My Next Project

I am wonderful. I can do no wrong, no matter what I do or say. I am smart, witty, sweet, and every other flattering adjective you can imagine.

On whose authority do I say this?

My dog’s, of course.

Piper, who is approaching age 13, or age 65, according to the online conversion calculator, knows all things. Can’t you just see the wisdom in those near Medicare-eligible eyes?

I admit. I am as smitten with Piper as she is with me. She is inarguably the world’s best dog. My husband is my best friend. Piper is president of my fan club (see first paragraph).

This week’s blog entry was going to be about the interpersonal dynamics of volunteer organizations, more appropriate to a blog called Retirement and Relocation since so many retirees volunteer. But, writing about the world’s finest canine companion is a far more pleasing topic.

No one, at least no one who knows Piper, can dispute that.

On that other topic, it’s challenging to work with people, no matter the setting. Yes, volunteer work can be extremely gratifying because you are working for a cause or a belief. But, then, that only makes the stakes higher.

Speaking of stakes, Piper loves steaks and all treats and anything our neighbor gives her. Fortunately, she grew out of her Styrofoam peanut phase.

A new favorite, among many favorites, is ground up chicken parts from  a vendor at the local farmer’s market. I gave her some one morning; she now expects it, no, in her Chessie way, demands it, every morning.

Chesapeake Bay Retrievers are insistent and vocal. I cannot begin to spell the ah-roooooooo noise I hear if moving too slowly when getting the ground chicken. Usually, as you can see, she cooperates when I ask her to pose, but ah-rooing on demand for a video to capture the sound, that’s where the stubbornness of her breed comes in.

I tried. I will try again. And, she will refuse again.

Thirteen years ago when Piper joined our family we heard the saying, “You tell a Golden Retriever what to do; you ask a Lab; and you negotiate with a Chessie.”

Piper and my husband and Piper and I have had many negotiations. But, “Will work for food,” is usually effective.  When she and I were younger, Pup-Peroni treats helped her learn the agility course. Turns out the handler needs to be agile, too. We should have done our coursework when we were both younger.

Now, in our “golden” years, our walks are shorter, naps more frequent. We sit and savor more. In good weather and warm water, I take her to the nearby lake for

hydrotherapy for her atrophied muscles. Still, she remains my shadow, resting nearby as I work or waiting just inside the door when I am out.

There are so many great essays, books, and quotations about dogs. I like this one from Arthur Conan Doyle, whose fictional detective had remarkable powers of perception:  “A dog reflects the family life. Whoever saw a frisky dog in a gloomy family, or a sad dog in a happy one? Snarling people have snarling dogs, dangerous people have dangerous ones.”

Mr. Doyle, dog lovers know their animal companions can lift gloom. And, Piper helps complete us. Look at all those therapy dogs visiting hospitals, special needs centers, and nursing homes.

This time last year, I was coming home to an empty house. My husband was in the hospital recovering from surgery, the neighbors with the treats were keeping Piper.

My worries were heavy as I fetched Piper, but my mood lifted. I had a constant and loyal companion who is confident that I am remarkable and worthy. And, yes, I know other people have dogs who are also wonderful. But, Piper is the best.

There is more to this story, however. It’s not all about devotion. I need to get more serious about following the advice on those cards and stickers and try to become the person my dog thinks I am.

Dedicated to Galahad, a best friend's best friend.

A Tale of Two Centuries, or My Head is Exploding

My head is exploding. I have unwittingly posted duplicate updates on my group’s Facebook page. Thanks to me, the group also has two YouTube accounts. One is enough. Two is too many. And, now, I’m supposed to start Tweeting for the organization.

Can I be trusted with new media?

I ‘m doubtful with this track record. Before I retired last year, I half joked (what my husband calls “kidding on the square”) that I was faking it in the 21^st century. Most of my colleagues were years, even decades, younger than I. My Generation X boss ran a communications shop that tactically and artfully exploited new media. I faked it as well as I could – after all, a message is a message however it is delivered, but, thankfully, I wasn’t the one live Tweeting and uploading photos from a crash site.

My entire career was in communications. And, boy, I saw changes. In 1973, I started as a newsletter editor writing, editing, and proofreading articles; taking, developing, and cropping photographs; sending copy to be typeset and then doing paste-up using a drawing table and a T-Square.

Typos were hell. Wite-Out became my generation’s revolutionary development.

Maybe some of these words and terms are as foreign to Millennials as their terms are to we Baby Boomers.

I know I am a digital immigrant. Our two grown daughters, who would help if they lived nearby, are digital natives, a term coined by Marc Prensky in 2001.

Even more native than our 20-something daughters is the 18-year-old I met with the other day to get coaching on social media. OMG. I was floored with her high tech savvy and skills and better yet, for me, her ability to communicate her abilities to me.

Watch out, world.

I have two goals in learning to use new media. One, I must if our organization is to reach young people (or we need a Millennial to step up and work with the old farts) and, two, I believe those articles about how you can retain cognitive abilities if you make your brain do new things. I gave up doing Crossword puzzles; they weren’t new and I was so bad. Now, my new-brain activities include online games, like Words Free and Scramble, and, oh, social media. And, yes, I frequently feel like my head is exploding.

Yet, maybe that exploding feeling is all those underused neurons firing and forging new pathways. Here’s some solace I found on the Internet this morning. I took an online quiz on  “HowMillennial Are You?” and scored a 68. Millennials come in at 73 and Baby Boomers at 11. If I went out today and got a tattoo and a non-earlobe body piercing, maybe I could inch closer to 73.

But, would a nose ring and Taurus zodiac tattoo help me delete that extra YouTube account?

Not likely. It’s probably time to use the time-honored “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again” approach.

Or, follow W.C. Fields’s advice. To that bromide he added, “Then quit. There’s no need to be a damn fool about it.”

Good Beds, Dear Friends, and New Abbreviations

I write this at the ocean’s edge. I kidnapped my husband and we drove due east so he and I could savor sounds and scents and his birthday gift from the sea.

View from the deck at Topsail Island, North Carolina

          While our oceanfront quarters are modest, the view from our picture window is spectacular. The sounds, wave after wave after wave, are glorious. At high tide, shorebirds are steps away. Inside, importantly for we senior citizens, the beds are firm.

         This is important. Good beds and good sleep are essential. And thoughts of beds quickly take me to what having quality beds can bring.

         Last year, when we furnished our new home we deliberately purchased good beds for the guest rooms. We wanted guests to enjoy their stays. Yes, hospitality includes food and drink, but it also includes a good night’s sleep.

         The word must be out on the beds, or on my southern-style breakfasts, or maybe on the conceit a recent guest and I cooked up (after I lost a string of Scrabble games) that guests at our home always win at their favorite games.

          Invariably the guests win. Grits and country sausage must be the breakfast of champions.

Breakfast of Champions

Whatever the reason, we’ve had a steady flow of guests. I hope it continues. It’s wonderful to see dear friends and have time, over more than one meal, to get caught up and reconnect.

In a year of visitors I’ve learned that each one brings his or her gifts. Sometimes, the gifts are literal, like the bags of Trader Joe’s treasures one girlfriend brought. She knows I miss not having a TJ’s within range.

Other guests bring music. Fellow communicators bring lively discussions about our shared craft and suggestions for the speechwriting class I am to teach in the spring. Longtime friends bring shared relationships and common experiences. Newer friends broaden my horizons and bring important lessons about simple pleasures.

Another visitor, from a place with grace in its name, brings that quality every time she walks into our home. And, when she comes with her granddaughters, they remind me you can be playful at any age. Just ask Spike, my dragon gift from those grand children, who brings me much joy.

Spike, the magical dragon

Other friends bring shared passions, like the friend who knocked on doors with me canvassing for Sen. Kay Hagan for the upcoming November election.

Our most recent visitor brought her life force, ideas, even an acronym, an appropriate gift for a former faceless DC bureaucrat. This friend, who co-founded Gross National Happiness, is the proprietor/instigator of The Happiness Paradigm. She positively thinks we can all be happier at the same time we are more mindful and protective of our planet.

During her visit, she spoke about the work of academics who study positive psychology and how to be happier. That led to the acronym gift, courtesy Martin Seligman.

The acronym, which is an abbreviation you can pronounce, is PERMA. P is for positive emotion, E is engagement, R is relationships, M is meaning, and A is accomplishment.

That’s sounds like a good construct for a happy life. Yet, for me, it’s not quite the right fit. Think of an off-the-rack dress versus one that is custom-tailored. That’s probably the point:  To get you thinking about what works for you. Both Seligman and my friend spurred more thoughts about what makes me happy, something I’ve been thinking about a lot since I left the full-time workforce.

Yet, here at the ocean with my husband, waves, spectacular clouds, and perhaps a laughing gull or two, I forego an acronym. I left those behind when I walked out of my last government office.

Here’s what works for me, my personal PERMA. For this retiree, senior citizen, boomer, and whatever other labels apply, happiness includes people and purpose, love and laughter and like the Life is Good t-shirt I just bought at the beachwear store:  Simplify. Those five abbreviate to PPLLS, which is unpronounceable and looks like a shirt size.

For now, PPLLS fits me to a T.