June 30, 2015 Retirement Seems Closer
Perspiration beads my forehead and runs into my beard. My bare shoulders and arms feel clammy. It's terribly warm in the toy factory this late June afternoon. The only breeze I feel is when I drive my forklift or the tugger. The tuggers are much faster than forklifts; not so fast that your hair streams backwards, but enough that you can feel the 'wind' in your face. Still, it's better than having to work in the factory aisles where there are no fans -- and I did that for many years.
Today is another one of those days when I'm experiencing mild depression, possessing that overall feeling of "What's the point?" "You could've done better than this!"
Now that I'm sixty-four years old, retirement feels closer. I realize just how little money we have to live on compared to others. It would be easy to feel 'less-than,' and doubtful, but strangely -- I can't afford it. I try to laugh off, nor take to heart, my wife's complaints about "We live in a deer shack," because I guess we do, really.
Having been built in 1938 in Humboldt, Minnesota, and then moved here in 1992, there's just nothing fancy or new about it. It needs painting from top to bottom; new windows too, and soon new shingles. The best thing being, its location in the woods along Mikinaak Creek all year around.
This old house is warm enough in the wintertime, if you wear enough warm clothes; and cool enough in the summer time thanks to central air. We even have a reasonably clean place to go in the basement when storms threaten us. All our vehicles run; not a new one in the bunch; but no car payments either. Fix 'em when they break.
There's not enough time in a day before work to do all the work need around here by myself. It's not that it's beyond my capabilities but I have either the time and no money, or money and not the time. I'd like to think that retirement will offer that time, but I know that serious money will have to go with it.
Re-reading "Blue Highways," that Joe gave me for my birthday, I'm reminded how well other people write. William Least Heat Moon is comparable to Ian Frazier; their writing is so descriptive and their banter is so interesting that it could intimidate me, if I didn't think I had any writing ability at all. But I know everyone has their own voice; their own rhythm. You either have it or you don't -- and I do. No question about it.
I'm not bragging; I just know I'm not as good as some, but I'm better than others. But except for publishing THE RAVEN, what did I do with it? Nothin'. "I coulda been a contenda, had I only applied myself."
I enjoy writing rough drafts by hand and then use the computer to clean it up and compose it, but it seems when inspiration hits there's no better way to flesh it out than with pen and paper.
Comments