family

Self-Appointed Activity Director

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If regular maintenance concerns, family differences, scheduling and trespassers of all species aren’t enough to worry about, I’ve created another problem for myself. Somewhere along the way, I appointed myself Activity Director, a position no one asked me to fill. I find myself feeling responsible for making sure everyone has the time of their life.

We all know that a great time comes from the perfect blend of where you are and who you are with. Dealing with the occasional jabs about not being invited and weighing our options when trying to put together a group that will mesh well is a thing. The label on the pontoon says eight people and 1,500 pounds, but we take that merely as a suggestion. The dining table in the upper cabin seats 14, so that’s where we draw the hard line.

No matter who visits us, I like to operate under three rules. First, no one does anything they don’t want to. Secondly, time permitting, everyone gets to do the one thing they hoped to do while here. Thirdly, everyone chips in. There are no free rides.

I learned early on that as much as I like playing hostess and cooking, good friends want to pitch in. Each friend’s trip comes complete with an Excel spreadsheet detailing who’s bringing what for which night. Some administrative duties are hard to walk away from.

Thurston and I make breakfast. Biscuits and gravy, fried potatoes, blueberry pancakes, apple fritter French toast and scrambled eggs are just a few of our favorites on the menu.

Evening meals are divided up and, most importantly, if you cook, you clean. You can dirty every dish we have if you don’t mind washing them. We have finally convinced Thurston that paper plates are the only way to go with a large group and no dishwasher. Some guests cook from scratch and some shop at Costco, but we’ve never had a bad meal. If you go hungry, it’s your own fault.

My job as Activity Director was considerably easier before grandchildren entered the picture.

Inviting our grown children to vacation with our friends was easy in the beginning. If you haven’t let your hair down with your grown children, you are really missing out. It gives everyone a whole new appreciation for each other.

One year, our friend brought an alcoholic version of root beer that Thurston’s daughter took right to. Next thing we knew, she was declaring her love for her dad, adding that she never knew he was so much fun. The morning after, however, wasn’t as cheery.

Somewhere along the way, late nights, crazy laughter and our own version of dizzy bat on the beach have given way to diapers, sippy cups and puff snacks.

While we love watching our grandchildren’s every move, we highly doubt toddler-watching for hours on end would be high on our friends’ bucket lists. Nor would waiting until 2 p.m. each day for the stars to align and make a boat ride possible.

Rather than gather at the big table for cards or games, we currently enjoy evenings out by the fire so that our laughter doesn’t wake the children from their much-needed sleep.

So, these days, family trips tend to be family trips and friend trips are planned separately. Either way, the planner in me still feels the pressure to make sure everyone enjoys being there.

It’s always fun to see guests’ reactions the first time they come. I secretly hope they feel the same magic we do. As much as we love it, there are still some who would prefer a week at a nice resort. That’s fine; fewer people to worry about.

On our most recent trip, we invited a couple for their first visit. My role as Activity Director, sometimes means Cruise Director too. I decided they needed to see the sandstone rocks and the underground road to the lost city. I’m sure you know I had built it up pretty good by this point.

We layered up our clothing, overloaded the pontoon and headed out around the island. Convinced I knew where it was, we kept going. And going. The waves got higher as we went.

It wasn’t long before Thurston was hinting that maybe we should try again on their next visit—code for, “This is a bad idea.”

I responded with my own code: “We’re not going back until we’ve accomplished our objective.”

Eventually, common sense – or Thurston – won out, and we turned around before finding the rocks.  Everyone else seemed perfectly capable of handling the disappointment. The Cruise Director may have pouted a little. Apparently, toddlers aren’t the only ones who struggle when things don’t go according to plan.

Our boat captain tends to believe safety should come before entertainment. I’m more of a “what’s the worst that could happen?” person. Lately, life has been answering that question a little too often.

Thurston can sit back and replay memories of his childhood and those made here with his own children. Meanwhile, I’m scanning the crowd with one question running through my head:

Is everyone having a great time?

Maybe that’s one of the things I’m still learning. I can invite the people, plan and pack the food, organize a boat ride and even insist we keep going long after Thurston has decided it’s a bad idea. What I can’t do is guarantee anyone the time of their life.

Maybe it’s time to let that job go in retirement too. Besides, our friends may remember the morning we couldn’t find the rocks longer than they would have remembered the rocks. I may retire as Activity Director, but I’m keeping the spreadsheet. It tells everyone what we need. What they bring because it just wouldn’t be vacation without it is entirely up to them.

The China Hutch Stays

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Nothing makes you question your spending habits more than moving.

That bread maker you couldn’t live without. The scrapbooking supplies. The vacation souvenirs. The chicken collection you spent years building because you thought it would bring you joy forever.

Turns out, forever comes faster than you think.

Our recent move happened quickly. Rather than sort and purge as we packed, we loaded everything up and promised ourselves we’d deal with it later. It was late November and we wanted everything moved before the snow flew.

Having sworn off garage sales years ago, I decided being the “new people” was as good a reason as any to host one. The previous owners had lived there for more than fifty years, and the neighborhood was understandably curious about who was moving in. We had their curiosity up; no better way to meet the neighbors than opening the garage and letting them browse our discarded treasures.

Today’s young people don’t want our stuff. They might be interested in refurbishing the old dining room table and chairs, but there’s little interest in dust collectors. Depression glass, collectable plates and teacups are hard to even give away.

Your 1980’s dishes are great for retro yard art or shooting clays. Conversely, I still haven’t forgiven the babysitter that thought it was a good idea to play ball with the kids in the house and broke several of my grandmother’s treasured cup-and-saucer sets back in 2000. 

That shift leaves us with some difficult decisions. What do we pass along now and what do we keep for ourselves? It forces us to evaluate what truly brings us joy and let go of many of the things we’re only hoping future generations will appreciate. 

We shouldn’t be offended, but we are. 

They don’t want their own treasures either. I’m still trying to send my kids home with childhood keepsakes we’ve been storing for more than thirty years.

Call me out of touch or a rebel, but the focal point of my newly remodeled kitchen and dining room will still be my China hutch filled with family heirlooms. We added a wall of cabinets and shelves for favorite knickknacks and vacation keepsakes. The Christmas Village will come out every December.

My kids may box it all up and donate it someday.

But for now, I’m going to enjoy it.

Trendy or not, the China hutch stays.

*As printed in The County Journal on 7-18-26

Messy House Guests

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If you’ve ever wondered what mice, squirrels, spiders and a long Canadian winter can do to a cabin, I can assure you they aren’t worrying about making a good impression on the next guests.

Despite what some people think, the Awanabatch cabins don’t stay clean all winter, and they certainly don’t clean themselves. Thurston and I have been the first ones up the last couple of years, which means we spend the first day or two sweeping, dusting, and cleaning up the remnants our furry winter tenants left behind.

Particularly before we re-did the shower house.  With no interior wall coverings, critters moved in for the winter, and it was obviously party central. Apparently, none of them saw any reason to use the outdoor outhouse either. After needing a hazmat suit to clean up that spring, we spent a few days that fall making sure that didn’t happen again.   

To complicate matters even further, it seems we all have a different idea of what cleanliness is.   You might not mind living in a flurry of dog hair but most of us only like wearing our own dogs’ hair. It’s everyone else’s that seems to be the problem. When we had a dog, we wouldn’t have dreamed of leaving him behind. He loved being there as much as we did. Yet now that he’s gone, we no longer enjoy dealing with dog hair.

I know I keep a clean house, yet I still panic when I leave. Not because I’m worried about what I’ll find when I come back but more about what the next family will think when they arrive.  I’m convinced someone will report that the toilet seat was left up or that they found dust on the windowsill.  I haven’t dusted at home in years but feel the need to dust and wash windows on every trip to Awanabatch. Just so no one says anything bad about how we left the cabin.

We’ve discussed having a cleaning person on call to clean the cabins each time someone leaves.  However, when it comes right down to it, being cheap rates even higher on the scale for all of us.   

We’ve also learned that what one family leaves behind in the refrigerator is rarely appreciated by the next.  Now we leave the refrigerator totally bare. There’s even politics in the condiments.  Some insist on Heinz ketchup.  Others can’t agree on mayonnaise versus Miracle Whip.

Cleaning out the refrigerator becomes a gut-wrenching exercise for those of us raised not to waste. Before Thurston and I toss anything, I review the border rules, calculate cooler space and deliver whatever we can’t take home to our friends who have no problem eating our leftovers or mayonnaise.  God bless them for easing my conscience about throwing away perfectly good food. 

After all these years, I’ve realized mice are the least of our cleaning problems. The real challenge isn’t keeping a cabin clean – it’s remembering that every family arrives with different habits, different expectations, and different definitions of “clean.” Somewhere between the dog hair, the ketchup debates, and the refrigerator politics, we’ve learned that a little grace is every bit as important as a good broom. 

Girl on Fire

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Friends come in all shapes and sizes. Some have been with us forever, while others arrive exactly when we need them. Today I’m celebrating one special friend’s birthday from afar as she enjoys the adventure of a lifetime in Australia.

Nearly twenty years ago, we met at a conference for Michigan farm wives. Those gatherings gave women living a unique lifestyle a chance to connect, and at a time when I needed someone who understood, one conversation in a hotel pool became the beginning of one of the most treasured friendships of my life.

Soon afterward she invited me to a concert where her son was opening for the Zac Brown Band. That invitation also introduced me to a group of women who had been friends since their high school swim team days. Somehow, they welcomed me into their circle as though I’d always belonged. That kind of acceptance isn’t something you forget.

Every year since, we’ve gathered at her cottage to solve the world’s problems, laugh until our stomachs hurt, and create another story we’ll be telling for years. Some memories belong only to the two of us, including one favorite photograph of myself that reminds me how much her friendship meant during a particularly difficult season of my life.

As birthdays rolled by, we were always looking for our next adventure. One year she bought a speed boat from one of my friends. It already had a name: Girl on Fire.

The name wasn’t chosen for her. Its first owner had bought the boat after her divorce – the first thing she ever purchased just for herself. It was her declaration of independence, her fresh start, and Girl on Fire fit her perfectly.

Sometimes, though, a name has enough room for more than one story.

Starting with that first test run, it was clear that the name fit its second owner just as well. Not because she was loud or reckless, (well, maybe that day) but because she throws herself into life with contagious enthusiasm, generous friendship, and a laugh that has a way of making everyone around her feel lighter.

Thurston and I rode up to the lake to deliver the boat.  After sealing the deal, it was decided we needed one more ride before supper.  The paperwork and life jackets stayed on shore while our common sense apparently did the same.

She hit the throttle, laughing as we bounced across the water. At one point I was thrown completely out of my seat. We were still laughing when she slowed down—only to discover two conservation officers floating beside us with a cheerful, “Good afternoon, ladies.”

Let’s just say we were fortunate to leave with nothing more than a ticket and a story that still makes us laugh.

But somewhere between being tossed across that boat and watching her grin from ear to ear, inspiration struck. This was exactly how I wanted to remember us – not worrying about growing older but celebrating every chance we had to feel young.

For her next birthday, we all ordered bright red Baywatch-style swimsuits, hired a photographer, and spent the day on the water. We posed in oversized sunglasses, bright red lipstick, beads, and floppy hats. We laughed until we cried, then finished by holding hands and jumping into the lake together.

Those photographs have become treasures. Most of them will never be shared publicly, but every time I see them, I’m reminded that the best part of aging isn’t pretending we’re young. It’s finding friends who remind us that joy never has to grow old.

Happy Birthday, my friend. I hope Australia has been everything you imagined.

The first Girl on Fire marked a fresh start. The second reminds me that strength doesn’t always make a lot of noise. Sometimes it looks like the friend who checks on everyone else, asks for nothing in return, quietly carries her own struggles, and still finds a way to fill a boat—and a room—with laughter.

I have been blessed to know them both.

We’re all aging. Let’s do it out loud.

Nora

One More Hour

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This Fourth of July, America celebrates its 250th birthday. That’s a remarkable milestone for a country that has survived generations of hardship, disagreement, celebration and change.

For me, Independence Day doesn’t begin with history books. It begins with an hour-long drive to my great-uncle’s cottage that, as a child, felt more like a cross-country expedition.

My memories of the 4th of July remain almost magical. Large gatherings at the family cottage owned by my grandfather’s brother. His siblings and their families all gathered at the old cottage and put on a spread fit for a king. We played with cousins and second cousins we only saw once a year. Whatever wonderful creations that made it to the table, the best of all was always the watermelon. I think my grandfather was the watermelon seed spitting champion. 

I’d wake up and drive my mother crazy, asking every ten minutes, “Is it time to leave yet?” She’d be busy packing the cooler with freshly made potato salad, brownies and sun tea while dad loaded the car with enough pool toys, towels and swimsuits to outfit a small beach. 

Once the feeding frenzy ended, there was yet another hurdle to overcome. Some of you know exactly what I’m talking about – that hour wait before we could go swimming. Grandmother was a stickler for that one. Back then, I was convinced that hour was an eternity.

Once we were finally allowed in the water, the day disappeared in a blur of paddleboats, floating rafts, catching minnows, searching for shells and snails. Staying in the water until our lips turned blue. Fireworks over the lake were the perfect ending to a perfect day. It’s funny how the waiting hours crawl by, while the ones you wish could last forever vanish in an instant. 

As with all good things, this all came to an end. The older generation passed away. The cottage was passed on and eventually sold. Leaving the rest of us with nothing but memories that somehow grow more valuable with each passing Fourth of July. It’s been years since and I’m still missing those days. Now, not so secretly longing to recreate those days with my children and grandchildren. 

Every Independence Day, while fireworks light the sky, I still find myself wishing I could spend one more afternoon spitting watermelon seeds with Grandpa and waiting an hour after lunch before Grandma would finally let us swim. 

We’re all aging.
Let’s do it out loud.

Nora

*As published in The County Journal on July 4, 2026

Friend or Foe?

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The living room where unsuspecting guests are often greeted by mice.

Mice have always been part of life at Awanabatch.  The difference is they live there year-round; while we only get to visit.  Over the years they’ve sampled our food, nested in the furniture and even raised families inside George the moose.  Unfortunately, they don’t clean up after themselves.  They’ve left enough “historical evidence” to convince me that they should start paying property taxes. 

One of three sections of the bench emptied out.

A couple of summers ago we removed a twelve-foot storage bench that had become prime mouse real estate. It was packed with old magazines, comic books, toys…and enough droppings to form archaeological layers. Nearly every paper item was soaked in mouse urine and had to be burned. Two antique bottles on the top shelf above it each contained a mummified mouse. I’m sure I inhaled enough dust that day to put me at risk for some lung disease I can’t pronounce.

Thurston’s favorite mouse story involves George, our stuffed moose. A family of mice moved into George’s head. During one family vacation, his former mother-in-law was sitting beneath George when a baby mouse suddenly fell out of George’s ear…and landed in her hair.

Every summer the kids competed to see who could catch the most mice. Their names were proudly recorded on the wall like Olympic champions. Brother Steve still holds the title.

Even removal of pesky rodents in the cabin can be a source of disagreement.  Thurston and I are all for elimination. Not everyone is in favor of poison, finding it inhumane and fearing that their pets could be poisoned as well.  Some don’t think we have a mouse problem.  I happen to disagree. 

The master bedroom in the new cabin is the prime spot with the sliding glass door providing a view of the Lake Superior shoreline.  We’ve spent time hanging the ceiling fan and new curtains; making it all cozy.  Thurston and I settle into bed, each of us with a good book. It isn’t long before the quiet of the cabin signals time for the critters to start moving about.

We can’t seem to eliminate them, but plastic does help keep the mice off the beds while we are away.

Sleeping on the right side of the bed puts me nearest the corner of the room.  The exterior walls are made of rough sawn logs.  Where the slightly uneven logs meet the straight interior walls, tiny gaps create the perfect mouse highway. 

I’m trying to read my book, but my eyes keep going back to that corner where I occasionally see big beady eyes giving me the once over.  Only to run back in when I wave the fly swatter at them.  Thurston, of course, is unfazed.  He finishes the next chapter and decides it’s lights out for him. 

I finished my chapter.  I had just turned out my light when I heard scratching.  Then footsteps.  Then something racing across the headboard.   Then…bonk.  Something lands between us.  I panic and immediately fan the bedspread into the air.  Yup – thump…goes the mouse onto the floor.

After slipping on my sandals – afraid I might step on him barefoot – I head for the kitchen.  Armed with a flashlight, fly swatter and rolls of aluminum foil, I return; determined to seal them out for the night.  I wad up sections of foil and fill all the corner cracks – ceiling to floor.  Naturally, Thurston slept through the whole thing.   

I spent the next day with expanding spray foam and caulk, hoping to permanently defend my territory.

In case you were wondering, the old wives’ tale that claims mice hate aluminum foil is wrong. Or perhaps the mice at Awanabatch never got that memo. The spray foam and caulk, however, sent a much clearer message.  Since then, I’ve slept much better. Thurston still just smiles; giving me the impression he thinks I overreacted. I’ve learned over the years that every marriage needs both personalities.  One person who sleeps through the mice…and the other armed with spray foam. 

One of my favorite shots of us together at Awanabatch

Becoming our Parents

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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

Awanabatch

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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.

Cancer

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By Nora Fields

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.

The boredom?
It’s a gift.

We’re all aging.
Let’s do it out loud.

Nora

As printed in The County Journal on May 23, 2026.

A Day in the Life

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By Nora Fields

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.

We’re all aging.
Let’s do it out loud.

— Nora

As published in The County Journal on May 9, 2026