Tourists

A few Friday nights ago we were invited to a colleague's home for the first cook out of the season. (At least for us.)

Hamburgers and hot dogs are a real treat in late June and early July. But, by August an invitation to "stop by and we'll throw some burgers on the grille" doesn't generate quite the same anticipation.

Almost everyone in the group that night was somehow connected to the real estate business, either as a long time and successful practitioner or a family member.

As the fireflies appeared, the conversation turned philosophical.

Sandy footprints

There were many threads, but one that I found myself in the midst of was how, as real estate agents, we're supposed to promote to our clients the virtues of living on Cape Cod. The weather; the beaches; the sunrises and sunsets; the restaurants; the history, the summer theatre.

But, like a lot of people who work full time and live on Cape, we're so busy with the day-to-day that we ourselves don't enjoy living here as much as we should. How can we effectively talk about the quality of life on the Cape, the conversation went, if we don't partake of it?

With the exception of restaurants. If you want a review of a particular spot, ask a realtor.  Chances are we've eaten there. Or know a colleague who just did.

I include myself in the "we" very loosely. I've had my real estate license a relatively short time compared to the folks who were sitting around the table that night. I'm working for my wife this summer, but in September will be returning full time to the college classroom and back to primarily weekend open houses and managing our social media/marketing efforts.

But I do know from Mari's 19 years in the business that the job follows you. When our daughter was young, we tried stay-cations. Why drive a few hundred miles and rent a place when you live 10 minutes from a beach that thousands flock to on their vacations? But when an issue would come up at the office, the temptation to run in for "just a few minutes" was sometimes too strong.

I've been commuting off Cape for 24 years to jobs near and far. Mostly far. I spent many years working for utility companies as their media contact. Outages would demand my attention no matter the hour or the day or whether I was on vacation or not.

We finally abandoned stay-cations and began going on cruises.

Over the years, many of my colleagues would assume that my day-to-day life was pretty much like their vacations and seemed genuinely disappointed to learn that my weekend schedule was pretty much the same as theirs...errands, church, taking my daughter and now my granddaughter to practices, etc., etc. The beach, for example, was very rarely at the top of my to do list.

I did succeed for a year or so going to the beach with Mariana on Saturday mornings after a stop at Dunkin' Donuts. But now that she's older, beach time has been replaced with cheerleading practice. We still stop at Dunks, though. Some habits you can't quit.

That conversation a few Fridays ago ended with some vague commitments about getting the group together in the coming weeks for supper on the beach and sunset watching.

A Cape Cod sunset

But it got me thinking about the thrill I used to feel coming on Cape to vacation with my parents and later with my own family. The salt air; the ice cream shops;  the dewy sunrises and often breath taking sunsets.

It made me long to be just a tourist again.

Elly and Barbara

Back in April, I was watching news coverage of the passing of former First Lady Barbara Bush when my six year old granddaughter came downstairs.

She was curious about Mrs. Bush when her photo came on the screen.

After explaining who she was, Mariana said "Oh, she looks just like Nana."

Elly Sennott

I told my Mother about Mariana's comment the next time I saw her. She smiled and said that back when the Bushes were in office, people did say that she looked like the First Lady, because of her perfectly coiffed white hair and penchant for wearing pearls. Mom added that folks also said that my Dad sort of looked like the President, because of his thinning brown hair and the gold wire rim glasses that they both wore.

Mrs. Bush -- who was often quoted after she died as saying: "at the end of your life, you will never regret not having passed one more test, not winning one more verdict or not closing one more deal. You will regret time not spent with a husband, a friend, a children, or a parent" -- clearly left this life on her own terms declining further treatment and speaking to friends on the phone the night before she passed.

I've been thinking of Mrs. Bush as I try to process the passing of my Mother, who died last week at the age of 90. She was a devoted wife, mother, grandmother and great grandmother, who placed family first. Mom seemed to be the happiest at a family event, whether a holiday or random gathering.

She had been in failing health for the last few months. Less interested in talking on the phone. Sleeping more. Losing her appetite. Needing additional medication.

Barbara Bush

But in the end -- like Mrs. Bush -- I believe she decided that it was her time. A staunch Irish Catholic, she asked to see a priest. Her best friend of 50 plus years visited the same day. Less than 48 hours later, she left us.

I'm sure she was pleased and proud that her four great grandchildren -- the oldest is 10 -- were at her wake and brought up the gifts at her funeral Mass.

She's now reunited with my Dad at the National Cemetery in Bourne after being apart for almost 10 years. While she misses all of us, I'm sure she's very happy to see him again.

Now the tough part comes. Who am I going to brag to about Mari's latest real estate success; Meg's most recent promotion, and the funny thing Mariana just said? No matter how old a boy is, sometimes he just needs to talk to his Mother. Who cares enough now to listen?

It's all part of growing up, I know. I was lucky to have my Mother for as long as I did.

At the gathering following the committal service, a friend joked with me that as the oldest of three sons, I was now the "patriarch" of the family.

I'm not ready for that.

Old Blue Eyes

For those of us who grew up musically in the late 60s and 70s, Frank Sinatra was the bane of our existence.

Now that we’re older, it’s funny how many of us have become fans of Old Blue Eyes and have a favorite song or two from his massive recording catalog.

I’ve been thinking lately about the opening lyrics to one of my favorites, “September Song.”

"Oh, it’s a long, long while from May to December.
But the days grow short when you reach September"

I guess that turning 65 – as I will later this month – is equivalent to September. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

I’m certainly glad to be bringing the curtain down on 64. Health issues – none of which turned out to be serious – and professional disappointment, courtesy of returning from vacation to find that I had been reorganized out of a job that I was successful in and hoped to stay at for the next few years, were among the low lights of the last 12 months.

On the plus side, I’m grateful to the colleges where I teach for giving me the opportunity to live a life long dream and return to education as a professor. I’m still learning the real estate business and excited about what I might be able to accomplish during summer break.

Nonetheless, I’m struggling a bit with turning 65 and the impressions I had when I was younger about what it would be like.

My grandfathers were 65 and I thought they were really old. I’m a grandfather now and hope that Mariana doesn’t see me the same way. When I look in the mirror, I see someone who’s 42. I still listen to cool music and haven’t joined the Republican Party, either.

But, I don’t hear as well as I used to; my hands shake on occasion, and the line of pills that I need to take every morning is getting longer.

And I definitely can't wrap my head around the fact that I started Medicare on April 1.

But, overall I’m lucky and for that I’m very grateful.

So the question is how do I live my September through December?

I won’t spend it crossing days off the calendar based on some perceived family time clock. I didn’t know it at the time, but my Dad spent his 65^th year concerned about his fate, since his Father passed away suddenly at that age. Sadly, my only memory of Grampa Harry is his telling me to be a good boy and go get my Mother as he was being stricken.

One of the many traits I inherited from my Dad is that retirement is not part of my DNA. So, I know that I’ll continue to work as long as I can. Dad was still a full time employee at MIT when he passed at 78. (Mom is 90.) Fortunately, I’ve transitioned to two careers where age discrimination is not an issue.

I was never a David Cassidy fan and certainly would not consider him one of the great minds of our time, or any other. But his final words, as reported by his daughter, are ones I’m going to keep in mind:

"So much wasted time."

In the years ahead, I hope to never end a day thinking about time misspent. Opportunities lost. Moments that should have been lived better. I’m going to look for the joy in life, not things to get angry or upset about.

As Old Blue Eyes crooned, these days are “precious.”

When a door closes

Slam!

That was the sound of the door suddenly closing several weeks ago on what I believed to be a reasonably secure job.  It was something that I saw myself doing for the next handful of years until I “retired” and transitioned to something that was hopefully a bit closer to home that didn’t require my presence every day.

I had just returned to the office from a week in Disney World with my family and was greeted by the leadership of the organization’s Board of Directors. They told me that there had been a restructuring and my position – and that of our Executive -- had been eliminated effective immediately. Here’s your final check and we’d like your keys and laptop in 45 minutes. 

It was surprisingly sudden and corporate for a non-profit.  I’ll give them credit, though, for acknowledging that the timing – I wasn't back at work 20 minutes – didn’t look good.

After offers of references, if needed, and handshakes or hugs, I was left wondering: as an older worker what was next for me?

Should I dust off the resume; start networking, and apply for any job that looked like a possibility? Given that age discrimination is alive and well in the workplace, how many months would pass before a potential employer overlooked the years my resume represented and instead focused on the knowledge and experience I could bring to their organization?

Or, was I lucky enough to have options that would allow me to avoid what certainly could be a long, frustrating and potentially fruitless job search?

I currently teach part-time at two outstanding colleges in the area. After years of threatening to do so, I had also finally gotten my real estate license in April. Could I pick up another class or two and use my background in marketing and communications to push my wife’s very successful career as a realtor to the proverbial next level?

Over the last few months, we had been discussing these and other options as part of a vague plan to be gradually implemented over the next two or three years. Immediately was never a consideration.

But, instead of crying in our beer(me) and wine (her) to lament my bad fortune, we decided to go for it. So far, it looks like we made the right decision.

I’ve already been offered additional classes for next year where I currently teach and have identified potential opportunities elsewhere.

As I draft this, we’re getting ready to leave a three-day real estate training in Brooklyn with noted industry coach, Tom Ferry. Even though I’ve been around the business for 18 years, I still have a lot to learn and this has been a very inspiring start.

So, instead of being discouraged, a situation many older workers face when they suddenly find themselves out of a job, I’m excited by the potential of what could happen in the years ahead. You might say there’s even a bounce in my step that hasn’t been there in a while. 

I even walked over the Brooklyn Bridge this morning. 

Mom @ 90

Mom and her sons
 

My Mother celebrated her 90^th birthday this month.

She has been living in one of those rehabilitative centers – f.k.a. nursing homes -- for about the last two years.  Before that, she was in and out of the hospital with a variety of health issues. We thought several times that we were going to lose her, but she rallied every time.

“She’s like a cat; she has nine lives,” is how my wife describes her, which is a little ironic because Mom is really afraid of cats.  Growing up we had canaries as pets, because Mom didn’t like dogs either, although she’s now very fond of my brother’s dog, Roscoe.

About 10 years ago, my folks moved to the suburbs and next door to my brother and sister in law, finally getting out of second floor living in the Brighton section of Boston.  Sadly, Dad was diagnosed with cancer shortly after they moved and enjoyed the house for only 18 months.

Mom understands her limitations, but on occasion talks of wishing that she could still be in her own home. I’m sure she never imagined being her age and assigned a roommate, as if she were a first semester college freshman.

Like many of her generation, she doesn’t readily volunteer stories about her childhood.  I do remember her commenting during the bussing crisis that gripped Boston during the 1960s, that she had difficulty understanding the issues between blacks and whites.

She said that there was little difference between the races when she was growing up in the Roxbury and Dorchester neighborhoods of Boston, because “we were all just poor.”

My favorite story about my Mom is how she went on her first date with my Dad.

Two young men had asked her to go on a fall hayride. She couldn’t decide who to pick, so she put their names in one of my grandmother’s hats and pulled out my Dad’s.  The rest, as the cliché goes, is history…

Mom’s had the joy of living long enough to see her great grandchildren. But, she is also the last of her generation. I’m sure it must be lonely at times.

She’s pretty much confined to her wheelchair and her memory and eyesight aren’t quite what they used to be. I’m sure that’s frustrating.

But she’s made the best of her situation.

She takes advantage of every excursion the facility offers; plays blackjack several nights a week, and often doesn’t get back to her room until after 9:00pm because she’s been watching TV or just talking with the many friends she’s made.  {Unless it’s Thursday, when she’s back early, because that's weekly shower night “whether you need it or not.”}

Dancing at the Totem Pole Ballroom

I don’t know how I would handle being 90 and in my Mother’s situation.

Instead of reminiscing about dancing at the Totem Pole Ballroom at Norumbega Park in Auburndale, I’d no doubt be talking about my first concert, Jimi Hendrix in August 1968 at the tent in Framingham called the Carousel Theatre.

{I saw Led Zeppelin there a year later. I snuck in a cassette recorder and taped the show. I’d be living at the beach on my own private island, if I could ever find it!}

If I were 90, I’d consider myself blessed to know my great-grandchildren, but would surely be lonely for family and friends, who meant so much to me.  I'm sure I would also struggle with the latest technology, as I often do now.  

Maybe the best approach to old age comes from 95 year old Betty White:

“It’s not a surprise, we knew it was coming – make the most of it. So you may not be as fast on your feet, and the image in your mirror may be a little disappointing, but if you are still functioning and not in pain, gratitude should be the name of the game.”

If I ever live that long, I hope I can remember that.

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

Sunsets and a Sunrise

While I consider myself a morning person, I'm fascinated by the beauty and drama of sunsets.

They can be a perfect ending to a day we hope to remember forever or the final curtain on a time we want to quickly forget.

My favorite quote about sunrises and sunsets doesn't come from a famous author like Ernest Hemingway or F. Scott Fitzgerald. It's from former Red Sox General Manager Lou Gorman, who passed away in 2011.

In a Sports Illustrated remembrance, Dan Shaughnessy recalled Gorman's reaction to Roger Clemens walking out of Spring Training in the late '80s.

One of my favorite moments in baseball came in the spring of 1987 when young Red Sox ace Roger Clemens walked out of spring training camp in Winter Haven. Clemens was reigning Cy Young and American League MVP. It was a pretty big deal when he stormed off the premises after the Sox renewed his contract for low dough. Thirsty for official club reaction, reporters surrounded Sox general manager Lou Gorman.

Ever polite and accommodating, Gorman answered all of our questions. Then, in an effort to put things in perspective and dial down the hysteria, he said, "The sun will rise, the sun will set, and I'll have lunch."

And so we all had lunch and life went on, and a month later Clemens was back and he won the Cy Young Award again in 1987.

Author Darnell Lamont Walker writes of people who run to museums for paintings, while he runs to the roof for sunsets.

I head to the water.



Clearwater Beach  at Sunset (2017)



Dunedin at Sunset (2017)








Sunset in Falmouth (2016)

Sunset at the Cape Cod Canal (2014)

Sunrise in Barnstable Village 2014

Sunset at Lake Tahoe (2015)

The 64 Question

The number 64 has been stalking me for most of my adult life.

Nine times out of 10 if I glance at the kitchen clock in the morning while making my coffee or my granddaughter's breakfast, it will be 6:40am. At night, if helping to clean up after dinner or taking the trash out, the time is invariably 6:40pm.

I supposed this could be easily dismissed as my subconscious alarm clock alerting me to the time, except that over the years the number has consistently shown up other places as well.

I've never stayed in a hotel room numbered 640, but that's been the number across the hall.

I don't usually go out for lunch these days, but when I do, I often stop at Papa Gino's. Once I thought I would be "good" and instead of ordering two slices of pepperoni pizza ordered just cheese. The cost? $6.40.

(BTW... a sure fire way for me to make my wife laugh is to proudly tell of her of my "healthier" lunch choices -- like skipping the pepperoni.)

The license plate number of the car in front of me will often have the number 64 in it. While stuck in traffic trying to get home to Cape Cod at the start of this past Memorial Day Weekend, the plate in front of me simply read....64.

Craig Kimbrel
 

Watching the Red Sox game the next day, the announcers were noting the great success closer Craig Kimbrel has enjoyed over the past... 64 games.  (Why not a more "even" number like 60 or 65?)

I do have an association with the number that goes back to my college days. WTBU -- the campus radio station at Boston University where I gained my 15 minutes of fame as the first person ever to fire Howard Stern -- was located at 640AM.

To be honest, I wouldn't mind seeing the number 64 on a scorecard after playing a round of golf or in front of six zeros on a winning lottery ticket. So far that hasn't happened. But there's still time.

From what I've read, many people have similar experiences with the same number or number pattern.

I've learned that in standard numerology, 64 is 6+4 which is 10. In turn, 10 is 1+0 which really means it's the number one, which is said to be the most powerful number as it's kind of the "creative force" for all other numbers.

The number one is said to be connected with new starts, independence, new opportunities, inspiration, originality, standing alone, concentration, leadership, determination, self-employment, courage and isolation.

I'm not sure what that all means and how it relates to me. 

What I do know is that having just celebrated my 64th birthday, I will be safely in my house this coming Sunday (6/4), at 6:40am and 6:40pm.

That's too many 64s to take any chances...