Traveling Route 55: A Midlife Journey

The Empress Has No Clothes

2007-03-24T08:36:00.000-04:00

It's funny, in a slightly pathetic way, to reflect now on the shenanigans I pulled while trying not to look, act, or think like a 50-something person at my office. I badly wanted to make the final leap into my company's senior executive ranks and worked like a Trojan towards that end, but as I passed 50, people five to ten years my junior started getting the recognition and rewards I wanted for myself, and I began to feel stalled.

I pushed harder and harder -- too hard, especially after I entered my 50th year and my internal promotion clock was ticking loudly enough to wake the dead. I routinely logged 60-hour weeks, much of it head-down in my office scratching away at the endless stream of administrivia or restlessly warming a seat at 'required' meetings which gulped six hours of my schedule every single day. I trotted between the four buildings on our corporate campus as much as five times a day for meetings. I had no time for myself, my staff, or, really, much of anything besides the mounting chorus of deadlines and responsibilities that my job entailed.

When my annual 360-degree feedback survey reported that I was seen as overly focused on my own goals and lacking consideration for peers and staff, I was assigned an executive coach. I knew this was not an entirely benign event -- at my company, coaches were often a token nod to fairness, a way of saying, "See? We're giving her all the help she needs, and every chance to change!" even as management is drafting a bad performance review. They were handed out like baby aspirin to hapless executives who got any negative upper feedback from one or another died-in-the-wool malcontent among their staff, because our management's devotion to fairness was tepid compared to its flaming passion for avoiding lawsuits.

Nonetheless, I needed to lighten up my image somehow, so I listened to my coach, who was former CIA psychiatrist possessing a clear eye for corporate politics and considerable experience with the games played at my particular bureaucracy. He told me that my ability and performance record were solid as a rock, but, unfortunately, I'd gained a reputation for being as hard-headed as a rock, too. I wasn't generally viewed as a strong team player because I couldn't be counted on to follow the plays unless my boss or I called 'em. In the end, my coach's advice was simple: catch flies with honey -- smile more, laugh more, dress more casually, speak more softly, be with my colleagues and staff more, show more interest in the needs of others, share more of the warm person my friends and family knew.

How wildly ironic! The armour of stern discipline and relentless task focus I wore in the workplace was donned to hide and protect a too-nice, sentimental caretaker underneath. I grew up in the kind of dysfunctional household that breeds codependency, and my role was that of good little girl who gets along somehow without bothering anyone else. I care too much about what other people want and too little about what I want, when it comes right down to it. I am a softie, a pushover, the person who compulsively offers to help everyone else and asks for nothing more than maybe a smile in return. I was trained for loyalty, self sufficiency, and obedience. Being in command is only possible for me when I can view it, too, as a form of servitude: to corporate mission, to division goals, to department deliverables.....and then I am indeed singleminded in my resolve to serve, and unsympathetic with all those who waver from such dedication to task.

I felt thoroughly misunderstood, but on the other hand, if shedding my cold armour for something warm and fuzzy would help accomplish my career objectives, fine with me. It would be a snap for me to show warmth and cheer, far easier than it had ever been to suppress that part of my nature. Within six months, my coach reported that people around me were astonished by how I'd "changed". Suddenly they saw me as caring, supportive, reliable, approachable, even funny!

And only I knew what a price I was at risk of paying. The more open and accessible to others I was, the more I also was drawn into enabling their needs at the expense of my own. It was inevitable for a person like me. The old armour had merely minimized the number of people I let get close enough to trigger my Pavlovian response of helpfulness and self-sacrifice. Without it, I was dangerously vulnerable to users and manipulators. I still needed some kind of competitive edge, and it had to be something less threatening than my former unflinching drive for results. What now, I wondered?

My coach recommended new packaging. "For people to see you differently than in the past, you need to look different any way you can," he said, "as well as speak and act differently."

So I paid more attention to clothes, shoes, nail polish, makeup, exercise, diet, and hair cut and color at 54 than I ever did at 24. I lost twenty pounds and two dress sizes, raised my hemlines 3 inches, strutted around in really high heels, and (gasp) even stopped wearing pantyhose, which for someone as traditional as me was tantamount to going without a bra. (At least I didn't do that. Instead, I spent three hours and $400 in Victoria's Secret one evening buying push-up bras and discovering thong underwear.) I got purses to match my shoes, and jewelry to complement my outfits, and essentially treated myself like a Barbie doll to be dressed and primped from head to toe. I was the one of the best-dressed women in the whole company: everything was coordinated, somewhat sophisticated, a little form-fitting.

There was one pair of 4" open-toed black and white patent leather stiletto heel shoes that probably were over the top, I admit. I just couldn't resist the sexy little twitch of my hips that walking way up on tippy-toes gave me, and my legs were still long and slender enough to show off. I also greatly enjoyed being taller than my new executive management, as if literally looking down at them gave me some sort of control over what they could do to me. I liked the feeling so much that soon I found myself with several pairs of 4" heels; I could loom over these guys any day of the week.

"I just want to look good for my years," I said, disingenuously, when someone commented on how I'd changed my style from basic sensible corporate drone to snazzy happenin' business gal.

I was more than a little proud of being a borderline size 4 with well-defined abs instead of tummy fat, but I knew a woman with over 50 years of life under her belt had to be careful how much "younger" she dressed before it became the wrong kind of eye-catching. And anyway, the bags under my eyes and deepening marionette lines bracketing my mouth pegged me as a matronly sort no matter what kind of glad rags I draped on my svelte-by-iron-will frame. I stopped losing weight when I heard one too many murmurs of concern over how gaunt I appeared; without a facelift, which I simply couldn't figure out how to accomplish undiscovered, the thinning skin on my face and neck needed some underlying fat to help it resist gravity!

I never actually lied about my age, however. I liked how surprised people seemed when they learned I wasn't in my early 40s, as so many said they had assumed. And I certainly didn't want anyone to think I was some kind of sad aging woman trying to deny the harsh realities of time. My appearance became, for me, a sort of metaphor of adaptabilty. I think I wanted people to see I could be and do almost anything when I put my mind to it. Maybe if my updated facade caught the new upper management team's eye, they'd also look hard enough to see my talent and upward potential.

Truth was, I labored under the massive delusion that looking good was more than half the battle; throughout my career I'd noticed that, all other things being even anywhere near equal, a very attractive woman had the edge over a drab or slovenly one. Wouldn't that still work at midlife?

And it's true, once I'd spiffed up my act, I received a lot more attention than I had in a long time. I was getting compliments right up until my short, cold-eyed new boss informed me I was being led out to pasture on my long stiletto-heeled legs. In fact, I looked quite stunning the day Human Resources collected my signed severance agreement, my Blackberry, my security badge, my laptop, and my executive office keys.

A Chilly Wind

2006-10-24T22:15:00.000-04:00

The weather is changing; fall is here, and winter not far behind. The year is drawing to a close. I will turn 56 on December 26, only two months from now -- strictly speaking, that will mark the end of my Route 55 journey. Ten months into it, what have I learned?

The time has raced by much more quickly than I could ever have imagined. I guess that means I've learned what it's like to relax and just let things happen as they will......I certainly haven't tried to choreograph this year. I've simply looked to see where a door was opening and walked inside. Everything felt pretty temporary, which also meant that nothing felt overly unbearable. "This, too, will pass" applied to any inconvenience or unpleasantness I encountered. Nothing was permanent, after all.

I learned that I love being at home and focusing on my own little world. Having left the corporate nest, I can look back now and see how stifling it often was. I can let myself realize how much I chafed under the daily grind and how deeply I longed for freedom from responsibility and deadlines. I vividly remember one day in early spring when I brazenly spent 10 whole minutes doing nothing more productive than watching a bee wash itself in our bird bath. I was having a great time just sitting in the mild April sunshine observing an insect diligently scrub itself. I found it as (or more) worthwhile a use of time than toiling in the executive office ranks. Was this an acquisition of wisdom or a time-out from adulthood? I don't know, but I felt in such harmony with my environment that I treasure the memory as an example of what it's like to "just be".

I have learned, too, that I find other people continually interesting and poignant and rewarding and frustrating and unknowable and yet akin to myself. I have spent most of this year in the company of strangers, and I have discovered that I am a good observer. I have watched without judgement. I can describe what I see, but more often I am pulled by a need to express, in poetry or in photos, the emotional currents I feel surrounding these new people. I look at the tableaux they present and find them sometimes heartbreaking, sometimes amusing, always informative. People just living their lives, with me as an onlooker for a slice of it. They cannot imagine how much I can see, and it's better that way.

Being in near-constant close proximity to my spouse for the past ten months means I have come to understand more about the landscape of my marriage. It's felt like being in a lab experiment; we've spent nearly every hour of this year together. It's good to find that we still have a lot of fun together; we can share laughter and silence in equal contentment. It's scary to discover that we still have black moments too, times which rip me like a wild animal's cruel claws. Although these are few, I have learned that I hate and fear them. I think he does too; I have noticed that we both keep a wary eye out for those dangerous moments now. We no longer flirt with the temptation to stir things up just for the drama of it. So in the end, I can say I like being with my husband nearly all of the time, I have finally accepted the reality that it's impossible to like being with anyone else more than that, and I feel lucky to have reached this point.

I have not yet determined what I want to do next in my work life. As the chilly winds of winter approach, blowing away the comfortable sunny days of boat season, it's necessary for me to decide about that. I am less reluctant now than I was ten months ago to deal with this step. I am beginning to have some thoughts, at last, about what I might want to do. But I have two more months to go in this Route 55 journey -- there are signposts yet ahead.

Role Call

2006-10-07T15:45:00.000-04:00

For the past seven months, I've mainly been living and working aboard pleasure boats, mostly motor yachts of 70' or less. My husband is a delivery captain, and since my departure from corporate America at the start of this year I've been coming along as a sort of first mate and deckhand. In that role, I was to help navigate, stand watch, occasionally take a turn at the helm, routinely handle lines, and such, while my husband would formally shoulder the full range of marine delivery responsibilities. Incidentally, he's the one getting paid; we decided not to bill the clients for me. The idea was mainly for me to learn and enjoy sharing my husband's trips on the generally beautiful coastal waters and bays he works.

The two of us expected that we'd be doing a series of deliveries unaccompanied by owners, which appealed to me because of the privacy and schedule flexibility that would give us. I wouldn't have an audience for my fledgling attempts at piloting and docking. We'd also get to become acquainted with new ports and cruising waters while on somebody else's boat and payroll. We'd have the run of the boat, rather than being crammed into small crew's quarters. I'd be able to see that my husband was getting enough rest, eating well, and staying safe. Under those circumstances, it sounded pretty good, and I felt my just compensation would be in the form of travel, fun with my husband, and improved boating savvy.

Well, that's what we thought last April when we began with a Bahamas-to-Florida delivery. However, since then, nearly all our jobs have been with owners present, even though the vessels aren't really so large that they need a crew to operate. (It turns out that insurance companies often require relatively inexperienced owners to cruise only with a licensed captain aboard.) And with owners, their family, and friends on board, my original role quickly expanded to include a mix of housekeeper, laundress, cook, stewardess, photographer, and companion tasks. Somehow I wound up being the Boat Mom on top of being the First Mate.

What's a Boat Mom? Well, I'm a pleaser and a caregiver, so in my case it means that I am constantly attuned to everyone else's needs and try to anticipate what others will want even before they are conscious of those desires. Failing that, I try to foresee contingencies and have the necessary items on hand. I strive to be a soothing, encouraging, unflappable presence in order to help our clients feel relaxed and safe no matter what my real assessment of the weather or equipment situation is.

What does a Boat Mom do? Basically what any Mom does. I practice Mom Magic to help keep the floating home front peaceful and running smoothly. I look out for the best interests of the group. I monitor the yacht for breakables to stow, dishes to wash, trash to empty, spills to prevent or clean up, doors and portholes to secure properly, and clients to gently steer away from dangerously exposed portions of the yacht while underway. When needed, I cook, I serve, I shop, I clean, I do laundry, I walk dogs, usually without complaint. I pretend not to hear things best left alone, and I scrupulously avoid any show of favoritism. All the while, I try to maintain an air of dignity and competence.

By the way, since we stuck to the initial decision not to charge for me, this meant that I was essentially unpaid domestic help in addition to being unpaid marine staff. My workload grew, while my compensatory relaxation time shrank, and I slept in a narrow bunk bed instead of on a comfortable queen mattress. The deal wasn't looking quite so good, even though most of our clients and their guests were enjoyable and interesting and they wanted us to take them places we wanted to go too. Living in such close quarters for a week or two at a time with strangers is always a gamble anyway; I felt grateful that we were lucky more often than not. The few exceptions sure taught me some valuable lessons about how not to treat other people.

Unfortunately, I did struggle mightily to learn what my husband the Captain expected his First Mate to do and to meet his performance standards. This was much more difficult than mastering the Boat Mom role. Being a pretty green yachtie myself, I am no better than a C-Grade mate and dockhand yet, and truth to tell, my husband is a startlingly harsh taskmaster with a scary lack of patience and a habit of pulling rank. Sometimes I think his leadership motto is "the flogging will cease when morale improves". Because of my strong need to please and to feel appreciated, this treatment hurts badly. Frankly there were a few episodes so unpleasant that I wanted nothing more than to quit. A woman with more spunk and fire would probably have slapped his face and stalked off the boat to the nearest Ritz-Carlton without a backward glance, but how do I resign as First Mate while remaining as Life Mate?

It's a most unwelcome dilemma for a personality like mine. Yet I think that my Route 55 journey has brought me to this place for the express purpose of forcing me to resolve it. At the next 'role call', what will I answer?

Shuffling Off To Buffalo

2006-08-01T22:25:00.000-04:00

I guess my dear husband thinks that being middle-aged and unemployed gives me ample excuse to indulge in whatever pursuit stirs me. Fretting that the double whammy of turning 55 and getting laid off might send me under a rock for a few months, he decided to encourage one of my more frivolous interests. Inside the nicely wrapped gift box he presented me one day, I found a new pair of tap shoes, dance pants, and a registration form for six months of lessons at a local dance studio.

What fun! I've wanted to tap dance ever since I saw 5-year-old Shirley Temple do it so adorably in The Littlest Colonel!! Within a few days I showed up for my first session, shiny black tap shoes at the ready. My classmates and teacher were all women, and to my relief, I was not the oldest: Two students were in their seventies if they were a day. A good sign, I thought; if little girls like Shirley Temple and elderly ladies like these could learn to tap, surely it would be possible for a newly minted middle-ager like me.

Our instructor was a waif with the form and hairstyle of a Raggedy Andy doll. The top of her head only came to my chin and she probably weighed 95 pounds. She'd been a dancer for decades, as well as a gymnastics teacher, and effortlessly flopped and folded and bounced herself across the floor while we watched, intimidated.

She'd been teaching tap for a long time -- too long, I soon decided. She had forgotten, or maybe no longer cared, about how long it takes adult non-dancers to get their brains and limbs in sync. She expected the six of us to master new steps after only a couple of run-throughs, and if someone wanted another repetition or some special attention, she would pull her tiny self as tall as possible and shake her mop top 'no'. "We are moving on," she'd sternly say.

Since the class only met once a week for an hour, most of us tended to forget nearly everything we had barely been able to mimic the previous week. Our blank stares and tentative shuffling about were sure signs of how much further and further behind we were falling, but our teacher resolutely continued showing us more new steps and combinations we had little hope of conquering. I kept going to class, but at the rate I was learning, it would be many months before I could perform an entire routine.

I needed an instructor who would repeat him or her self endlessly for my benefit, if that's what it took for me to learn, but that wasn't going to happen with my flesh and blood teacher. I turned to the internet, and after poring through descriptions of dozens of dance instruction tapes, I found her -- Ginger. She looked friendly enough in the picture on her DVD cover, and her DVD promo declared that I would quickly "Learn to Tap with Ginger!". She was affordable, too: only $14.95. Soon she arrived at my door, courtesy of Fed Ex, and we went to my exercise room for our first class together.

It turned out that I couldn't stand Ginger. First of all, she spoke English with some kind of thick Eastern European accent, as if her name should be Helga instead of Ginger (and likely was). She'd stress the wrong syllables in a word and pronouce the vowels differently than we do; I could hardly tell what she was telling me to do. Secondly, she dressed funny. Her tap dance costumes looked like they came straight out of some 1940's closet.....the black fishnet hose were probably most offputting. It was hard to concentrate on her footwork when she wore such wince-worthy, unattractive garb. Worst of all -- and this was the clincher that made me punch the Eject button -- Ginger's music tracks were truly atrocious, and her footwork didn't keep up with the beat! I couldn't bear to watch. Ginger got the hook.

I returned to the internet and chose another instructional tape featuring someone I knew and liked: Bonnie Franklin, who had the role of "Annie" on Broadway as a child and later became a successful TV actress. When Bonnie came to my house in her little CD jacket, I knew from the start that we'd get along. She ladled out praise and encouragement as if it were champagne punch at an outdoor wedding on a scorching August day. Every other sentence was "Great job!" or "You are looking terrific!" or "You should be proud of yourself!". Bonnie also never tired of backing up to go over a step or sequence again....and again.....and again........... She always had a broad, infectious smile for me. I worked hard for Bonnie! And I learned more from her $18.00 CD than I did in my $300 dance class, and most certainly more than I learned from Ginger.

So here I am, a 55-year-old woman who now can perform paddle rolls, time steps, soft shoe routines, and shuffle off to Buffalo with the rest of the herd. Is this a worthy accomplishment for someone of my age? Well, I don't know about that, but I can assure you it is a whole lot of fun for someone of my age! And maybe that's what Route 55 is about -- finding your sources of delight and fun in life before you reach the end of the road.

A New York State of Mind

2006-07-30T21:44:00.000-04:00

A good deal of my Route 55 journey so far has been by sailboat or motoryacht. Pleasure boats like these move slowly, break down at the most inopportune moments, are gut-wrenchingly expensive to own, and sometimes exude a nasty potpourri of diesel fuel, bilge odor, and head fumes. But they do offer a front-row seat at some of the most mindblowing shows in life. Here's one.

This is Manhattan as seen from the New Jersey side of the Hudson River. The setting sun's rays reflecting off glass-sided buildings made it look like a city of gold.

We were entertained by some of the best fireworks I've ever seen, and for good measure, a big summer moon slowly sailed by the Empire State Building's spire. At one point it looked just like a huge pearl onion on a toothpick like you'd put in a martini glass.

This sunset shot was taken in Baltimore's Inner Harbor. There is no place better than a boat to see the sun strut its stuff, I believe. I could make a book of all the gorgeous sunsets and sunrises I've captured on film, and maybe I will now that I have the time!

A Spring to Savor

2006-07-28T09:09:00.000-04:00

1956 was the last time I was free to simply experience the tender days of April and tempting days of May without schedule or responsibilities. Unfortunately, I was only five and blissfully ignorant that starting first grade in the fall would drastically change my life. I never dreamed half a century would pass before most of my springtime daylight hours were no longer spent cooped up inside either a school or work building. Fifty Springs largely unobserved, barely enjoyed, hardly noted!

Life being what it is, the preoccupations of growing up and meeting an adult's endless obligations kept me so busy that I did not even realize what I had been missing. But this Spring, my Route 55 midlife journey ensured that I was present once again at long last, and now I shake my head in amazement. How could I possibly have borne such a long deprivation?

This year I noticed the first February morning that the crisp air floated birdsong to my ears. I was able to watch the gradual greening of lawn and trees around my home as the days lengthened. I was there to clap my hands in delight when the daffodils in my small patio garden unfurled their cheerful bright bonnets one sunny March morning. The jubilant shouts of vivid yellow forsythia hedges in our neighborhood seemed aimed at me this year: "It's spring! Life is good! Enjoy every minute!" they cheered.

Best of all, I was free to spend an entire weekday afternoon strolling through fragrant groves of blooming cherry trees right at their perfect peak in April. When my husband and I moved north to a new home near Washington, DC, we consoled ourselves for the loss of our beautiful Southern dogwoods and azaleas by thinking about the city's famously beautiful cherry blossoms. That first year, I begged off work for a couple of hours in the late afternoon during peak bloom week, and the two of us created a lasting ritual. Nature is its centerpiece, but we work in some patriotism too.

First, we ride the Orange Line Metro to the Smithsonian station, walk to the Tidal Basin, and mingle with the crowds walking around its periphery. We always pause at the Thomas Jefferson Memorial for a brief rest and to read yet again the inspiring thoughts carved there. Next, we hike to the Lincoln Memorial, where we linger and admire the glorious view down the Mall. Then, we troop by the eerily real Korean War Memorial (I always get goosebumps) to the place where we visit Maxie Williams, and finally, we end up at the Round Robin Bar in the Willard Hotel to consume a number of T&Ts while watching the politicos and power players who frequent the place. We weave and giggle our way back to the Metro and home well after dark. Ah, Spring has sprung!

A word about Maxie. No Spring celebration is complete without remembering him. Maxie Williams was a young Marine who died alongside my husband one Spring day in Vietnam. Rain or shine, our ritual always includes visiting Maxie's place in the Vietnam War Memorial. My husband stands lost in solemn thought for several minutes, but he says nothing; the emotions are too powerful for words. I press my warm palm over Maxie's name carved in the stone, the closest I can get to a hug. I close my eyes and silently thank Maxie for his service, his sacrifice, and his part in helping my Marine husband return home alive and safe. "It's a lovely spring day, Maxie," I tell him. "A spring to savor."

Cruising

2006-07-24T23:34:00.000-04:00

Did I mention that I'm a sailor?

My husband and I own a 41' sloop, aptly named "Simply Irresistible" because once we'd seen her, we couldn't resist shelling out a lot of money for the privilege of owning her. We've had her for eight memorable years. Many happy days, and a few harrowing ones, have been spent within her spacious cockpit and cozy interior. Our dog Jake has legs just long enough to scramble up and down the companionway, and he is a good seadog with hundreds of open water miles to his credit.

Most people don't know how comfortable sailboats can be. Ours boasts a lovely teak interior, light leather settees, two queen sized staterooms, a full shower bath, and a galley as well equipped as any home kitchen, only smaller. We can live aboard her if we want to, and in fact have done so for several weeks at a time as we cruise our home waters and beyond.

The Captain (my husband) and I had planned to spend this year's entire sailing season aboard Simply Irresistible; traveling Route 55 was definitely going to have a lengthy water leg. That part of the plan has come to pass, even though we have only been on our own boat for about one week. As it turned out, Route 55's float plan calls for us to deliver other people's yachts all up and down the Eastern Seaboard and Caribbean this year. Though a little unexpected, these opportunities are too good to pass up -- we are actually getting paid to do something we love. Even better, we get to share our passion for boating with our clients, who are usually long on money and short on boathandling savvy. They both need and appreciate our help.

The Captain has been doing this sort of work for a few years already, and now that I'm on Route 55, I'm free to go with him as First Mate. This has been an interesting experience too. On our own sailboat, he's still the Captain and I am First Mate, but we share work and tasks much like we do at our house.....roles are fluid and whatever needs to be done, gets done when one of us can take it on. However, when we're on a client's boat I am First Mate foremost and Life Mate secondmost. I have a set of well-defined tasks to perform and a high standard to meet. He doesn't cut me any slack, and he can be scathing in his critique of my performance should I fall short of his expectations. Then again, he holds himself to that same standard.

By and large, we do well. I am a hard worker, I do love boats and being on the water, and overall it's fun. Doing this together has taken us from the Bahamas to Canada so far this summer, and in a couple of weeks we'll be heading to Maine with another client. When October rolls around, we'll still have a few weeks to enjoy sailing Simply Irresistible. Unless someone has a nice big yacht they want delivered to the Islands for the winter, that is!

Jake

2006-07-06T13:01:00.000-04:00

Travelling Route 55 is more fun with my little buddy Jake along. No matter what happens, or how rattled I may get, he stays calm and keeps me focused on the really important things: food, sleep, and regular bathroom breaks. He doesn't criticize my driving ability or choice of itinerary, and best of all, he is ready to cuddle whenever I am.

Because it's been a rainy summer so far, outdoor travel and play is more infrequent than usual for us both. We resort to indoor games while the heavens are gloomy. Patience and adaptability is another lesson I learn from being around Jake, who (come to think of it) seems to understand that as long as you're with someone you love, any trip can be a good one.

RED SQUEAK BALL

Jake's a little restless today --
it's raining, and he cannot play
outside as he would like to do.

Never mind, I'm restless too.

Maybe we can entertain
ourselves by throwing the ball....again.

Over and over, the red squeak ball
gets tossed and bounces
down the hall.

Jake scrambles madly every time
to bring it back
(he knows it's mine).

He sits, and pants excitedly
to share again
a game with me.

Remembering Noah

2006-07-06T08:09:00.000-04:00

It's been raining a lot this month. We had the wettest June in 51 years, according to the weather people. About two weeks ago, 12 inches of rain fell in just 48 hours, inspiring me to set a personal rainy day record -- 8 hours using the wet vac in our suddenly flooded basement storeroom. I'd never even turned the wet vac on before the afternoon when massive thunderstorms prompted me to walk downstairs and "just check". To my horror, I found standing puddles of water already in the storeroom, and the casement window looked like an aquarium: rainwater was two thirds up the windowpane and still rising. Water squirted through the window sill like some kind of bizarre wall fountain spraying onto the rivulets streaming from under the baseboard. As the deluge continued outdoors, I struggled to sop up water with dozens of towels before I remembered the wet vac outside in our detached garage, and braved the lightening and sheets of rain to drag it indoors.

Global warming, climate change, ozone layer depletion, over crowding, over fishing, overdevelopment.....these are among the complaints of environmentalists who warn of impending disaster. In my own way, I've been a life-long Greenie, and I believe that Mother Earth is suffering from a severe people infestation. My feeling is that some day, perhaps even the days in which we are now living, Nature will decide to take matters in her own hands. It won't be the first time, after all.

REMEMBERING NOAH

The heavens sobbed again last night;
rain torrents fled from barking thunder
and vicious lightning scorched the path
of laments falling from the skies,
as if Nature had only just learned
of long abuse by careless mankind
and, distraught, cried disillusionment
while reciting her loud recriminations.

A chaotic wind flailed weeping trees.
They rocked like women in wild despair.

Three nights and days has Nature raged,
pausing only to fill her lungs
before resuming her watery tirade.

Is this what Noah heard?

We too should listen with awe and fear
of what She will do
when She realizes all.

WHEN

2006-07-05T20:34:00.000-04:00

One of the sadder sights on Route 55 is a matter of the heart. Sometimes this road takes even long-wedded couples so far from familiar territory that they begin to question everything, including if they still love each other. For some, maybe it's suddenly spending a whole lot more time together that creates opportunity for closer scrutiny than most marriages can afford. For others, maybe it's that only one of the two is able to accept that travelling Route 55 always changes a person, and that the roads of their shared past are no longer passable.

Regardless of cause, I have seen a few 50-something couples veer their vehicle onto the shoulder of this road, get out, and walk away in separate directions. Once I saw a car simply slow down just enough for a man to jump out, shouting and shaking his fist in fury at his fast-departing spouse. She didn't even glance in the rearview mirror; I rather think that relationship had just blown up like an overinflated tire speared by a large jagged piece of metal laying in the road.

One of my friends is experiencing this aspect of her Route 55 trip. She and her soon-to-be Ex have agreed their marriage suffers from a totally dead battery, she says, and her husband believes the best way to get juice back in their lives is for both of them to find someone new. She's not so sure. She wonders if she has any reservoir of juice left at all. She worries about who will want a woman in her fifties with bags under her eyes and cellulite on her thighs. She hasn't dated since disco was hot; she's quietly terrified by the prospect. She asks, plaintively, "Will I ever love again? Will anyone else ever love me again?" .

This poem is for her.

WHEN

It begins in the place where two people face
each other, most often by chance,
and a small inner voice whispers, "You've got a choice;
walk away, or begin a romance?"

We know love's unkind all too much of the time,
and we're scarred even though we survived
the hard knocks and losses and cruel double crosses
we didn't quite take in our stride.

Yet sooner or later (it's our human nature),
our hearts want to risk all again.
And willing or no, that's just how it will go --
the question's not "Will I?", it's "When?"

For it's true that occasionally I have seen Route 55 bring lovers together. Times when two cars, each carrying only one person, will suddenly pull over; one driver gets out, eagerly climbs into the other car, and a happy new pair proceeds together on their journey of discovery. That's something to smile about. I want my friend to know that even on Route 55, there's plenty of places to find love again. Some people just take longer than others to reach one.

A Final Road Trip

2006-06-27T14:54:00.000-04:00

At age 55, my mother was soon to marry a man more than 20 years her junior, and the age difference was only one reason why he seemed as unlikely a mate as anyone could have imagined for her. Mom is college educated, a voracious reader, and big-city urbane. Her husband-to-be never got past sixth grade, cannot read or write, and is red-neck rural. Yet when they somehow fell in love, my mother never looked back: it was pedal to the metal all the way. She was zooming along Route 55.

One thing Mom and her new love had very much in common was wanderlust. The two of them were always getting in the car and disappearing for days, just driving wherever fancy dictated. They especially loved to get lost and did so on purpose if it didn't happen by itself. Mom said that was how to make the most delightful surprise discoveries. She could read a map if they had one, and her husband had the excellent memory of an illiterate if they didn't, so finding the way back home was never a worry.

Being behind the wheel also used to be my mother's favorite stress relief; when troubles weighed heavy, she was likely to get out on the open road and head somewhere to clear her mind. So when she recently announced an intention to drive nearly 1,000 miles alone, I suspected that she was upset about something. Her stated reason for the trip was the failing health of her 89 year old brother, her only surviving sibling. She felt time was running short for them to see one another again. What hung unspoken between us was our mutual knowledge that her health is as precarious as his, if not more so. Whose remaining time was she really worried about?

Mom's driving ability these days is impaired by poor eyesight and lack of stamina. Mostly she restricts herself to daytime driving on familiar local streets, while her husband handles the occasional long distance driving they still do. 2,000 miles round trip by herself? I have an idea, I said; why didn't I come along to do the driving? Absolutely not, she replied. This was a drive she wanted to make alone, she would not be dissuaded, and how dare I denigrate her driving skills? (Yes, she really uses words like "denigrate"). She may be old, but she wasn't dead yet, Mom declared, and she would do what she wanted while she still could!

And so she did. First she drove the 600 miles to my house, which exhausted her so much that she slept most of the following four days. Energy somewhat restored, she left for her brother's on a Sunday and was to return home eight days later. Throughout that time, I diligently practiced the fine art of denial: Mom driving hundreds of miles in the congested Northeast? Not gonna think about it. Record-breaking rains and flash floods along her route home? Not gonna think about that, either. Just gonna wait for the home-safe call she promised to make.

When the phone finally rang with my mother's home number displayed on the Phone ID screen, I let out the breath I'd been holding for a week. How was your trip? I asked, silently praising the heavens for getting her home safely. Those were the last words I uttered for the next 20 minutes, as my mother poured out an emotional story of her visit, including repeated vows to never again hazard the New Jersey Turnpike. I listened, and after we hung up, I wrote this poem about what she told me.

THE FINAL ROAD TRIP

I had to come, though everyone said
"You're too old to drive" and "stay home instead."
I'm sure they meant well; still, I gave 'em the slip,
and I headed north on another road trip.

Though I'm over eighty, the road's kind to me.
I know how to take it where I have to be.
I paused when I needed to eat or to sleep,
then kept heading north on another road trip.

In just a few days, I made it to you,
exactly as I had promised to do.
When you clasped my hands in your shaky grip,
I knew I'd been right to risk this road trip.

You barely can hear and hardly can walk!
Be that as it may, we still managed to talk
and laugh over how we've lost most of the zip
that used to propel us on many a trip.

I had to come to you, as both of us know,
for soon you'll be travelling where I cannot go.
And although I left with a smile on my lips,
I guess we've both taken our final road trips.

It Runs In the Family

2006-06-18T17:08:00.000-04:00

Route 55 takes me by my mother's home much more often than my previous path did. For most of my adult life, it has always taken serious advance planning to swerve out of the fast lane for a rushed 600 mile detour to the farm in Tennessee where she lives.

About 35 years ago, Mom and Dad dismayed the entire family by abruptly leaving the city where they'd raised most of us five children for someplace we'd never even heard of in southern Appalachia. We were incredulous when one day they simply announced the purchase of a 30-acre farm. What a shock to find they had this secret plan! It sure knocked the assumption that our parents would grow old right there, close to all of us, all out of whack.

A farm????? With horses, cows, and other barnyard animals, we were told. This information baffled us further, since both our parents were born and bred in Long Island, NY. Not a single word of interest or yearning for bucolic bliss had any of us ever heard. Had they been watching too many episodes of Green Acres? My dad was no Eddie Albert, and Mom was sure no Eva Gabor.

We could not understand, either, why they bought a place some hour's drive away from our mother's new job in Chattanooga. She was always exhausted as it was from her present job only 15 minutes from home. All that extra driving wouldn't improve matters, especially since we all figured she'd do most of the farm chores, too. Our father did not lift a finger around the house, and we were betting that he wouldn't do much around a farm either. We couldn't even imagine him coming near a cow, much less milking or feeding or cleaning up after farm animals.

It was all a mystery to us. Yet within a month, our parents had packed up their clothes and books, put my mother's enormous white German shepherd in the car, and moved. This was in 1971 -- the year, I now realize with a jolt of comprehension, that my father turned 55.

The Verdict on Lay

2006-06-01T12:03:00.000-04:00

Mailed from somewhere on Route 55:

Dear Judge,

A jury has found Ken Lay, former CEO of Enron, guilty of fraud, insider trading, conspiracy, and other serious charges brought against him by the U.S. government.

No sympathy here. I think Lay bears responsibility not only for America's biggest corporate pileup since 1929 but also for many thousands of devastating individual career crashes. Sure, Lay didn't personally eliminate all our jobs, but the events leading to our plight can be traced back to him and Enron. And we'd like some justice.

I especially speak for those abruptly shuttled onto what I call "Route 55" -- not a road gladly travelled by midlife professionals. Companies put you on it when earnings pressure and bad PR send them looking for expenses to cut. By now it's no secret that employees anywhere near 55 are prime targets. They may pretty it up with an "early retirement" label, but it's still an involuntary layoff.

Not surprisingly, I turned 55 just one week before I was bumped off the fast lane and onto the rough pavement I now travel. There's quite a traffic jam here, by the way. People are upset and milling about, some crawling along in a glum daze, some stuck on the shoulder with overheated radiators or empty gas tanks, some trapped in SUVs full of shouting, unhappy family members. The kids are whining and the old folks are querulous. They're getting hungry and a little frightened by traveling on a strange road with no idea where they are headed.

It will take years to unknot this mess, Your Honor, and I hope you will take Ken Lay to account for helping create it. Some people say it's only the system to blame, but I say that what hit us had Lay's license plate number all over it! Consider the factors leading to my own small incident.

THE ENRON PILE-UP: Ken Lay drives Enron into disaster. Thousands of employees, debtors, and shareholders hit the wall right behind it.

THE ANDERSEN WRECK: The government and SEC pursue Enron's auditors, Arthur Andersen, until they crash and burn too.

THE MOVING VIOLATIONS: My company's new replacement auditors swiftly cry foul on certain accounting procedures which Andersen had blessed.

THE EXECUTIVE CONVICTIONS: Most of our senior executives are found guilty of Driving Under the Influence (of Andersen) and fired. Several are sued.

THE EMERGENCY TECHNICIANS: We recruite a new executive team who promptly begin classic corporate triage treatment: downsizing, cost cutting, and outsourcing.

THE TOW TRUCKS: A chain of career rear-end collisions rapidly develops at my firm. It takes a few months, but eventually: Crash!! And then I'm towed away to Route 55.

Judge, this is why it seems to me that the loss of my job, my bosses' jobs, our auditors' jobs, and a legion of Enron employees' jobs all lead back to Ken Lay. And I can call on any number of others sitting in this traffic jam to roll down their windows and testify too if you want.

Not necessary, you say? Then as you prepare to sentence Mr. Lay, we hope you will fully consider the enormity of personal and property damages resulting from his actions. And if you change your mind anytime between now and your September sentencing deadline, you know where to find us: blinking with uncertainty, here on Route 55.

A Reluctant Traveller

2006-06-01T11:01:00.000-04:00

Statistics tell us that 76 million Baby Boomers in America are presently between the ages of 42 and 60. If you accept age 50 as the general point of entry into "midlife", and if you also accept that Americans tend to be phobic about aging, then we're already knee-deep in 50-somethings. Thousands more join the throng every day. Some quickly notice they've entered a different life route; others take a year or two, or even much more, to realize. But by their mid-fifties, nearly all have figured out that they are on what I call Route 55.

I know this because a few months ago it dawned on me that I'm there right now. I'm probably still in some stage of denial about being here. I'm still wondering why I couldn't just stay on the major expressway I've ridden for so many years, where I knew about the potholes and obstructions and how to endure the traffic clogs and snarls that seemed more frequent the further I went.

I had a mishap or two on that highway, back when I was new to the fast lane and didn't know how to spot trouble before I ran right into it. Nothing really serious; just enough to keep me a little wary. But it had been a long time since I'd had even a close call, much less an incident. I had come to believe it was a pretty sure thing that I'd reach my intended destination with no problems. I thought I had it all mapped out, and my route sure didn't involve any slow-poke road like this.

Yet here I am. Not many people like this road at first, maybe because it feels so strange to realize you're on it, and also because the way you get there can be quite painful. I didn't pay much mind to the few detour signs warning about this byway. Maybe if I had, I could have found a way to stay on the big lanes. But now I guess I'll need a new map: reluctant or no, it looks like I'm cruising Route 55.

The View From 50

2006-05-20T15:19:00.000-04:00

I always assumed that one day, I'd be 50, and 60, and maybe even 75 or beyond if I ate right and looked both ways before crossing city streets. But I didn't spend a lot of time thinking about how it would feel, or what I would be doing. Actually, I never gave those things more than the most fleeting possible consideration. Arrogant Baby Boomer that I am, I figured midlife wouldn't be any harder than the other stages of life I'd been cruising so smoothly. Everything has always gone my generation's way, why not this?

Which is simply to say, I didn't have a clue, not that it would have helped much if I had; I can see that now.

Turning 50 wasn't all that big a deal, it seemed to me. I began my new decade feeling quietly smug about everything from my dress size (8) to my marriage (26 years and still having fun) to my office (posh executive suite). Since nothing seemed any different, I was oh so comfortable with the whole 50s thing at first.

Thought when I turned fifty, I'd reach my full maturity,
and I'd exude serenity, so whole and centered I would be.
Guess I thought it common sense (some sort of natural recompense?)
that fears and doubts and recklessness would end by fifty, if not less.

It didn’t last. The years between 51 and 54 were, increasingly, a time of wondering why the real me was letting some reckless woman parade around in my clothes ..... and 55? Well, I guess that's when I finally acknowledged three aspects of my new reality: nothing I could do would ever make me young again; in Corporate America, that sort of thing doesn't go unnoticed; and the passing of years does not automatically bestow great wisdom on a person.

Couldn't tell you how I knew, or why I thought the notion true
that foolish things I used to do, I'd shed like snakeskin, and start new!
So it was to my surprise that fifty did not make me wise,
nor do much to minimize the flaws I thought age would disguise.

I began to feel pretty foolish about my former naïveté. How well I thought I knew myself. How stable I thought my life was. How much I’d accomplished professionally and how secure my job was. How gracefully, even elegantly, I assumed I would glide into my next life chapter. What a self-deluded dope I turned out to be! Now, uninvited winds of change were collapsing my personal house of cards.

Yet wisdom of a sort I found, for fifty offered higher ground
On which to stand and look around, life’s lessons clearer from the mound.
And one especially beckoned me. It said, “Don’t fear uncertainty!
“You’re not yet all you’re going to be....Take pleasure in the mystery.”

Take pleasure in the turmoil I was experiencing?? Now, that was a new thought. It was true that a lot of my life had begun to feel mysterious, and that my future had begun to seem uncertain. If I embraced these changes, would that help me discover who I was becoming? I realized then that I could willingly travel Route 55. The view from 50 wasn't so bad, and now I want to see the view from 55....and 60....and, yes, maybe even 75 or beyond.