Progressive Insurance commercials about turning into your parents are pretty darn funny — until one day you realize you’re living inside one.
We had barely stepped out of our cabin on a Rhine River cruise when it began. A fellow passenger emerged from two doors down, made eye contact, and proceeded down the hallway at a snail’s pace; kept upright with the use of his walking sticks. Leaving us stuck behind him like a slow-moving vehicle during planting season.
Our fellow travelers were mostly of the “mature” variety, and it never failed — every time we turned a corner, it was another version of the infamous commercials.
There were helpful repeaters. The ones who loudly restated every instruction as if the rest of us hadn’t heard it the first time. And, of course, the occasional passenger who felt it necessary to critique the entire experience out loud for everyone within earshot.
On one walking tour in Germany, one particularly vocal traveler pushed things a little too far. After several failed attempts by others to quiet her, my husband — the least confrontational person I know — finally spoke up. Not “please be quiet.” But “please shut up.” I was both shocked… and proud.
With five days of rain, we had no shortage of weather conversations. Traveling with a group of older people also means a lot of noise – grunts, groans and unsolicited commentary.
The funny thing is that it’s easy to spot these habits in other people. The harder part is recognizing them in ourselves. Because if I’m being honest, the signs are already there.
It starts with desiring a routine. We typically plan dinner around Wheel of Fortune. Then we switch channels to The Big Bang Theory. Slightly neurotic, the characters seem like they would be fun to hang out with; unlike the brainiacs on Jeopardy. Oddly, I feel like enjoying Jeopardy would be a step on a very slippery slope.
Thurston might be up before the sun but after considering the time spent napping in his recliner, our days end up even. We all know that if someone is bragging about how early they get up, they also are sure to be the ones taking naps and falling asleep before 8 p.m.
For years, I swore we’d never become those people.
Turns out, it’s not something you decide.
It just… happens.
We’re all aging. Let’s do it out loud.
— Nora
Naps are the best at Awanabatch
As published in The County Journal on June 6, 2026
When people imagine a writer retreating to a cabin on the shore of Lake Superior, they probably picture something far more glamorous than reality.
Case in point, I am not the thirty-something blonde in a string bikini we both picture in our daydreams. Instead, I’m sixty-two, wearing leggings, a flannel shirt and reading glasses, waiting for my morning coffee to do its job.
The view of Lake Superior, however, is exactly as advertised.
Purchased by Thurston’s grandfather in 1932 – or 1935, depending on who you ask – the property has breathtaking views and nearly a century of family memories. The second cabin on the property was Uncle Henry’s dream, and I think he would be pleased with what is finally nearing completion.
Along with the work on the “new” cabin, we’ve been working on preserving the history of the original cabin. We completed a half-baked attempt at a kitchen remodel a couple years ago but even with its inconvenient features and worn-out amenities, it’s still the preferred meal spot. The walls are decorated with childhood artwork from Thurston’s generation; recently preserved by laminating. The dining room table can sit about 14 uncomfortably. Sit down suppers are tradition here, regardless of how little elbow room you have. Family dogs find themselves under the table, anxiously awaiting table scraps.
The first addition to the original cabin was built to accommodate guests. Thurston’s mom remembers her parents having dances in that room when it was first built. Now that room has been relocated and serves as the laundry and bath house. Replaced by a bigger and better version in the nineties, it now doubles as another bedroom or a place for board games or cards. George, the stuffed moose, guards the original living room. From the cathedral ceiling, model airplanes hang. A favorite rainy-day past-time of years gone by. There are shelves and shelves of books and with our family, it’s nothing to see everyone in the main room with the fireplace roaring and everyone with their noses buried in a book with a steaming cup of coffee next to them.
We have a no television policy here. Occasionally we have radio service but sometimes we just break out the old CD’s or records and fire up the record player. Days begin with coffee and bacon and Batchawana fries. Like his dad before him, Thurston loves making breakfast for the family. You never know what you will find in the scrambled eggs! Staples are housed in the tin lined closet. A place where paper products and perishable food items are safe from sampling. Mice and bats have been known to try and join the party.
Kids anxiously await permission to play on the rope swing. Those that dare can swing out from the roof of the dilapidated old boat house. Fishing from the shore of the river has been very successful in the last few years. It’s nothing to pull in an eighteen-inch, five-pound bass right from the dock. There are pontoon rides to the party spot where the river narrows to a point that boats can’t pass through. It’s a great place for fishing or treasure hunting for fellow rockhounds.
Nearly a century after one man purchased a stretch of shoreline and started a family tradition, the cabins are full of stories. And I’ve only scratched the surface.
This cove is about 15 minutes away – a rock lover’s dream.
Last time, I was poking fun at my leisurely retirement routine. Three years ago, I would have given anything to be that bored.
Until cancer hits your home — or you work in the field of medicine — you probably don’t know much about it. You’re busy with life. So were we.
When Thurston got sick, I added caregiver and nurse to my résumé overnight. I’ve never been known for sympathy. I’m more of a “suck it up, buttercup” kind of woman. Many a broken bones have healed themselves because of my “they won’t do anything about it anyway” approach to medicine. But the pain he was experiencing was unlike anything I had ever seen. My tough-as-nails farmer was crumbling, and all I could do was watch.
I did what I could control. I researched. I tracked bloodwork in spreadsheets. I monitored symptoms. I tried to stay one step ahead of something that refused to be predictable. They call it “practicing” medicine for a reason. Even the experts can’t always see what’s coming.
After months of escalating pain and unanswered questions, we made the decision to travel to Mayo Clinic in Minnesota. The Friday before we left, I landed on a likely diagnosis. A week later, doctors confirmed it: myelofibrosis — a rare bone marrow cancer. This was March.
We left Mayo with news no one is prepared to hear — a three-year life expectancy. Maybe a bone marrow transplant in the future. Yet as strange as it may sound, we were relieved to have a number. And now we knew what we were fighting. Three years were much longer than we were expecting at that point. We had a plan.
It only took a week for that plan to change. What was “maybe a transplant in the future” became “we need to start looking for a donor now and plan for a transplant this summer”. It felt like the rug had been pulled out from under our feet; three years suddenly shrank to three months.
It’s moments like that that split your life into Before and After. The little things lose their urgency. The important things come into sharp focus.
So, when I complain about the television being on volume 16 or joke about retirement being exhausting; understand this – I don’t take a single one of those ordinary mornings for granted.
Mornings here begin the same way every day. My husband is up by 6 a.m. I am not — if I can help it.
Armed with my readers and a cup of coffee, I curl up in my usual spot on the couch, where the television volume is already set to 16. Following our traditional “Good morning, Lovey,” he asks what I have planned for the day.
Yes, that’s his pet name for me — borrowed straight from Gilligan’s Island. For that reason, from this point forward, I’ll refer to my husband as Thurston.
Although he should already know my routine, I proceed to rattle it off. I start off with Wordle. Then Duolingo to protect my position in the Obsidian League. After two years of daily lessons, I still can’t speak a lick. Still, I feel better doing that rather than just scrolling Facebook mindlessly. While I’m on my phone, I’ll skim over political debates and miracle weight loss recipes, diagnose my own medical conditions, and learn fascinating facts about people I’ve never met. If things go as planned, I will get dressed and make the bed before 10 a.m.
Today I need to order a new clock from Amazon — one with big neon numbers we can read from across the bedroom in the dark. No need for an alarm feature since we’re both awake long before it goes off anyway. While I’m there, I’ll likely discover several other items I didn’t know I needed until they popped up “on sale.” After one or two uses, they’ll quietly wait for a ride to Goodwill with the stash of things from the “old” house that I no longer need.
With my laundry area in the basement, at least I’ll get in some cardio and strength training in hauling clothes up and down the stairs.
“I think that covers it,” I tell him. “Why do you ask?”
“Well,” he says, “I was hoping you would have a minute to help me look for my glasses.”
“You mean the ones hanging from your shirt collar?” True story.
As you can see, retirement is a high-intensity lifestyle.
When your retired friends say they’re busier now than they were when they were working, believe them. We’re exhausted — just differently.
Retirement isn’t lazy. It’s just louder, slower — and a lot harder to see without glasses.
Now that we’ve been introduced, your next question is probably why you should read about getting old. I don’t plan on making this about being old so much as reflecting on how I got here — and giving you a chance to pause and consider your own path toward those so-called golden years.
After spending most of my life going 100 miles per hour, I’m discovering that retirement isn’t what I expected. I can’t help but feel like previous generations withheld a few details. I won’t say we were lied to, but there’s plenty I wish I’d known. Between keeping your head above water and living in the moment, retirement somehow sneaks up on you.
Most importantly, I didn’t know I was old — until I was told.
It took the brutal honesty of my four-year-old granddaughter to deliver the news. She had no idea she had just jeopardized her chances of a full-ride college scholarship from Grandma. (Relax — I wouldn’t really do that.) While she looks just like her mother, she is very much my son’s daughter. She simply tells it like she sees it. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised; I’ve been accused of the same thing a time or two.
If I’m honest, I measured “old” by my grandparents too. What I considered old back then are now today’s great grandparents. Funny how your perception changes!
What I didn’t realize about aging is that inside, you feel much the same as you did 20 or 30 years ago. Aside from a body that occasionally files formal complaints, my mind still wants what it always has. I recently heard someone say that inside every adult is an eight-year-old child. The older I get, the more I believe that’s true.
We are the sum of our experiences. Our reactions today are shaped by everything that came before. Yet somewhere along the way, we decided that adults should be able to handle criticism without flinching — especially on social media. News flash: we can’t. That eight-year-old is still in there.
Be kind. We’re all just kids with wrinkles.
We’re all aging. Let’s do it out loud.
Nora
As printed in The County Journal on April 11, 2026.
While we wait for another article to be published by Nora, I thought I would share something I wrote for myself. Too long for the newspaper but I hope it conjures up some great memories of your own childhood on this chilly April morning.
If you are like me, you probably waste a considerable amount of time wishing things were different. Or why something happened to you. I don’t know why, but until I got to this ripe age of maturity, I thought that “old people” were exempt from these problems. I mean, don’t you think that by retirement, you should finally be where you want doing the things you want? Problems solved? I wish that were true but now that I’m here, I realize that it’s all a myth. That also raises the question, what does old look like?
My sister and I with Gr & Gr “Shee-shee”
Isn’t it funny that even names mean old to us? Evelyn and Otto were my maternal grandparents. (Grama and Grampa “Shee-shee”) Living in North Dakota, memories of them are limited as we went there for two weeks every summer. My cousins and I were always a little scared of Grama. A former teacher, she made us toe the line. One particular summer stands out. After they sold the farm, they moved to town and we got to play with their neighbor kids. I have no idea what we were doing wrong; but I remember Grama storming out onto the porch wielding a paring knife and giving us the dickens. I was so embarrassed! I don’t think Grama realized she was waving the knife until the episode was all over and the neighbors had run for home, scared for their lives. When she wasn’t terrorizing the neighbor kids, she was busy playing piano or playing the organ in church. I also give her credit for letting us stay up late to watch Johnny Carson. Back when late night television was entertaining.
They also visited us each fall, just in time for the World Series. I never developed a love of watching sports but we never missed a baseball game when Grandpa came to visit. I can still hear him talk about the “Dod’gers” in what I believe to be a Norwegian accent. Heavy on the “Dod”; guess you probably had to be there. Living into their 90’s, they both spent their final years in nursing homes. Years that were tough for family to watch; years we hope they don’t recall. Well cared-for but not a way I hope to go.
My fraternal grandparents were very present in my life; they lived across the driveway for a better part of my growing years. This was awesome. I hung out with my father and grandfather and loved every minute of it. Out in the barn or in the shop. Working with the animals or with hand tools. Then and even now at the age of 88, there’s nothing that my dad can’t build himself. As we speak, he is probably out in his garage working on rebuilding his Model T. If parts aren’t available, he’s making them. It’s crazy to imagine being that mechanically minded.
I would tell you that it was during this time that I learned so many useful skills that are typically reserved for boys. It’s probably also why I found myself excelling as a woman in a man’s field of work; gravitating to jobs that required me to work with men. It was and continues to be my comfort zone. Conversely, I’m afraid my mother would tell you that it was there that I picked up the annoying habit of swearing like a sailor. Yet oddly enough, I’m finding myself appalled lately with the use of the “F” word on social media and even on television recently. What’s up with that?
I remember digging worms around the corncrib on the weekends for my Grandparents to take with them to their lake cabin for fishing. Feeding the chickens and gathering eggs. While I have grandiose memories of these menial tasks; my memories of what I did yesterday are often lost. Honestly, who knows how accurate my memories are but if they are pleasant, I’m going to run with them.
I feel like my grandparents were very active people; yet they were still old in my mind. I thought it was cool that my grandfather, a retired dairy farmer, would spend his winters working at the roller-skating rink in Florida. Back in the day, when church youth groups hosted parties at the local roller-skating rink, my grandfather would not only drive us there, but he would spend the entire time skating. That led to the never-ending question, “Who’s the old man out there? He’s a surprisingly good skater.” To which I would reply with pride, “That’s my grandpa!”
I also enjoyed time with my grandmother. Bertha, who Grandpa Clyde called “Billy” was a retired nurse and a great cook. I picked up my interest in cooking and baking from her. I feel like all these experiences led me to be a well-rounded person. As an adult, my love of cooking led my family to be rounder than they cared to be. Fortunately, they have taken the time to learn about healthy cooking and portion control so now they can share their love of cooking with their families with less of the unhealthy side-effects.
Skating Grandpa was the first to go; active right up to the night he passed. His funeral the same day as my first prom, my sophomore year of high school. It was difficult but at the time I felt that I had spent as much time with him as I possibly could have and he died of a heart attack during the night. What a wonderful way to go. I was at peace with it, after all, he was old. Looking back today, he was only 70 years old. Now at the ripe age of 62, I realize that 70 is no longer old. So, I ask myself, was it old then; or is old age a sliding scale, a moving target? Are you only as old as you feel? As much as we don’t want to think about it, we need to care for our bodies. We only get one, and replacement parts are expensive!
My first attempt at writing for a public audience was restaurant reviews for a small-town newspaper. It gave my husband and me an excuse to try new places each month — until I bought a deli and catering business and added “entrepreneur” to my already full plate. My children were grown; but I still had a full-time job as a lender, so writing slipped to the back burner.
While I’ve never relied on writing to make my living, millions of dollars changed hands because of it during my twenty-six years as an agricultural loan officer. Whether it was a farm, cows or shiny piece of equipment, I had to tell a convincing story to secure financing. Many times, their livelihood depended on my ability to get their loan approved. I didn’t realize how much I loved writing until I retired and that outlet disappeared.
Why did I retire from a job I loved? Life is rarely ever that simple. When I suddenly found myself trying to juggle a full-time job, a business that demanded my attention 7 days a week, and the love of my life was diagnosed with a life-threatening illness, something had to give.
I retired on a Friday and on Monday we moved into a suite at the University of Michigan Bone Marrow Transplant Center. Far from the Ritz Carlton, it was there that I spent over forty days and nights on an uncomfortable little daybed while doctors worked to save my husband’s life. Rather than internalize my fears, I was able to pour them onto paper. It became the way to update friends and family during our nearly one hundred days without visitors. What began as notes grew into a blog that kept me sane and connected.
Fast forward three years and we are embarking on another new stage of our lives. My husband is doing very well. It’s not the life we envisioned twelve years ago, but it’s still a good one. We just moved to a new community where we can easily spend time with our growing young family and the friends that have got us through the past three years.
I’ve had my hands full dealing with a “new man” and all the medical paperwork that goes with a life-altering illness. Now that he’s out of the woods, I would like to share my life experiences and observations with you as we navigate retirement. I promise honesty, perspective, and a little humor – because growing older isn’t for the faint of heart.
We’re all aging.
Let’s do it out loud.
Nora
As Published in the March 14th Edition of The County Journal, Charlotte, MI.
The last few weeks have brought us some great memories and fun; but let’s face it, it’s really hard to feel upbeat when our country is in the shape that it is. Not only are we all frustrated with prices at the gas pump and the grocery store; we are all unable to fully relax and enjoy the company of friends and loved ones because of the glaring political divide. It’s no secret that the media is so in tune with what our preferences are that all we are able to access is more of the same brainwashing material. Finding material to help you see the other side is practically impossible. We are all being fed the information that “they” want us to see and hear that supports our own feelings; often separating us from our friends, family and neighbors.
I am very proud of my 22 years of service to my community as a township official. This experience gave me a lot of opportunity to strongly debate my thoughts on an issue and actively listen to the other side. Still, able to leave the meeting as friends; as if we shared all the same opinions. Unfortunately, it seems that so many are unable to do that in the current political climate. I would like to think that it will get better after the election but I’m afraid it won’t all be settled with an election.
Speaking of coming together and serving a common goal; Scott and I had the pleasure of providing the host location for our grandson’s first birthday party. While many of us would prefer to never have to see our ex’s again, reality is that with children and grandchildren, that isn’t always possible. Working through this team-effort party, I found myself texting back and forth with Scott’s ex and going to her house to pick up things for the party. It had to be pretty awkward for her too; being at the house that she and Scott built together and seeing all the changes. It’s weird; but it gets better with time. When you see the success that you can achieve when you act as a team it makes it all worthwhile. It helps that we are all happier with the way it is versus the way it was; so we are all winners.
Our greatest challenges were not people challenges. We managed; despite the lawn mower belt coming off right when we needed to mow where the tent was to go, pouring rain when we had scheduled set-up time, and the typical problems you run into when setting up a tent or awning. No one passed out blowing up the hundred and some balloons either. Our little man’s first rodeo was a total success. A very successful collaboration between his parents and the three sets of grandparents. A party fit for a king. He won’t remember it but we have plenty of pictures to prove it happened. The family potluck immediately following was also a hit and by 9:30 p.m. we called it a day; leaving the rest of the clean-up until tomorrow. Finally, a good day! Praise the Lord! Right? Nope; I realize that my bank has been texting me; my debit card has been hacked.
After the dust settled on our party day; our remaining six days home were packed with problem solving. I got a new debit card and thankfully the bank took care of the fraudulent charges. We got Scott’s truck into the body shop to repair damage done while we were shopping in Home Depot last month. Fortunately, someone witnessed the employee causing the damage so it was covered. I closed out three bank accounts we don’t need any more. We figured out how to get his scripts filled in the U. P. since they can’t be shipped to Canada. I guess there is a limit on the number of vacations you can go on and still get your prescriptions filled early if you are going to be out of the state or country. Isn’t that the idea? To retire and be on vacation all the time?
I promised myself when I wrote the last post that the next one would be positive and upbeat. So, I better get this thing turned around fast! I know my life is something most would envy but we wouldn’t be humans if we didn’t get stuck in the mud at times.
After squatting with family members at the cabin during their vacation weeks, it was finally time for our two weeks up there. Scott’s daughter and husband joined us with their senior dog for a very chill week. She is expecting a little girl in October and I was happy to act as photographer for them for some baby-bump pictures on the beach. Fishing continued to suck and Scott and I both caught cold AGAIN but it was fun and relaxing. The following week had some friends join us for a great, relaxing time. Although not everyone was able to make it up this year, we made lots of great memories. Cooking on the outdoor stove, chilling on the pontoon and story-telling at the bonfire. Two weeks of ideal weather in the mid to upper 70’s, with a great breeze = perfect. Heaven on earth! Even better; I FINALLY caught a fish. Actually, two very nice fish. These two whoppers putting me in the top spot for 2024. Scott caught his first walleye in what he says is 54 years; yet go figure, after returning to camp with the fish supposedly on the stringer, they found that it had released itself. At least he had a witness and a photo to back up his claim. Has the worm turned? I’ll provide an updated fishing report in my next post.
We had a great Labor Day Weekend with multiple activities with friends and family. This week is also packed with fun things as we take advantage of the extended period of very warm weather. After a number of failed attempts at stocking my new little backyard fish pond, I think I have done it. I say think because after creating a really cool environment including multiple hiding places for them, I’m lucky to sneak up on them and catch a swish of a tail of one or two before they hide. Hopefully over time they will respond to my attempts to feed them. Particularly now that I have over $200 into the pond and supplies; plus over $40 worth of fish food. Probably not one of my better ideas. I should probably just order some rubber goldfish from Amazon and call it finished.
I woke this morning before daylight; not ideal, but excited because I’m meeting with some girlfriends at a pool. I guess if September is determined to be a continuation of a hot and dry summer, we might as well make the most of it. The cleaning lady is coming today so getting up early is a great time to do all the cleaning it takes to prepare our house for the cleaning lady. Some of you know what I mean and others just wish they knew. When I worked full-time and owned the store, cleaning my house was something I could never get to. Now that I have nothing to do, it’s something that I have worked hard for 45 years for and plan to continue. There’s nothing better than your house smelling clean and fresh and knowing that you didn’t have to do it yourself. Some people splurge on mani/pedis and I have my house cleaned. My goal is to always stay in shape to the extent that I will be able to paint my own toenails. Feeling that my feet are my most notable point of interest on my body; I like to keep them looking good. If I can keep them looking at my feet; they might not notice my thickening middle!
I might mention that today is also Friday the 13th. While I don’t like to let this type of thing bother me, the jury is out on today. While getting ready for his walk, Scott excitedly told me to look out the back window. There was a skunk, dragging a dead rabbit across the lawn. Better yet, it dragged it over to the porch and under the hot tub deck. Who knew that skunks ate rabbits? If that’s the case, they probably eat rubber fish too. As much as social media and technology are my nemesis; at least we know where to turn to find out how to eradicate a skunk under the deck. I smell a story brewing; stay tuned!
WhatDoesn'tKillYouGirlMakesYouStronger. 