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 March 28, 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.
I’ve been gone — but I haven’t forgotten about my readers and I haven’t given up on writing.
A lot has happened since my last blog post in September of 2024. We added four more grandchildren to love on and sold the home my husband built on the family farm. We moved north an hour to be closer to friends, our children and the growing bevy of grands. We’re rekindling old friendships and making new ones. Remodeling our new-used home, and most recently, enjoyed a month in Florida with time in Tennessee on the way there and back.
Fun Fact: Did you know that spring flowers such as daffodils and crocuses represent new beginnings or rebirth?
For me, this spring includes new beginnings with my writing. I’ve started writing for a local newspaper. It’s a different kind of writing for me. A little less personal, a little more reflective, and (hopefully) something that resonates beyond just our immediate circle. I don’t expect to become the next Ann Landers, but a girl can dream.
This is also a good time to report that the new Scott, lovingly referred to as Scott 2.0, is a lot more impulsive than the original version. For those that don’t follow us on Facebook, he is doing very well since his transplant. I won’t lie; it’s been a long and grueling ride since his BMT transplant in August of 2022. He’s very close to being off all the medications associated to it and by looking at him you would never know he was once so sick. He’s put weight back on, so much so that his mother lovingly tells him he is getting fat. He’s far from being fat; but whatever you call it, he looks much better than the stick figure he became while he was battling Myelofibrosis.
On our way to Florida, we decided — somewhat suddenly — that we needed a Can-Am Spyder. With the help of an old friend, one was located in Tennessee and paid for that on the way home from Florida. Once we get it home and gear up with matching helmets, we have plenty of ideas for adding that to our already busy retirement schedule. I’m sure some people think we’re a little crazy, but when you’ve lived through what we have, your perspective shifts. We’ll let the financial advisor decide if it was a mistake.
As for this space…
I’m not walking away from it — but I am changing how I show up.
Going forward, this blog will be a little less about the day-to-day details and a little more about the stories and reflections behind them. You’ll still see glimpses of our life — just with a bit more distance. Think of it as the difference between living it in real time and looking back on it with a little perspective.
Additionally, from here on out, rather than following our lives, you’ll hear about the adventures of Nora and Thurston Fields.
Pool time has come to an end and it’s back to real life in our new location. Stay tuned! I’ll be sharing my first published column soon, and I hope you’ll stick with Nora (me) as this next chapter unfolds.
I’m really wondering if I’m looking at the early stages of diminished capacity. Cancer has left Scott’s memory a little foggy but what has it done to mine? I’m the same person that held two jobs while raising two kids and held positions in multiple non-profit and community boards. I managed to navigate the medical and insurance worlds that was my life for the past two years when Scott became sick. Now I can’t even successfully manage a Sirius XM radio account. I mean – what the hell? Is it me or just the world we live in? We might not be walking uphill two miles to school and back with bread bags in our snow boots but is what we have now any easier?
One of the perks of maturity (thankfully for us at least) is knowing that we have enough money in our checking accounts to handle automatic obligations and cover our spending. Gone are the days of keeping an eagle eye on that balance and robbing Peter to pay Paul and keep the bills paid and avoid overdraft fees that seemed to stress me out in my early years of marriage back in the 80’s. Unfortunately, I had misguidedly decided about 10 years ago that I no longer needed to balance my checkbook. Now, with so much free time on my hands, I decided that I would track our expenses in Quickbooks.
The process of entering our 2024 transactions led me to several interesting discoveries. The subscription to Prime Video that I thought I canceled last fall was still being deducted. We also discovered that funds were being taken from Scott’s account twice a month from Sirius XM radio. Long story short, after two attempts, we were STILL paying for the vehicle I sold back in November. I know, you’re welcome! Hopefully, the third attempt to remove it is the charm. If I had taken the time to write down the date and time that I had talked to the representative the first time, I could have asked them to review the tapes and prove that I had asked the Traverse to be cancelled back in November. As consumers, we need to use that “your call is being recorded for training purposes” to our advantage. Thanks to my friend in customer service for that little tidbit!
As most of you know, I sold my business back in October of 2023. Ancient history; right? Wish. Last week I got a little “love letter” in the mail. A delinquent tax notice with my name on it for property taxes on the property I no longer owned. You know that I opened the notice on a Friday after five so I had all weekend to stew about it. I could go into it but after several phone calls and a trip to the title office, I am washing my hands of it. Everyone wants to prove to me that it’s not their fault and pass the buck. More than once I was told that I shouldn’t worry about it; I can’t lose real estate for delinquent taxes when I don’t own the property. Great problem solving!
That’s not all. After nine months, the State is still processing the transfer of the liquor license. Now they have decided that I never paid a fee back in 2019; so, the license can’t be transferred until that is paid. Sure, let me just open up my bottomless pocket book for that too. Wanting to be sure that the funds make it to the right hands, I asked for payment instructions. They respond by sending me a credit card payment form and that I can fax the form back or mail it. I guess writing a check is old school but faxing isn’t?
Regardless of your income or ability, the average citizen is expected to have the minimum of a Smart phone and the ability to scan and email and text. The medical world operates strictly on-line and I doubt that you can even receive financial aid if you don’t have a way to operate electronically. At the same time the government is telling us that they only accept fax or snail mail. Who even has a land line anymore let alone a fax machine? Seriously.
I mean even using the phone to handle a problem is becoming archaic. How many times do you sit on hold waiting for the representative while listening to the recording telling you that if you want better service, you should log on and handle your problem electronically? Assuming you have gotten that far. So many times, you get caught in a loop of AI; screaming your option choice with your blood pressure reaching dangerous levels. Like speaking louder will solve your problems. How often do we find ourselves needing a drink after just trying to call and conduct business? You have to be a genius with patience of Job just to survive these days.
Even my hobbies lead to stress these days. Being that I enjoy sewing; I decided to look into getting a commercial style machine so I can do some projects without having to pay an expert. Maybe recover that ugly old couch in the basement that we can’t seem to part with. I started shopping on Marketplace and found a good old machine in Indiana listed by a sweet old lady that was so anxious to sell that she was even going to teach me how to use it. Luckily, I didn’t have access to a pick-up truck. Today the same machine picture is used on a listing in Battle Creek by a different seller. Who knows what would have happened to me if I had gone to look at it alone. Damn scammers!
Speaking of. Don’t you just feel all warm and fuzzy every time you get that friend request from the superhot retired service man who has been recently widowed and is looking to be your friend because he loves the review you posted three years ago for the local burger joint? Seriously? Impersonating a service person is unforgiveable. Losers!! I’m tempted to waste their time and lead them on. Tell them that I have millions in the bank and that I’m just looking for sex. Sounds like fun but I’m pretty sure some how they would somehow manage to gain my personal information and I would end up the loser.
Scott & I might need to pack up and join the Mountain Men. See if Eustace wants to sell us off a little parcel. Live off the land; I can make our clothes and Scott can grow our food. No computers or televisions to fill my head with garbage. No politics. Just fresh air and nature. Unfortunately, that life style likely comes with bugs and mice; and no air conditioning. That won’t work for this fluffy aging woman either.
I’m pretty sure that it’s the hot and humid weather that is causing my sour mood. Maybe it’s retirement jitters. Not having your life operate at 90 miles an hour makes you feel like you are just sitting around waiting for the next problem to raise its ugly head. Let’s do lunch has a whole new meaning when all your friends are over an hour away. And even if you have all the time in the world, it doesn’t mean that others do. Maybe feeling this way is normal for people after they have lived through life altering events. Normal life is just boring after the shit storm is over.
Flashback to when !*&% was simple
Since I obviously don’t have the patience to return to the work force, I guess I will have to ask Meta AI how to cope. Reminding me; the other day Scott and I were talking about the 5 Love Languages. Ok, yes, I was talking at him about the 5 Love Languages; refreshing his memory. Sure enough, the next time I was on Facebook, I had something in my feed referring to them. Scary.
There’s plenty more of the same but I’ve exceeded my word limit for the day. Don’t feel sorry for me. I’ve made it to 60 without medication; I’ll get through it. Let this be the distraction you needed from your own problems. Know that the lives of your seemingly perfect Facebook friends aren’t perfect either. Laugh. Like everything before it, it will pass. Things will work out; it’s just another chapter in What Doesn’t Kill You Girl Makes You Stronger!
WhatDoesn'tKillYouGirlMakesYouStronger. 