, Hasty’s moving into semi-retirement as a riding horse. . . and so more of my efforts can go into my hubby’s (David Thompson) young Icelandic gelding, Bear.

READING/WRITING

Just as I’ve always been a horse woman, I’ve always been a writer. Not that I think for one moment that I have the Great Canadian Novel in me, but I do think there are writings yet to emerge from me that may delight, entertain, inform. And not that business writing isn’t creative – drafting and honing proposals, reports, and workplace memos is indeed a creative process. Now that the stress of being in the paid workforce is leaving my mind and my body I find I have the energy to think creatively and to write. I am delighted to discover that I still have a desire to write especially as I thought I’d lost that desire completely. My scribble book of ideas is being well scribbled . . . so who knows where that will take me.

I’m hatching ideas for a children’s book (horse related, naturally) – and this is something I would not  have had the intellectual energy to consider even five weeks ago. So, I’m right on target, right? Don’t many retirees say they want to write?

And reading? Well, two to four books/week depending on how busy I was at work and whether or not I was on vacation . . . plus at least one horse magazine and at least one technical document usually related to teaching or curriculum design. The more one reads, I find, the better one writes. One can learn from other writers about how to elegantly craft sentences, cleverly manipulate meaning through carefully placed punctuation, evoking emotion though carefully places words and phrases and images. It helps, too, I find, to move out of one’s favourite genre (for me that mystery novels) and into other areas. S.t.r.e.t.c.h.i.n.g. one’s ideas. I was ruminating on the connection between reading and writing this morning as I was sipping my tea on the kitchen deck. Of course, reading may also be a contributing factor to none of the housework and reorganization getting done.

BLOGGING

Remember that technology basically hates me. To borrow an expression from a  friend, I am a techno peasant (or digital immigrant if you want a more official term). My computer spends its down time plotting how to thwart and frustrate me (seriously). Until a couple of weeks ago, what I knew about blogging could fit on the head of a pin with plenty of room to spare. But with my niece Katherine and friend Marian as my guides, I managed to get started. If you sense a rabbit hole coming up, you’d be right. Now I want to figure out at least one more blog and I want to figure out how to make money from that one. Apparently it’s possible (who knew!?) Thank heavens for the library and the Dummies series of help books because they are my guides on this venture. Thanks to Dummies, I've now learnt how to add photographs.

My growing knowledge, which is easy to grow when one starts from zero, is leading to all sorts of ideas popping up. The connection to retirement? Well, I think there’s one blog about retired gals and their geriatric horses in the making.

Miscellaneous:

Added to the ever-growing list of things I can do as a retiree is going off on all-day field trips midweek. The latest one was to Rowley (a ghost town near Drumheller, Albert), where I met the delightfully chatty 10 y.o. Jesse who happens to be the great, great, grandson of the original owner of the livery barn. Well worth the trip, especially if one is a photographer. Cross country (a very pleasant trip this time of year) about 2.5 – 3.0 hours from west Calgary. https://www.bing.com/images/search?q=rowley%2c+alberta&qpvt=rowley%2c+alberta&FORM=IGRE

Remember I said that I’m unlikely to be successful as a fully retired person? Well, I applied for a job as an enumerator with the government. Stay tuned on that one. And I’ve been invited to co-author a couple of education-related articles . . . so it would seem that work and I aren’t quite done with each other yet.

I just finished reading a novel set in 1901 Edinburgh and, for no reason I’m aware of, an old expression popped into my mind: “You’ll be right as nine pence.” Which caused me to wonder what is so magical about nine pence (this is in the old British currency) and what was the problem with eight pence and ten pence. Any ideas? . . . and as for me, I’m right as nine pence myself and off to be a gopher at the Working Equitation show this weekend in Cochrane. J

BLOG #4: Retire/ment, and Napping and . . . a few things I don't need to do

BLOG #4: Retire/ment, and Napping and . . . a few things I don’t need to do

I’m now our weeks into this new state of being, I know now that I am likely to be a complete flop at being fully retired.

True, I now understand why retirees say, “I’m so busy I don’t know how I had time to work.” I am busy, and I am booking coffee dates and such a good three weeks out in my calendar. There’s still a lot of work to do in the yard (planting a prairie garden in the backyard and re-sodding the front yard) and in the house (wrestling out-of-control rooms back into submission). I’ve come to realize that my retirement certainly won’t be my grandmothers’ retirement and won’t be my mum’s retirement either. . . and that got me thinking about what do we mean, in 2018, when we say retirement.

RETIRE/MENT:

Do we need another name for this phase of life? I think so.

Dictionary.com (one of my favourite sites) offers this definition for retire: “To withdraw from office, business, or active life, usually because of age.” And that’s certainly a useful definition as things go. To ensure fairness, I checked the Merriam-Webster and Collins online dictionaries as well and got pretty much the same results.  

I have (at least temporarily) withdrawn from office and business, but not from life. I anticipate doing some consulting or working part-time after Christmas.

I have good examples of unsuccessful full-time retirees in my own family. Grandpa Stan retired, took his gold watch, and promptly took a part-time job at Manchester airport (probably to get out from under Grandma’s feet). My dad shut down his business when he was around 65 and promptly took a part-time job working with a consultant. That job lasted about 12 or 14 years till the specialist died. So I like to think I’m  following a family tradition.

I wonder, too, if retirement is different for women and men or if I’m hanging onto stereotypes. Women are just as invested in their careers and career identities, and I expect that women with careers still do disproportionate amount of childcare and housework (in addition to working for money) than their male partners. And if that’s the case, then women don’t really retire as the laundry, shopping, housework continues.

Grandma Maud continued being a housewife. Other than drawing a pension, nothing changed. There was no sudden shift from paid work to retirement. But then I was viewing this part of her life from the viewpoint of a child or teenager.

Grandma Priscilla did what many women of her generation didn’t do: work for money. She had to; she was a widow responsible for raising a small boy (my dad).

My grandparents’ expectations were small. No expensive holidays. Whatever hobbies they had they continued. A simpler life; smaller expectations. I like to think they were all happy.

My mum’s retirement was different again. A professional woman, there would have been a very noticeable difference from her combined working for money and being a housewife life to being a retiree (remember, the  housewife part continues). Mum often says that retiring at 60 was the best thing she ever did.

I’m still chewing on what we mean by retirement and what possible new name we can conjure up that is better. Open to suggestions.

While I was ruminating on the words “retire” and “retirement,” I thought about some things I can now do that I couldn’t do when I worked and some things I just don’t need to do. If you’re getting close to retirement (or just dreaming about your far-off golden years), here’s a few things to consider:

NAPPING:

My late dad, Ted Horgan, was a champion napper. He had his favourite reclining chair and his “dossing cap” to pull over his eyes. He was also a champion snorer, but that may be a story for another day. My dad could, and did, fall asleep in the blink of an eye and often took more than one nap a day. As for me, I’ve always loved afternoon naps . . . but until recently, they have been relegated to weekends. Not now. Now I can (and do) nap whenever I want.

ALARM CLOCKS:

Apart from the occasional need to set a morning alarm because of an early appointment, I no longer bother to set an alarm. . . which means the cats don’t get disturbed in the morning either. I let the sun, the cats, or the need to pop to the loo be my alarm.

A FEW THINGS I DON’T NEED TO DO:

The other morning, I pulled out the iron to run it over a couple of items I needed for a lunch date. I haven’t used the iron in a month. . . and that got me thinking about a whole bunch of things I did to get prep’d for a week’s worth of work that I don’t need to do now.

1.       No ironing: At work, I wore a lot of linen and cotton items and so ironing (a chore I don’t actually mind) was a weekend task that occupied at least an hour of my weekend.

2.       Less laundry: As in way, way, way less laundry. As I’m not wearing business clothes, there’s hardly any laundry. Barn clothes don’t care . . . although it is prudent to launder them before they gain the ability to stand up by themselves.

3.       No makeup: Somehow, wearing makeup Monday – Friday just seemed to be required to feel fully dressed and ready to face life in post-secondary. I haven’t worn make up since I left work.

4.       No nail polish: Love putting on pretty colours; hate removing those colours. Don’t feel the need anymore. Besides, nail polish has a very short life expectancy out at the barn.

5.       No shoe polish: Barn shoes seldom require polish so I’m ready to ditch the polishing equipment.

6.       No hair products: That daily fussing and primping (again, just part of feeling fully dressed and ready to face life at work) – mostly gone.

7.       Checking and printing the next day’s calendar: Checking and printing the next day’s calendar was a task I undertook before leaving work each day so I’d be prep’d and ready to hit the ground running at 07:30 each work day. Gone. Now, true, I do check my online and phone calendars as I have to keep my social engagements straight, but the need to be as prep’d has gone.

8.       Wardrobe: . . . and I’ve come to realize that, out of necessity, I had two completely separate wardrobes: one was a business wardrobe and one a barn wardrobe.

The business wardrobe consists of smart jackets, blouses, trousers, skirts, smart coats, hats,  pretty scarves, jewellery,  plus sensible and serviceable smart shoes – some of which have already made their way to the Sally Anne.

The  barn wardrobe which consists of jeans,  riding pants, t-shirts, warm sweaters, an assortment of gloves,  steel-toed paddock boots, plus (depending on the weather) wellies, snow boots, long johns, thick jackets, woolly hats, and thicker gloves.

You can see my problem. I have no casual wardrobe. Do most new retirees go shopping for a new wardrobe?

My wardrobe has been attracting rather a lot of my attention these last few days. Perhaps an unhealthy amount of my attention. You see, this weekend, I’m off to audit a Charlotte Dujardin clinic at Anderson’s (just south of Spruce Meadows) http://rmsj.ca/.

Now, I appreciate that some of you are asking, “Who is Charlotte Dujardin when she’s at home?” . . . and if you have to ask I have to conclude that either (a) you are not a horsey person or (b) you are a horsey person but in the western disciplines.

No matter, I’ll forgive you. For homework, please look at this Wikipedia link: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charlotte_Dujardin.

And the Readers’ Digest version is that she’s only the current, top dressage rider in the world, she’s coming to Calgary (Calgary! Of all places), she’s teaching a day-long clinic, and the local horsey/dressage community is all a twitter. So, what to wear? I mean, this isn’t your run-of-the-mill trainer coming to town. That’s when I realized that I have a work wardrobe and a barn wardrobe. . . and nothing in between.

Which got me thinking (you can see how I end up going down rabbit holes, right?) about a quote generally attributed to Meghan Markle, Duchess of Sussex: “I’d rather be a woman who works than a lady who lunches.” Well, I’ve been a woman who works for almost 50 years, and I’m happy to be the occasional lady who lunches. And if I’m hyper critical the comment is a criticism of woman who do a different type of work (because lunching ladies do work), but then, I’d also be splitting hairs. 

The connection? The connection between Charlotte and Meghan? Well, I don’t want Miss Dujardin to think we are a bunch of country hicks so I was planning to look something like a lady who lunches . . . only to realize that I don’t have a casual wardrobe, I’m in the cheap seats, and I’m just not cut out for the role. Where I’ve settled, in good Calgary fashion, is to put a real sharp crease in my clean jeans and wear lipstick. Surely that’s good enough?

More on the clinic in a later blog. More on working women and ladies who lunch in a later blog, too.

All of which brings me back to my earlier ramblings about what we mean by retire/ment. I still don’t know. If you’ve figured this out, please share.

Blog #3: Seniors' Discounts

BLOG # 3: Seniors’ Discounts

When my mind’s not actively engaged in something, it has a habit of wandering. That’s not a bad thing – most of the time. Certainly some of my greatest creative moments or my most brilliant problem-solving moments have come out of that wandering mind of mine. And it has a delightful habit of taking me down rabbit holes. I have long since abandoned the need to do serious research on some of my musings . . . a quick grab for information (yes, think Google) often suffices even though I know that sooner or later I’ll end up at the library doing some serious research because one thing leads to another and another and another and then I really want to know the answer. Google and libraries have a tendency to lead me to rabbit holes; so, apparently, do song birds.

One of the rabbit holes I went down recently was pondering on Senior’s Discounts, wondering if they are just a North American thing, wondering why I cheerfully enjoy getting the discounts (and perhaps what that says about me), and wondering why these discounts exist. What really got me started was listening to the song birds greeting each other this morning. They have no need for discounts and may not have any concept of age, but that doesn’t stop the birds from cheerfully and noisily greeting the morning with happy chirpings . . . and that’s how I ended up going down the latest rabbit hole.

My late father-in-law Bing Thompson (a lovely man) used to chuckle at my interest in seniors’ discounts, and we had many chats about how much I was looking forward to getting a price break on things simply because I’d reached a certain age. Alas, Bing’s been gone almost 8 years, I would have been in my early 50s when he died, and so we never got to celebrate my first seniors’ discount or talk about how that felt.

How did that first discount feel? No idea. It’s so long ago.

Some discounts kick in at 55, others at 60, and some others at 65. I’m never sure whether or not to be pleased when I’m automatically offered a discount. (Although I always appreciated Sunnyside Greenhouse’s approach where the “senior” got to determine whether or not s/he wanted to identify as a senior and request the discount.) Certainly, when I go Smitty’s restaurant in Cochrane I automatically get the discount. I don’t even have to show my non-existent seniors’ discount card. I like to think it’s because I’m well known there. Years of dropping by for a post-Sunday-morning-ride-luncheon has established a certain familiarity and chattiness with the wait staff (many of whom are also horsey), but I do really expect it’s the laugh lines, the stiff-kneed approach to getting up from a chair, and the silver hair that are the giveaway. Or perhaps it’s because I hang out with other young seniors and I’m just scooped up in the process.

In an effort to be sort-of fair, I did the bare minimal amount of research (yes, Wikipedia and Google do count as research under some circumstances) and found this lovely article: http://business.time.com/2012/01/20/why-seniors-dont-deserve-the-senior-discount/. It’s a quick read, American (so take it for what it’s worth in your neck of the woods), and doesn’t apply to me. Doesn’t apply to me because (a) whatever wealthy seniors the author’s talking about doesn’t include me, and (b) I have waited (or will have waited) 55, 60, and 65 years for those discounts and so I feel entitled.

WiseGeek https://www.wisegeek.com/what-is-a-senior-discount.htm offers a definition and reminds us that seniors’ discounts are a marketing ploy to entice seniors to spend money. I’m okay with that.

But all this information still doesn’t address my question about why these discounts exist in the first place and how they came into being. Apparently, the concept goes back to the dirty thirties dust bowl era where seniors were a disproportionately poor group and then-President Roosevelt passed acts that were aimed at financially assisting the elderly. So what happens in the States influences what happens in Canada and that brings me back to my earlier question about whether or not seniors’ discounts are a North American phenomenon.     Apparently, not (who know?). Again, the disclaimer that my “research” is limited but the well-respected travel writer Rich Steves offers a couple of tips, and so I’ll be on the lookout for “concessions” and “pensioners’ rates” when next in England https://www.ricksteves.com/travel-tips/trip-planning/savvy-senior-travelers.

Whatever the history, however clever the marketing behind seniors’ discounts, I love the concept, get a real chuckle every time I qualify for a discount, and if you’re under 55, all I can say is, “Hang in there.” Your turn will come.

Blog #2: Bookends

BLOG #2: BOOKENDS

All writers want to be read. It’s the nature of the craft. But there’s also a risk in putting one’s words down on paper. And so, gentle reader, I invite you to engage gently. And while I place upon you no obligations to read or comment, if you do choose to respond (one does want to know that one’s readers are reading), please do so with pithy, witty comments or curious questions, and if you take issue with my postings, let’s continue the conversation offline (FB or email or over coffee).

Here’s the first of my ramblings and observations of my first year of semi-retirement.

BOOKENDS

Many of life’s events—or my life events anyway-- are bookended. You know what I mean: those two sturdy  things that anchor a row of books. They could be as simple as a brick at each end of the row or as elaborate as quality marble carvings. Physical bookends can harness books; idea, or life,  bookends can harness emotions and memories.

Recently, two unrelated sets of life bookends made themselves known to me: retiring from SAIT after some 26 years and driving to Estevan, Saskatchewan, after some 38 years. Unrelated from each other but not to retiring.

SAIT:

Think of the left-hand bookend (as you view a row of books) as the opening bookend and the right-hand bookend as the closing bookend.

The ending, or right-hand, bookend was leaving SAIT June 21. Possibly the biggest financial mistake I’ll ever make, but certainly the best decision on a physical and emotional level. I wasn’t sure how I’d feel that last day. Weird just doesn’t cut it as a description, and yet “weird” is the best I can do. I had hoped I wouldn’t get sentimental and mushy (I didn’t); I had hoped I’d feel as though I was watching from the sidelines as this part of my life gently closed and another part gently opened (it did). But as I walked down the 50-some steps to the parkade, I couldn’t help reflect on what, for me, seemed to be the opening,  left-hand, bookend.

Some 48 years ago, at the tender age of 16, clutching a hope that the O-level exams I’d just written would produce decent and useful results (they did), I sauntered out of my high school and off to a future that was sort-of mapped out. Reminiscing about that long-ago last day of fifth form (and no proms in those days) . . . I remember my friends and form-mates weeping in the washrooms because they had suddenly realized it was all real, they were about to be launched on the real world of paid work or college until marriage and children, and things might not be all they were cracked up to be.  

Now, I have to tell you that I did not like high school. Introverts (especially shy introverts) shouldn’t be required to attend traditional high schools. It’s not good for us. I was happy to get out of there. I do remember a feeling of pure joy as, wearing my dorky school uniform for the last time, I swung around by the bicycle sheds and exited the campus for the last time. I also remember that sinking feeling that things were really going to change and I was on the first step of a whole new something. First stop: a summer retail job at British Home Stores in Stockport (and this before the days of tills doing all the work and calculating the change required) to put together some money for my training. Second stop: a two-year apprenticeship as a horse trainer, stable manager, and teacher of riding.

Which worked for a while. The sort-of mapped out future that is. Somewhere along the way,  things took a seemingly whimsical turn,  and I ended up going to college, working for the Manchester Fire Service and then working in Montreal and then Calgary. . . and university and SAIT.

And so back to that brand-new and very shiny right-hand bookend: Retirement. Well, in my case, semi-retirement because I’m unlikely to be a very successful fully-retired person.

As the late, great Stuart McLean was wont to say when he launched his latest Dave and Morley story, “What could possibly go wrong?” Ask me in a year.

Retirement is a new state of being. That familiar feeling of pure joy that I was taking a big first step to a different  new something and that sinking feeling of, “What the heck have I done?” Ask me in a year, two years, five years, twenty years. I may have moved out of the first stage of retirement (vacation mode) to a second or third stage (what’s my value?).

Estevan:

A second set of bookends made themselves known to me just last week as I was motoring back from Estevan, Saskatchewan (12 hours with stops). Fast two-lane highway most of the way, flat landscape, little traffic, pretty country so different from driving in B.C.’s mountains, plenty of time to get fed up of the same three CDs, plenty of time to learn most of the words as I offered my version of harmony, plenty of time for my mind to do what it does best when there’s a gap to be filled: wander.

Wander it did . . . back some 38 years to the first time I’d gone to Estevan as a young woman, a recent immigrant, new resident of Alberta, wondering what the heck I was doing by myself on the other side of the world, planning a future. I’d gone then to visit a friend who was a new wife and new mum. Thirty-eight years later I was there to provide company as she moved through the grieving process for a son.  The starting, left-hand bookend marked the start of new lives for both of us. The ending, right-hand bookend also marked the start of a new life for both of us because we are both finding our way as new retirees.

Rabbit Holes:

But, there’s one thing I’ve discovered through bookends: rabbit holes.

Not the Bugs Bunny sort of rabbit holes but the Alice-in-Wonderland sort of rabbit holes. I have a tendency to let my curiosity lead me to jumping down rabbit holes. I find plenty of them. I usually come out unscathed. It’s always interesting.

And so. . . off down some rabbit holes I go. See you in a bit when I have some adventures to share.

Cheers, Chris J