Back home I looked in the mirror-white hair, Wrinkles, age spots, yes, I looked elderly . . . I was happy, with my gift, scrapbook, and friends. I felt very tired. And it wasn't yet ten o'clock. The golden years are often known as a time in one's life when peace, prosperity, and happiness are abundant. For some, the golden years can also be a time to heal from past hurts and to begin a quest to discover what really matters in life. In Finding Gold in the Golden Years, Ruth Reardon shares a collection of lyrical reflections as a recent retiree and her five-year-old great-grandson search for the gold in the golden years. As they unearth nuggets that represent real treasures in life, fellow travelers and family members share their own homespun philosophies on the meaning of true gold and how to find it in life. While nuggets shine in struggles, losses, hope, and fulfillment, others are encouraged to reflect on their own lives-all while remembering that each sunrise represents a new beginning-at any age. Finding Gold in the Golden Years offers an entertaining, witty, enlightening, and inspirational way to view the third act in life.
Finding Gold in the Golden Years
By Ruth ReardoniUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 Ruth Reardon
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4620-3597-7Chapter One
Where Did The Years Go! I can not believe it!
Bright candles on top of my cake told all.
I was "elderly!" I'm not ready for this!
Going from kindergarten to grade school,
High school, then college, was exciting!
Middle age was not always joyful—but still was o.k.
Never thought that
I'd be in elderly years!
What are they like? Can't define them alone—
They're part of
all the years ... always are with us.
The past asks for continued attention,
Keeps popping up its head.
The future impatiently beckons us on.
The "now" demands priority place!
I'm labeled—there's no turning back.
Where have I been all of these years? Why?
Was pushed ahead by busyness, busyness, busyness.
Many choices were made somehow
for me—
By events and by life itself.
It was like the proverbial snowball
That grew just by rolling down hill.
Where did the years go?
Went in many directions. Did not just disappear.
They blended into "me," molding, rearranging "me."
They did not "go." They remain within.
Letting Go What is ahead? For many it's retirement from work.
This does not seem to come suddenly.
It's a process, starting long before it happens.
We talk, talk, talk about it.
We think, think, think about it!
Talking out loud seems to push us on—gently.
We so bravely plan out the date. Postpone it.
Plan another, quite convinced "this is it."
Still find ourselves postponing again.
I myself set and changed dates so many times
My employer threatened to fire me—
To get it all over with once and for all.
Guess we're afraid that losing our work
Means losing ... ourselves. It does not.
We're not retiring from being the person we are.
Life is not over. We are not over.
It hurts though, really does, knowing another
Will be taking over our place,
A place we had made to fit
us, no one else.
We feel we're betraying our work,
By handing it over to somebody else—
A
younger somebody else.
Grieving is a must, and can not be denied.
It's hard to "let go" but at some point we must.
For me that point is right now.
I have given the date. I will keep it.
One More Time The last day of work was traumatic.
Time went by so slowly. The clock barely moved.
Family called to ask how I was doing.
"O.K" was such a lie.
I removed all the pictures, awards, from the walls.
Boxed my paper weights, calendars, papers.
The room became unfamiliar. My desk not mine.
I could leave at noon, my boss had said,
But being so conscientious—I stayed.
To be alone, I shut the door to my office.
Looked out the window at the hurrying town,
Watched one more time people sitting on benches,
Feeding the pigeons, buying food from the vendors.
I thought back on all my past years ...
Where did I really succeed in my roles
At work, and at home, in community?
What difference did I make being here?
If time were turned back,
Would I still make the same choices?
This was all too overwhelming for me.
I ate the last piece of candy in my glass candy dish.
Finally opened the door and went out ...
Came back in for a final goodbye.
I took the stairs, so those people in the elevator
Would not see me like this, so upset.
I'd say my farewells at the soon coming party.
Goodbye It was celebration and goodbye time.
Walked into the grand hall with the family.
Could hardly believe how nervous I felt.
We were duly impressed with the glass chandeliers,
Elegant white tablecloths, fancy dishes and flowers!
The band announced loudly my presence.
I did not know quite
how to feel or act.
Happy for freedom? Sad to leave friends?
Decided to handle all feelings "tomorrow."
Everyone came over to greet me—
Told stories they remembered—mostly amusing.
"I'll miss you so much, Jane." I hugged her.
(She made the coffee for us each day—so crucial.)
The meal was just super—must have been costly.
Not in the budget—not my problem though now.
Next came the speeches, all about me.
I was called most predictable, best keeper of rules,
One who never missed work, conscientious, serious.
Sounded like a real boring person.
I did like the award for "most caring."
Back home I looked in the mirror—white hair,
Wrinkles, age spots, yes, I looked elderly.
The party was great—though not perfect.
One co-worker was missing. I said "good" to myself.
I was happy, with my gift, scrapbook, and friends.
I felt very tired. And it wasn't yet ten o'clock.
I Have The Time I woke up next morning. (Always a
good thing.)
And here I am, drinking my third cup of coffee,
Wearing jeans, and sneakers and worn red sweater,
Sitting by the long window, at the kitchen table—
The one with the blue checked tablecloth.
It's been there since my beloved one died.
(The cloth has withstood lots of washings.)
I could get another, but this one belongs. It is "ours."
How I love every inch of this home,
Full of rich memories, happy, unhappy ... all kinds.
It's right on our beautiful Main St.—
A street with Colonial homes and historic buildings—
Some built in the sixteen hundreds.
What stories they could tell!
It's a patriotic town.
For the 4th
of July celebration Main St. was painted
With red, white, and blue lines down the middle.
The many lawns and bushes are well manicured.
There are exquisite gardens, and stately trees.
Right now I'm just thinking—eating a donut.
My collie is staring at me. Why am I home?
I tell him that things have changed.
We'll be seeing a lot more of each other now.
I'm retired and in the so called Golden Years.
Guess I'd better find out what they're like.
I have the time, and of course I like gold!
Not "Over The Hill" The mail man came up to my door.
"Why all these cards?" he asked me.
"Congratulation cards." I answered. "I retired."
"Wish
I could" was his comment.
One card told me that I was "over the hill."
I laughed. It was funny but not true at all.
Our "hill" really has no top—
Unless we choose to make one.
We don't have to reach some summit,
Then go right back
down the other side.
The goal is to keep going "up."
Trails are ready, waiting for us.
They'll be new; we'll miss the familiar,
But go on. We have energy. A lot to still give.
Everyone has to be a trail blazer here.
"Broken branches" and "thorny bushes,"
Large "rocks," "cliffs," to deal with. It will be hard.
Most of all though, we must keep looking "up"—
Hold on to brand new hope.
Believe in the future, believe there
is gold to find.
My dog licked my hand in approval.
Can't Always Play Today I began my "search," my "journey"
To learn about elderly life.
No need to travel far off.
The gold, if any, should be nearby.
I enjoyed the quiet, waved "hi" to a neighbor.
Passing one house I said to myself,
"This man is very unusual.
He retired; he doesn't seem to miss his job.
He's always playing golf, wearing a "retired" cap.
His buddies' wives complain.
He constantly calls
their husbands to join him.
When he's not golfing, the couple is dining out.
He's gained 10 pounds. His poor wife—5.
There has to be a change here. Can't
always play.
Is he in denial? Afraid of doing "nothing?"
It's not the same for all.
Some sail happily on, out to life's seas,
Living as actively as before.
Still others face a more gradual retirement—
Changing parenting, homemaking roles.
They have losses, endings also,
Losses that lead to beginnings, new paths,
Where hopefully gold awaits."
911 For New Retirees? I saw my cousin Kay at the bank.
One of the banks which serves coffee.
She had recently retired from teaching 1st
grade.
Kay looked completely exhausted today!
Her bright auburn hair was pulled back with elastics.
No lipstick, nail polish; she wore wrinkled clothes.
"You look so tired" I said. "
What are you doing?"
"Not much" she answered, a little sarcastically,
"Just joining two clubs, buying a new computer,
Redecorating my bedroom, taking senior trips."
"Kay, slow down! You have years ahead!
At this rate, maybe you won't, though.
One would think you're taking a college course
In retirement 101—majoring in
activity."
She smiled faintly. I think she liked my attention.
"You're right" she sighed. "Working
was easier.
I'll think about it, I really will!"
Retirement left a void. She's filling it to overflowing.
She may soon drown! Is there a 911 for retirees?
We must not jump on merry-go-rounds,
Enjoying the music but going nowhere.
Horses are nailed right down to the floor.
Can't go anywhere but round and round.
We all need time to think, to choose ...
No merry-go-round horses should control us!
I'll check on Kay. See that she takes my advice.
Fuzz Balls Or Not There's always a favorite sweater!
We have 10 in our closet
But reach for that one most every day.
Why? Because it's familiar, comfortable.
People compliment the way we look.
The favorite sweater takes on life,
And becomes a faithful friend,
So we keep wearing it, fuzz balls or not.
Until daughters put it in the bin—
The bin for homeless people.
One daughter of a friend did exactly that!
Her dad made her drive him downtown.
He determined to look for it. Rescue it.
His embarrassed daughter had to watch
As he rummaged frantically.
She pretended to not know him when he called
"I found it" and held it close.
He left a new one in its place.
The older one was his friend, you see,
And you don't get rid of older friends.
You never replace them. You can't.
My favorite sweater is the red one.
My loved one had said blue was my color—
Matched my eyes.
No one notices what my eye color is now,
And red seems to make me feel brighter.
Dust First, Then Vacuum A recent retiree woke up at 6 a.m.
In a panic he jumped out of bed,
Fearing he'd be late for work.
Then it dawned on him that he'd retired.
No one expected him. No job for him to do.
He could choose to sleep all day—
But really he did
not so choose.
Having responsibility—being needed—was missed.
So was the security of a title and group.
He wished for a reason to set the alarm clock!
Tried to supervise his wife's housework.
That went over great!
Told her it was best to dust first,
then vacuum.
He was grieving his losses in his own way.
Finally started looking for odd jobs.
His wife helped him search all the want adds—
Continuously, and hopefully. So hopefully!
Part time work at last gave purpose, structure,
A reason to set the alarm clock again.
His wife had a quiet house once more.
She called her friends to tell them
She could meet for lunch ...
tomorrow!
She had missed that as much as he had missed work!
Never Grow "Old" My cousin Kay's birthday party was quite an affair.
I helped light all the candles on the cake.
We've always had a candle for every year—
Not a single one giving the number of years.
We do risk starting a fire!
I overheard Kay say "I
am getting old—so old."
Talked to her on the way home.
"Please don't think of yourself as "old!" Just "older."
"Old" sounds so opposite to "new,"
Of being worn out, of not much use.
"Older" links together the past and present
With no assumption of having an ending.
Each day we'll just be "older,"
Accepting the fact that the next day
We'll be just a little more "older" still.
What's one more candle on the cake each year!
Among all the others it won't even be noticed,
But it does give a bit more light of life.
That's good. Better than if we started our life
Having a cake with one hundred candles,
And blew just one out each year,
Watching the number grow smaller and smaller.
Much better to add, than to subtract from, our years.
The candles will be blown out. The wishes live on."
Kay thanked me politely.
"I'll surely remember to never grow "old."
Meet In The Middle I was so very embarrassed at the Coffee Shop!
With a long, long line behind me,
I couldn't find the right change.
The young clerk kept tapping his fingers.
I smiled "I'm finding you a bigger tip."
He sheepishly smiled back at me—an apology.
He'll learn compassion slowly—as all of us did.
Meanwhile, if he can't understand the way I am,
I'll understand the way
he is ...
Close the generation gap a bit.
Where spaces remain we can reach out—
Help each other to cross over a little bit,
Or meet in the middle—
Each willing to take a few steps,
Then look, really look at the other,
Listen, just quietly listen, and think.
It's so easy to keep tuning out others,
Listening only to ourselves.
We may be at different places,
Think different thoughts,
See different "colors" in life.
But the cry of our hearts is the same ...
Longing to be understood and accepted.
That's the real meeting ground.
My Song I dreamed last night. Heard music and these words:
"I am your song. God's first thought of you.
With my beginning notes I embraced your parts
Being formed in the womb into
you.
I came forth as a cry at your birth,
Protesting the losses, injustice we sensed were ahead.
I sang in your smile as you reached out,
Helped shape your delightful wriggles
Into laughs and excitement and giggles.
My voice was heard in your very first sounds,
As you tried to understand, and be understood.
Your faltering baby steps followed my rhythm.
I endured separations, rejections, forgiving anyway.
All pauses, silences, skips, and melodies
Made you into who you were designed to be.
I'll stay with you now in your Golden Years,
Tuned to His perfect pitch—
Harmonizing with others' songs.
Your story (what goes into and out of your life)
Will dance to my music.
Like everyone, you have a song. You
are a song!"
Those words will sing in my heart forever.
It was a dream, yes, but also more, much more.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Finding Gold in the Golden Yearsby Ruth Reardon Copyright © 2011 by Ruth Reardon. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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