retirement-101 Blog

Let there be discovery & purpose in your new life.

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Memorial Day My Father My Son

Washington Post Opinions    Saturday, March 19, 2011

My father, my son   As a daughter and mother of soldiers, I’m conflicted about the war.

By Lisa Graff

I know nothing about war itself, but my mother’s explanations about my father’s military service during World War II have remained with me. She claimed that Dad got addicted to morphine when he was in the hospital in Europe. My father never really survived the war, she said, even though he came home in 1945 and together they raised six children.

Tom Hanks was interviewed in late 2009 about the World War II Museum in New Orleans, and my mind raced when I heard him say it was amazing how those men put their lives on the line for their country … and then just went back home and put up Christmas trees.

Every Christmas my father went alone to pick out a tree on a lot run by the local scout troop. Once he took me along. His breath smelled of bourbon and cigarettes. He seemed cheerful when he drove, not his usual angry self. I remember the smell of that tree lot and that the scoutmaster gave me lollipops to share with my sisters. That Christmas we pooled our money to buy our father the perfect gift: a shiny red ashtray and a bottle of Southern Comfort, a brand that he liked but that cost more than Jim Beam.

As an adult, I grasp the inappropriateness of this gesture. Growing up with an alcoholic, it becomes normal to give someone you love the thing that makes him happiest. My father would fill his glass with ice and bourbon and watch war movies late into the night. My mother talked to me about his nightmares and night sweats, but my father never once mentioned the war to me or my sisters. He died in November 1981, the day before Veterans Day, at 56 — the same age I am now. The doctor said he had a fifth of his liver left. His uniform hangs in my closet, and his Purple Heart and various pins are in my desk.

In 2007, my son joined the Army at age 21. My father never graduated from high school; he joined the Army so he could make a living. I could afford for my son to finish college, but he chose not to, despite my pleas. I told my son about the grandfather he never knew and about my classmates who didn’t come home from Vietnam; how I was tear-gassed at a D.C. rally when I was 19, embroidered peace signs on my jeans and hated Nixon for not bringing the troops home.

I wonder what advice my father would have given my son. If my father told him the truth about the horrors of war, would my son have listened? Would my father have said that any war was worth fighting?

I wept. And I am ashamed that I did not tell my son that I was proud of him that day because I was frightened for his future and, selfishly, for mine.

When my son completed boot camp, my husband and I were there to support him. There were so many young faces in uniform. All of us were searching the crowd for the glimpse of the one that was ours. My God, was I proud of him that day, and I did tell him. But I also noticed that so many of the graduating soldiers were only 19, 20, 21 or 22 and that many already had wives and a child or two to support.

There is a corner in my neighborhood where on many weekends two groups of Americans gather on opposite sides of the intersection. On the corner closest to me are signs that say things like “Support our troops” and “Honk if you support us.” They wave the American flag at passing cars.

On the opposite corner are protesters with banners saying “Send our troops home.” They wave the same red, white and blue flags. They say they love the same country.

As my son prepares for officer training this year, I feel torn: Can I stand in the middle of the street? I want to support the troops. I support my son. I did not support the invasion of Iraq and do not believe we will “win” in Afghanistan. Is there now a possibility that he could be sent to Libya? What I learned from my father and several presidents was a healthy disbelief in the idea that our government will do what is right. I would like to trust the generals and the president to know what is best for our nation and national security, but I am afraid that too many young people have died in vain. Maybe I am the coward.

Maybe I take my freedom for granted. If my son is killed or wounded in battle, I want proof that he died for the freedoms of protesters on both sides of the street. I pray that if he comes home wounded, inside or out, the military will support him psychologically so he can learn to live in a place that is not at war. I’d like for him to take pleasure in putting up a Christmas tree. I hope he can talk about it, because I would listen to every word and try to learn something.


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Downsizing should be easy

Because we are moving, we need to stage our home for perspective buyers. That means it needs to look like a home where nobody really lives. Excess furniture, knick knacks, pictures and house plants must disappear! Remove at least half of the clothes from your closets say the relators.

I hold in my hand a Brooks Brothers blouse which I have refused part with for 25 years because the buttons are unique and it was the most expensive blouse I ever bought. But it doesn’t fit me. Then there is a vintage dress my mother-in-law wore to a wedding that I wanted to give to my daughter and the Swiss costume that my husband’s grandparents wore when they sang in our wedding thirty-six years ago. I can’t just give away these items to a thrift store. Okay, the blouse maybe.

We are downsizing now that we are retired, but what if the children and future grandchildren need more room when they visit? Shouldn’t we invest in an upstairs for when they all come for the holidays? Truth—for the past 5 years we have traveled to see them.

So we could get the sunroom instead I offer. But what about storage my husband asks? He has refused to part with his grandmother’s mahogany twin poster beds, and matching dresser and vanity. Let’s buy the upstairs unfinished he suggests and then we can have room to store the stuff we may need later on! This is craziness. Maybe stupid.

Last Wednesday I visited my ninety year old aunt in a group home who doesn’t have any belongings with her except her clothes and hearing aids. Her previous home was filled with her lighthouse collection. Replicas adorned the fireplace; tea towels, magnets, shower curtains and throw rugs all featured historic lighthouses. I asked her, do you still have your lighthouses? Oh, yes, she smiled. I still have them.

My retirement goal is to try to give away some things. I’ll take them to the thrift store and let other people buy them. We all love to buy things which make us happy.  And our taste is unique like the buttons on my blouse. But then we somehow need new things or different things. Now my closets are half empty so that perspective buyers can imagine their clothes hanging there instead of mine. Once someone buys my house, I can buy a new one. “This is our last home,” my husband announces. “I am too old for all of this packing.” I don’t say what I am thinking. You might end up in one room like my aunt who still has all of her lighthouses.

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Today’s Decisions not Yesterdays

Retirees try to find volunteer work which makes them feel worthwhile. My husband is training to become a mentor to inmates who are ready to exit their jail cells and embark on a new life. So he and I have just been talking about making wise decisions and how some of us seem to practice good ones while others struggle even as adults. Most convicts land in jail in large part because they were not sober when they committed their crimes. For some incarceration means a sober life.

I lost my father, mother and one sister to the disease of alcoholism. I grew up with a father who lost his temper and I swore I would not become him. But sadly, my temper scared my own two children too often when they were growing up. They witnessed me trying to rescue my sisters and their children. The decision to attend weekly Al-a-non meetings was a long time coming, but today I practice the same steps as an alcoholic and focus on my own recovery. Not easy but it is a practice just like yoga—the aim is not perfection but change. The goal is to make better decisions based upon past experience.

The truth is that all of us make bad choices and then we live with the consequences. Prisoners must wonder if society will accept them—they have to learn to love themselves and forgive their transgressions just as we all do.   We are capable of change. Retirement brings new opportunities for personal growth. I admire my husband for deciding to serve his community. I know he can help someone because he has helped me.

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Lookee here–a Laptop for me!

photo (1)If I am going to blog, I need to be able to write anywhere. The problem is that all of my life I have written at a desk and I know I am seen as the proverbial dinosaur much like the previous generation who used only typewriters because they feared that new device–the computer. So here I am now in the living room with my Lenovo touch screen and windows 8 point something or other. whooohoooo. Coffee shops in quaint European cafes not far behind. I don’t what the hell I am doing!

My husband already wishes he never ordered it. The tutorial manual is on line but I can’t find it. “Ray, Can you help me?” I tried to transfer my pictures from my iPhone but only 96 came–where are the other 768? So I just sent one picture from my phone and found it on the desktop. Look how happy I appear. HELP ME. I could pay you. Cheaper than getting a divorce.

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Throughout elementary school there was always some social studies project about school safety or American Indians which required poster board and colored pencils and some artistic talent or least spatial knowledge so that you didn’t run out of room for the title. The pressure continued through high school and college—tests and term papers– looming over your head like cartoon bubbles saying, “YOU WILL NEVER MAKE IT!” Then you enter the workforce and the stress mounted but at least there was a paycheck.  Is it any wonder that retirees forget that they can stop the merry-go-round. Now the projects should be of your own choosing and the deadlines arbitrary.

I had this idea that the only way I could be a successful writer is to write every day. If I began a blog or a Facebook Page, it would be great discipline to post a new entry every day or every other day. Without thinking I have created a dummy deadline. Every blog must say something important or be well-written. I have standards to uphold and potential publishers who may read my work and catapult me to fame. I am not going to post pictures of my lunch.

I think most people like a routine because then they know what is expected and they can know exactly what I coming. I guess some writers establish a routine so that they feel like they accomplish something, but just pitting any words on a page is not working for me.

My latest insights on my Facebook page indicate that I have the same number of followers last week as I do this week, Yet my weekly total reach was down 32.9% from last week. The reason is that people read my column but it only comes out every two weeks. Sorry, folks. I will try to post something interesting in the interim, but yesterday was a glorious sunny day and I didn’t want to have to write about it.


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