DO YOU REMEMBER?

Smell is a potent wizard that transports you across thousands of miles and all the years you have lived.  Helen Keller

On facebook, almost every day someone posts a favourite picture of something and asks "How many of you remember your mother having one of these?" They include anything from a potato masher, meat grinder or percolator to an ice box or wringer washing machine. As a person in my autumn years, I usually have to reply that not only did my mother have one but I did also. Growing up I remember all of the above in our home and received a few as wedding gifts when I married.

My favourite memories are of the wringer washing machine. 

What I remember most was being careful to stay away from the wringer on laundry day. Horror stories were bandied about in which young girls lost their hair because it got caught in the wringer, or curious young children had and arm crushed because they didn't listen to their mothers' warnings. We never knew any of these victims personally but none of us were about to test it either. 

My fondest memory is of my mother bringing in the clothes through a narrow door my dad had built in the wall of the back porch. My sister and I used to bury our noses in the clothes basket enjoying the aroma. It's this aroma I enjoyed as an adult as well. I had a wringer washer of my own in my early years of marriage and I remember warning my children to stand well back of the wringer, repeating the tales of horrible accidents I had been told. My husband had to dig the holes in the ground deep enough to hold the coveted clothesline poles for me. To this day, even though the wringer washer is just a memory, I enjoy hanging my clothes outside. We've moved around a bit but an outdoor clothesline was always a must have..

In this month of September the clothes on the line have that fresh fall aroma that can only be attained during these cooler, crisper days of approaching autumn. I still bury my nose in the fresh laundry from the line – a comfort memory.

LIFE IS A HIGHWAY

LIFE IS A HIGHWAY

My business card is printed in autumn colours with trees proudly dressed in various shades of gold, orange and red. The characters in my novels are usually in their autumn years — 50 to 75, just like me.

I take great pleasure in hearing from readers who respond to my books with phrases such as, “Finally, a book with characters I can relate to.” “Your story has given me hope. Life isn’t over yet.”

Why should life be over? Just because you’ve retired doesn’t mean there are no new experiences to enjoy — even if they are just a new television show or a new book to read ... or have read to you. Retirement should be a time to say “Great. Now I have time to do all those things I never had time for.” For starters try leaving your car in the driveway and walking past all those beautiful homes you hurried by on your way to work. When driving, take that side road you’ve always driven on by and wondered where it went. One thing leads to another. 

As you can guess, I’m thoroughly enjoying this stage of my life. Settings for my novels are gleaned from visits to favourite places. Some of my short stories have blossomed from just a road sign or a stop along a highway.

There’s a song written and sung by Tom Cochrane entitled Life is a Highway. I’ve taken it as my theme song. A couple of scenes from one of his u-tube videos remind me of a remote place in Alberta where we crossed into Montana on one of our road trips. One building, one person manning it. We weren't planning on taking that route across the U.S. border; it was a last minute decision. A fork in the road. You can bet there’s a story materializing from that experience. 

In the next few weeks as the temperatures begin to cool and summer morphs into fall, I’ll continue living and writing “autumn” as I travel life’s highway. 

AUTUMN YEARS - GOLDEN OR RUST

A friend recently told me her mother used to say, “You have to be tough to survive. The golden years can quickly become the rust years.”

The woman quoted was one of the most unrusty women I knew. She carried her age well and remained active in real estate well into her golden years. Frances was tough—she survived. No rust had settled on her when she passed at the age of 86.

We do everything we can to keep rust out of our “things”. We undercoat our cars and get regular oil changes. We lubricate our tools, windows and doors. We use water softeners to keep it out of our plumbing, dishwashers and laundry … but what do we do for our bodies, our minds? Are you allowing yourself to rust? Your body? Your mind?

The tools we use regularly are in much better shape than those left on the shelf in the basement. Why? Because their parts are constantly moved, cleaned and lubricated while the ones sitting on the shelf quickly show signs of aging. Their moving parts squeak and they leave a rust residue when picked up.

Our bodies and minds work the same way. Those who are active and take care of their joints remain rust free much longer than those who sit and watch. Are you a doer or a watcher? The mind must be used and challenged regularly as well. When you reached your autumn years and retired did you put your mind on the shelf? Even if your body is active on the golf course, swimming pool, bicycling or hiking trails, what are you doing to keep your mind active and rust free?

Why not challenge it by opening new paths for it to travel? Don’t allow your brain to become a watcher instead of a doer. Shake it up by sending it in a completely different direction to the one it’s been familiar with for the past 30 or 40 years. I dealt with numbers and predetermined procedures all my working life. When I retired I switched to working with words and unencumbered imagination. Complete opposite side of the brain. I also started reading more and challenging myself to fully understand what I was reading. I joined a critiquing group for writers—a real exercise in getting into the heart and soul of a story, including my own. I wrote and published three novels. Two more are almost ready. Of course writing and publishing the novels is only the beginning. Heavy duty marketing follows. Then more writing.

My mind is relatively rust free but recently my body parts have started squeaking a little. Rust? I hope not. Time to step away from my computer and lubricate my joints. Maybe I’ll walk from the supermarket to the library today. Good idea. That will take care of my body and my brain.

AUTUMN BLUSH

Early Autumn in Richmond, ON  Photo by Sharon Law 

Cambridge Dictionary – Someone's autumn years are the later years of their life, especially after they have stopped working.

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The years between fifty and seventy are the hardest. You are always being asked to do things, and yet you are not decrepit enough to turn them down. T.S. Eliot on Age and Aging, Time Magazine, October 23, 1950.

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Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.  F. Scott Fitzgerald

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I named my publishing company 3rd Season. The characters in my novels, for the most part, are 55 Plus—in their autumn years. I am in the autumn of my years, the third season. Of the three definitions above, I liken myself to the one by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Life did start all over again for me when life turned crisp as it became fall.

My education and career path were in numbers but my passion was always words. As the autumn of my life approached I felt the need to put away the numbers and bring out the words. I shed my coat of black and white and burst forth with new energy in a coat of many colours. The colours of autumn. T.S. Eliot is right about one thing, I am not decrepit. I will argue with him though about the years between fifty and seventy (or more) being the hardest. I love these years and I write about characters who love these years also. They are enjoying the crispness of fall, the invigorating freshness in the air, the vitality of the colours. Life is starting all over again for them and for me.

I consider myself retired as in no longer working. I am a writer. Writing is allowing me to be Peter Pan flying off to Neverland whenever I choose. Like him, I’m never going to grow old. I’m never going to give up this colourful season called autumn. And even though I’m into full bloom—red, gold, rust and yellow, I feel like I am still in the blush of autumn, one bright flair of colour in summer's path of green. 

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