Now that we have become “local” grandparents, we can be spectators at the granddaughters’ events. This past Saturday we set out to see the girls in their figure-skating performance in Gananoque, Ontario. The show would start at 1:00. We live just 25 miles away, on the United States side of the border.  We approached Canadian Customs dismayed to see three lines of cars and a line of about eight RVs towing vehicles. I had neglected to consider that Canadians, who had spent their winter in the south, often returned in early April. We had allowed the usual hour leeway. However, if the border guards were meticulous or irritable, the interrogations could slow the line to a crawl. Paul emitted his usual string of epithets.

On average, we cross the border twice a week to see the granddaughters. With other incidental trips to Ontario, we pass through customs about 150 times each year. Because we can’t predict how long the lines at customs will be, we plan our departure for an hour before arrival time. During the summer, when tourists jam the crossing, we allot ninety-minutes to travel. If we have to meet a school bus, or deliver the girls to an event on time, we cautiously allow half a day. Even with careful logistics, we either arrive ridiculously early or fret ourselves into a frenzy waiting in traffic at the border.

Pesky Protocol

We’ve perfected standard answers to expedite the crossing. The interrogation usually goes as follows:

Where do you live?  “Wellesley Island.” (Our house is five miles by car from that point.)

Where are you going? “Gananoque.” (That is the first town on the other side.)

What is the purpose of your trip? ”Seeing our granddaughters.” (That usually softens the attitude.)

Paul convinced me that “No” is the only response to the follow-up questions. I have mastered my poker face and am a pro at these:

Do you have any gifts? “No.” (Naturally, we always have little gifts for the girls or items for Reed’s garage.)

Are you leaving anything in Canada? “No.” (All fishing gear ships to our house and we deliver it to Reed.)

Do you have any guns or weapons, mace or pepper spray? “No.” (An honest answer to that one.)

Canadian-Americans

Our passports are more essential than cell phones. I keep mine in my Subaru, and Paul keeps his in the truck. Whenever we travel together, one or the other has to remember to retrieve the passport and move it to the travel vehicle. The way our memories have been failing us lately, it’s a wonder we have not forgotten them yet. Last month both of our passports expired. To renew a passport, one has to submit the current passport along with the renewal application. We strategically staggered the renewals. I submitted mine first, along with extra funds for expedited processing as well as overnight delivery.  For eight days I was curtailed from seeing the granddaughters. As soon as my new passport arrived, we submitted Paul’s and he was temporarily stuck in the U.S.

Likewise, our granddaughters must have passports to travel to our house. I think it works in our favor that they have our same last name. The first times we brought them to our house, the U. S. Customs officer carefully examined their Canadian passports. The officer leaned near the open car window and asked the girls to give their names. Britt, only four at the time, clammed up. But Rayna shouted, “I’m an American!” That almost got us pulled over for a complete search.  Paul explained that Rayna was born in the U. S. and Britt in Canada. At last, after eighteen months of crossings, the U. S. border guards know us on sight. When I asked Rayna on a recent visit, “How was the border?” She casually said, “Easy. The guard was Pop’s friend.”

Once past customs, no other major hurdles arise. Canada poses no language barrier and driving is still on the right side of the road. One minor difference is conversion to metric. I’ve carried a conversion chart in my wallet that I’ve never used. I go by feel for temperature. If it’s cold I wear a coat. Speed limits require a bit more awareness. Once Paul cruised down the street at 40, which is what the sign read, was stopped by the local police, and ticketed…in kilometers, he was going about 55. Currency is never a problem. The Canadian towns near the river willingly accept U.S. dollars. We opened a bank account in Gananoque just in case we ever need Canadian cash fast. And Paul has a two-sided wallet…he carries U.S. cash on one side and Canadian on the other.

To Be Needed

Grandparent routines vary as much as the grandchildren to whom they are connected. Like us, many retirees have relocated near their grandchildren.  I admire my friends who successfully maintain a long distance relationship with their grandchildren. They Skype, alternate holidays, pack, travel, and stay in spare rooms. Some live so far, they must fly for visits. Long-distance grandparents enjoy the exhilaration of the arrival, but the sadness of good-bye. Other friends have three sets of grandchildren. Their schedules must look like a playoff bracket. My generation has taken grand-parenting to a new level; we even choose our own grandparent names. Even more, we consult with our children before making our own plans. Lately, grandparent responsibilities arise as the biggest obstacle to scheduling girlfriend-trips, more than our jobs ever did. How great to be needed.

Paul and I made it to the ice rink with time to spare. The girls skated flawlessly. I’m grateful for the freedom to cross an international border to see my grandchildren.  Should my most irrational fear come to pass, that the U. S. – Canadian border closes, I will run the blockade by boat to reach Canada.

“You’re going to Hollywood!” announce the judges as they hand over the golden ticket. I’m thrilled every time. Since I started watching American Idol in 2006, I have been totally enamored with the auditions. Thankfully, the producers no longer air so many disparaging clips of the amateurs. Tryouts feature aspiring singers and a few of their personal stories.  Many vow to improve the quality of life for their families should they succeed. Loved ones scream, cry, and join in group hugs when singers emerge with their ticket to the next round. Dreams are contagious.

I first learned of golden tickets in Roald Dahl’s book Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, published in 1964. In the fictional story, five golden tickets are hidden in Wonka candy bars. The five “lucky finders” will participate in a complete tour of the newly re-opened chocolate factory. Those children will learn all the “secrets and the magic” of the factory.  Besides that, at the conclusion of the tour, each of the five children will receive “enough chocolates and candies to last them the rest of their lives.”

Admission to Possibility

Not a reward in itself, a golden ticket is the admission to a world of possibility, opportunities one has dreamed of. Golden tickets don’t appear out of nowhere.  Receiving one takes some kind of prior investment. For the Idol hopefuls, it has been years, often decades of following every possible avenue for a break in the music industry.  I’m more suited to the process required for a Wonka ticket: devour chocolate bars until one finds the ticket.

Unknowingly, I began preparations for a golden ticket in 2017. We decided to buy a boat to use on the nearby St. Lawrence River.  Having no water access, we began the search for a boat slip. Of course we wanted a location within reason.  We had no luck, every local marina was filled or out of commission due to high water.  We postponed the boat purchase for another year.

Seven-tenths of a mile from our door sat a well-maintained marina, once named the Blue Heron, now known as Boldt Landing. With access to the American channel of the St. Lawrence River, it holds about 30 small boats.  A neighbor told us to contact Jill at the Thousand Islands Bridge Authority. She informed us that all slips were occupied and seldom came open for lease. However, she put us on a waiting list. I made monthly calls to check on our status.

Act As If…

As an advocate of the law of attraction, I made regular visits to the marina as if I owned one of the boats.  I strolled out on the docks, and stood by a slip that seemed unoccupied. If anyone pulled in or out, I gave a friendly greeting, and initiated conversation. The sign said, Authorized Persons Only. I would be soon.  I was told by the captain of the Fairyland Island shuttle that slip-owners were billed in January. He paid promptly to keep his coveted dock. So beginning January 9 of this year, I resumed regular calls to Jill. We had risen to the top of a list of eight. And in keeping with the law of attraction, we ordered the boat, acting as if we already had a slip.

On March 16, Paul and I were involved in a stirring game of Bingo with our granddaughters. Our phone rang. I didn’t get to the phone. Caller ID showed TIBA.  Paul went crazy. We halted the game and I returned the call. Jill answered.

“Hi, Jill, were you trying to call me?” I asked.

“Yes, I thought I would call you for a change,” she neutrally replied.

Hopefully I asked,  “Do you have news for us?”

I heard a “yes.”

Adrenaline blocked further comprehension, something about paperwork. I told her to hold everything. I will come in person.

Authorized for Access

I hung up and reacted as if I had been sent to Hollywood. I whooped and hollered.  I jumped up and down as best I could. My heart pounded.  The two grand girls looked very puzzled. Paul explained that I had just received the most wonderful news.  Within days I had in my possession a golden ticket. We now have access to all the “secrets and magic” of the Thousand Islands.

I remember occasions of elation with a dream realized: making the squad, college acceptance, and of course, the marriage proposal.  In the career years, jubilation came with a job offer, a promotion, or a professional accomplishment. Entering retirement, I had simple aspirations, be productive and stay healthy. I had underestimated seniority. Surprisingly, I found that no matter one’s age, new ventures offer golden tickets to new dreams.

I opened what turned out to be a treasure chest. Small rectangular boxes, some nearly square, others long and narrow filled the cavernous antique drawer.  White, silver, and burgundy, many engraved in gold: Feldman’s Jewelers, At the Clock Since 1871. Dozens labeled Etcetera, an artsy shop in Southport, North Carolina.  Among the stacked boxes snuggled dainty drawstring pouches.  My mom’s costume jewelry, meticulously protected and stored, had remained dormant more than four years since her death. The grieving of my mom has proceeded in stages. By now, my sister, Tami, and I had healed enough to examine and disperse the collection.

Relinquish

The first winter following my mom’s death, we encouraged my dad to continue with what had been their annual visit to Florida. He went reluctantly. He would mourn no matter where he spent that winter, and we hoped a sunny climate would be healthier than a cold, dismal one. His silence on the subject of Mom’s personal belongings told us he could not face that issue. Neither could we.

By the time we set to the task of moving Mom’s clothes, eighteen months had passed. Dad was spending his second winter alone in Florida. Still, I felt Mom would call next week and gush about the bargains at Beall’s Outlet. Despondently, we emptied a closet-full of Capris, cardigans, and purses in all colors. We ogled over a drawer that held only T-shirts, four stacks of them, sorted by color, and folded in perfect origami. Even her socks and pajamas looked as if J. Crew had arranged them. We had teary moments encountering a dress from a particular event or finding her favorite shoes.  And we laughed at our mom’s extensive multi-colored collection of jean jackets. Into the pocket of every outdoor coat, canvas, wool, or down, she had tucked a pair of knit or leather gloves.  So like her to prepare and coordinate. Soon we had created an apparel mountain in my dad’s living room.

Handling Mom’s clothes was the best approximation we had to touching her. A faint whiff of White Diamonds comforted and pained us.  Relinquishing her things meant letting her go as well. Yet, neither of us could fit into those size 4 clothes. Overwhelmed with indecisiveness, we drank wine and hugged one another. At last, Tami selected some items for a petite friend of hers. We set aside classic pieces to offer another friend. We garnered our courage and divided the remainder among the Humane Society Thrift Store, Salvation Army and Goodwill.  Dad returned to Pennsylvania and we did our best to fill the gap in his life.

Receive

Always creative in interior design and sewing, my mom had become a textile artist. She created multi-colored rugs from strips of wool, hooked through a woven cloth. She discovered this art form in her forties and produced rugs into her early seventies. When my parents down-sized into a small apartment, just a few of the rugs remained on display.  Tami and I each had a couple, but we had lost track of the others. When Mom died, we discovered about twenty of the rugs, each carefully rolled in a bit of sheeting and stored under her bed. It wasn’t until the third winter following her death that Tami and I agreed to divide the rugs between us.

My dad headed south for the winter and once again, we chilled bottles of wine and set aside an afternoon for the rug division. As we unrolled each vibrantly colored piece of art, we celebrated and admired Mom’s talent. In addition to floral and geometric designs, some rugs featured a primitive scene, a whimsical pig, a Scottie dog, several of patriotic flags in red and blue. We found hooked chair pads and table mats as well.  We took turns choosing. Any interior designer would have been envious.  I selected for color as well as pattern, not even knowing at that time how well these rugs would suit the wood floors of the house in which I now live.

Dividing the rugs differed completely from sorting Mom’s clothes.  First, we did not give any rug away. We revered each one as fine art. We received them as gifts of the most personal sort, made from her hands. I regretted that I had not more fully honored my mom’s talent during her life. However, I now cherish each rug as an heirloom worthy of passing on through generations.

Revive

We determined to examine Mom’s jewelry this winter during Dad’s Florida sojourn. Stored out of sight in her former chest of drawers, jewelry could be dispensed with no visual change to the apartment. Although, this time, I transported all that I found in the drawer to Tami’s house. Tami’s oldest daughter, Stevie, joined us. We sipped our wine, admired each bauble, and selected the ones that spoke to us.

Mom had coordinated accessories for every outfit and occasion, which explains the 100-plus pieces we examined. Boxes of sterling silver chains and hand-forged bracelets, inlaid with turquoise, spoke to her taste for clean design. Another box of gold chains, with the accompanying charms and dainty bracelets matched her elegance.  All lengths of pearl necklaces, chokers, and earrings represented her traditional roots.  Any number of colorful shell collections or whimsical beads reflected her artistic flair. For more formal occasions she had statement stones and metal medallions. Among the three of us, we barely reduced the inventory.

So we set aside pieces for special family friends who might appreciate a memento from my mom. And we filled a gift bag with items to reexamine when Holly, my other niece, is available. When Tami and I grew weary, Stevie urged us on to every last box or cinched bag. “But where are all the earrings?” Stevie asked. Oh no, I had forgotten to bring another large jewelry box which must have held that entire category. Earrings will go on next year’s agenda.

Emotionally spent, yet satisfied, we had revived Mom’s treasures.  Her style will live on.  We agreed to each wear a piece of our newly-claimed jewelry the next day. I am not one to wear many accessories. However, a silver coiled-snake bracelet conveyed to me a mystical chi. I suggested it travel among us. Each will possess it for a year, beginning April 1. I have the first honor.

I successfully avoided exercise for a full three years in retirement. I intended fitness to be a goal, but procrastination came so easily.  Intermittent travel to visit our granddaughters in Ontario nicely postponed joining the local YMCA.  Other new commitments took precedence as well: lunch dates, old movies, novels, coffee to drink until mid-morning, wine to sip mid-afternoon, and so on.

The first spring of retirement I relished watching nature bloom. So I occasionally hiked the wooded trails of a local county park with our Labrador retriever. I didn’t need a gym in summer when I had the great outdoors. Winter arrived. Walks halted. I rationalized that strength and muscle tone naturally declined in one’s sixties. Winter clothing hid flabby arms and legs.  I rallied slightly when the weather moderated in April and resumed sporadic walks in the woods.  By summer my preference for three-quarter-length sleeves and Capris covered unsightly cellulite. And I hadn’t donned a swimming suit in years, anyway. Still, my conscientious side nagged my lethargic side to get active.

Procrastination Pro

Just in time, our decision to buy a house in northern New York saved me from a Curves commitment. I gave up walking to pack. The move provided plenty of exercise; a better word would be exertion.  My back muscles told me so. They ached from dragging furniture off a trailer and hefting cartons into the new house. Most nights all joints throbbed after the day’s work-out on ladders with tools or paintbrushes. In our new locale, trails, parks, and remote roads encouraged walking. Yet, I neglected to take advantage.

When my new physician reviewed my declining bone density, he recommended a daily hour walk, at a fast pace, no meandering. Out of fear over breaking a hip, I vowed to walk.  My son suggested a few exercises using light weights. My husband had been working his way back from a shoulder injury. We agreed that when winter arrived, we would join the local fitness center.

Stalling came natural through the holidays. We had plenty of distractions and lots of holiday feasting to do before actually committing to the gym. Finally, on a weekend trip in early January we duped ourselves into believing we would use the treadmill at the hotel. How easily we talked ourselves out of that because the fitness center was too far from our room. Conveniently, the buffet was just off the elevator.

No More Lollygagging

At last, out of excuses, we joined the local fitness center, just about three years to the day since I retired.  I reluctantly admitted to the owner that I had never ever been on a treadmill. She hid any surprise. Fortunately, she did not ask for my fitness goals. She appeared too young to understand my vital objectives. I hope to exit a low-seated car without a single moan.  I want to get down on the floor with the granddaughters and get back up…without their help. I need to lug grocery bags without triggering tendinitis in my wrist. On girlfriend trips I must sustain long sprints through sprawling airport terminals, as well as lift a thirty-pound suitcase onto a hotel shuttle.  Most pressing, I require agility to jump in and out of our new boat to tie-up and dock.

Moreover, with the knee, hip, and shoulder surgeries that plague my generation, prevention dominates my thoughts. As I work my way around the women’s circuit I concentrate on the muscles around my kneecap. I pull that bar down trying not to tear a shoulder muscle, yet keep tendons flexible.  According to AARP, walking helps high blood pressure, arthritis, depression, insomnia, diabetes, and osteoporosis. Therefore, I extend my time and speed on the treadmill, conditioning for my eventual daily outdoor walk. Hopefully, my new habits will endure all the distractions sure to arise in spring.

As of today, 365 days of age 65 lie ahead of me, ready to become relevant. I have the power to make them so.

60 Days of 60

Five years ago as I anticipated my 60^th birthday, I dreaded that someone would take charge and arrange a surprise party. I wanted to control my own transition to 60, so I declared a 60-day-long celebration, 30 days leading up to my birthday, and 30 days following.

My inspiration came from television. During the 30 days leading up to the Academy Awards the Turner Classic Movie Network aired Oscar-winning movies. During that February TCM advertised 30 days of Oscar. Similarly, I pronounced my extended celebration to be 60 Days of 60.

Some of those 60 days featured insignificant things, like indulging in a hazelnut coffee at Sheetz on my way to work. Or I ate lunch out rather than at my desk. I viewed splurging on M&Ms from the vending machine as a festive act. The most elaborate event included my sister and sisters-in-law in a day-trip to see the musical Sister Act. My husband, Paul, arranged a birthday party after all, but informed me in advance. When the 60 days expired in early April I had worn out my celebratory attitude. Yet, I felt satisfied that I had effectively honored the milestone.

Choose to Celebrate

Ironically, by the end of that year my mom had died and my son faced a crisis. I grieved over losses. Fleeting thoughts that I had tempted fate haunted me. Did these sorrows balance the extravagance of a two-month birthday celebration? Or had providence encouraged my commemoration knowing how sadly the year would end? My guilt was recently assuaged by a quote from “A Gentleman in Moscow,” an Amor Towles novel: “Let us simply agree that a wise man celebrates what he can.”

Five years later I pondered how to mark the 65^th milestone. I considered a revised version of the 60-day commemoration. I boldly considered using the entire year, 365 days of 65. I did a trial run of that idea January 1.  After a few days of small celebratory moments, I back-pedaled into identifying a daily highlight.  After a series of busy days the effort to identify a celebration each day felt ludicrous and artificial.

Now is the Time

All the while, signs pointed to using my 65^th birthday to embark on a project I have considered for three years, but feared: a blog.  My 2018 pocket calendar chided me with the caption:  Now is the Time.  Since 2014 I’ve carried in my purse an article by Dr. Phil who advises one get the most value out of the time left. My chalk board door espouses a five-point parameter for my retirement: be practical, be useful, be creative, be generous, and finish big. All these visual messages urge me to take the risk. During the past few months I have twice encountered the SMART acronym for goal-setting: Specific, Measurable, Attainable, Relevant, and Time bound. A weekly blog could perfectly meet those guidelines.

I will turn 65 today, no matter what. Why not make it remarkable in a more significant way? Whether the blog succeeds or not will cost me very little. Most importantly, I will routinely examine the events in my life to find meaning or humor. I have no advice to offer, that is what AARP is for. But I have a network of supportive friends, whom I may call upon for their own senior perspectives.  If readers find connections or similarities with the senior moments of my life, perhaps we will all be reassured and empowered.