Don't Panic

For those of you who may not be aware, the words “Don’t Panic”, written in large friendly letters, are found on the cover of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. “Don’t Panic” provides all the instruction any traveler needs to negotiate the next unknown event. A second word from the Hitchhiker’s series having particular meaning in the Johnson family is “Belgium”, the most unspeakably rude word in the universe. It’s ironic that The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, a work of fantastic fiction, contains two absolutely true references to my life.  For the last 10 years Dan and the boys tell a story of tremendous embarrassment for me as they relay the events around the irrational panic I experienced during a border crossing into Belgium. It’s time for me to own it.

The Belgium Incident, as it is recalled in Johnson family lore, is the most extreme example of my difficulty crossing a border. Sadly, there are more examples, but this blog is about Belgium.  In July 2001 we took a trip to Europe. Thanks to an inheritance from my grandpa I was able to put together a 15-day planes, trains and automobiles vacation. We’d land in London for a few days of sightseeing, take trains to Amsterdam where we’d spend a few days, followed by another train to Cologne where we’d pick up a rental car and drive to Munich, ending with the flight home.

Off we went. We had much fun in London once we got past the microscopic hotel rooms, “beam me up Scotty elevators”, mad-cow warnings and the total lack of showers and air conditioning during an unseasonably hot summer. Oh, and just an FYI, celebrating the fourth of July in London is a real faux-pas.  Finished with London we boarded the Eurostar, a fast train through the Chunnel to Brussels and a connecting train to Amsterdam.

Now I must tell you, until the recent acquisition of GPS, I have been the navigator in the family. I read maps with incredible accuracy. I can get from A to B via the straightest or most circuitous route possible, your choice. I know that all roads lead to Disneyworld and I was not at all concerned about navigation in Europe. My family was depending on me to get them seamlessly from point A to point B. 

After what felt like a many hour delay, but was probably 45-minutes the Eurostar left London for Brussels. I knew we would have a tight connection to pick-up the train for Amsterdam. As I obsessed about the unexpected lost time the first prickling of panic began to set in. When the train arrived in Belgium we were down to less than 15-minutes to make the connection. I needed to find the appropriate platform and the next train. It never occurred to me that we had just entered another country, an awareness that dawned when every sign was NOT IN ENGLISH. Yes, I was now in full on ugly American mode. 

I finally spotted a sign with the logo for Thalys, the brand of the connecting train, on an elevator with a single button. OK I inferred, we need to go DOWN as UP was not an option. (Insert accelerated breathing and increased heart rate.)  I looked around and spotted an escalator-type ramp, no stairs, just a ramp and it wasn’t moving. With family in tow I proceeded down the ramp, which suddenly turned on and began to move in the wrong direction. I started running to compensate and the family followed.

We found ourselves in a room with frosted glass walls and doors and we could see a lot of people moving on the other side. Dan stepped up and with little difficulty pulled the glass doors open. We walked through and simultaneously a few people came through from the other side. Success! Our next stop would be the correct platform. I showed our tickets to a confused looking man in a uniform. He pointed up--the direction from which we just came. Tick-tock--time was running out. 

We jumped on another elevator and when the doors opened there stood a uniformed man and a woman with a walkie-talkie. She asked us, in English (somehow she knew) if we had "forced open the doors" downstairs. At this point I stepped back and deferred to Dan as the family spokesperson, because I CAN NOT tell a lie. Dan said “no, we are just trying to get to our train.” “Follow-me” she said, walking to another elevator. It soon became clear that she was not going to take us to the correct platform.

As our little group descended into the bowels of the train station my panic rose. What had I done? We found ourselves in the security office. I wouldn’t call it an interrogation, probably due to the presence of our teenage sons, but we were questioned. Dan held up admirably. I sat with my stomach in my throat, positively nauseous. Carl and Hunter sat in chairs with the smug confidence of children who knew that the worst outcome was they’d be sent home early and alone to the loving arms of sane relatives, happily liberated from their mom’s idea of a fun family vacation.  

The woman asked Dan if he had opened the locked doors. Dan replied "of course not. You can't open a locked door". Once she translated this into French or whatever, both the pitch and volume of the conversation increased by about 30%. An older officer took charge and accused Dan of prying the doors open. Dan just shook his head no and pantomimed doors sliding easily open. Two younger guards stood at the back of the room and smiled. The entire episode ended less than an hour later, when the officer angrily stamped our passports and escorted us to an outbound train. They were more than happy to take us to the train for Amsterdam. And because we had missed our earlier reservations they had the perfect excuse to put us on a train that had been converted from hauling cattle earlier that week.  

By comparison the rest of the trip was uneventful. Dan, alone in the rental car, lost his way on the autobahn convinced that “Ausfahrt” was the largest unknown city in Germany. Hunter put four years of German language classes to work ordering ice cream treats in Bonn. Carl managed to get reasonable directions from a deaf gas station attendant in Frankfurt who only lip-read German. I was able to convince Dan that “living the dream” did not include sitting day after day on a bench begging for beer money in Heidelberg. We found our hotel in Stuttgart despite the fact that it was in the middle of a pedestrian mall. We all survived the drive from Mannheim to Munich when a tire on the rental car exploded at over 100-kph. And we managed to convince the incredulous airline ticket agent that we absolutely did not want to take a bump and stay another day, no matter how many thousands worth of incentives they threw our way.

Of course, from the moment we were on the train to Amsterdam and throughout the balance of the trip I tried to negotiate a “what happens in Belgium stays in Belgium” pact. Dan and the boys would have none of it. Since 2001 I’ve been to Belgium several times, at the behest of my employer. I still panic a bit when I travel there and I can’t help but think it is the most unspeakably awful destination there is. Happily the border guards do not have my picture on file and I’m free to conduct business in Belgium. Don't panic. 

Moving to Key West? No problem. No border.

To stay on top you gotta be flexible

We have a stupid Gumby Santa on the top of our Christmas tree. It's been our tree topper since 1979, the year we got married. I hate Gumby Santa. I love Gumby Santa.

Yes, I know. It doesn’t make any sense. Think about your first Christmas as a newly married couple or a single adult, on your own. How many ornaments did you have? We had none. I went to some craft shop and bought what we could afford, some stupid wooden cut-out ornaments that needed to be painted. They came in a package of 64. Out of sympathy my mom-in-law and sis-in-law sat down and painted ornaments with me. They were not terribly attractive, but they filled in our first tree.

I had visions of buying a lovely angel or star tree-topper. Unfortunately that was not to happen. Dan and I found ourselves at some drug store at Point Loomis prior to Christmas. At the checkout they had a box of “Gumby Santas”, skinny, bendy Santas. Dan needed one for the tree top. He was taken with Gumby Santa. It cost 99 cents. Dan bought it as a lark and it pissed me off.

And every year since that first Christmas Gumby Santa has embodied some “event” of the year. For 2010 he’s running to represent Dan’s first marathon.  He’s graduated several times, painted a house, been to Disney on the Space Mountain ride, played the bass, starred in movies, participated in triathlons, played roller hockey as a goalie, played soccer as a first grader, been cast in school plays and basically reflected major activities in all of our lives for the last 33 years.

Gumby Santa is like an angel or a star, but he's so much better. Gumby Santa has been flexible, adapting to change and accomplishments throughout the years. I thought he’d fall apart or breakdown, but he hasn’t. He’s shown up every Christmas, ready to participate and represent the Johnsons and our rich life together.

And he will survive a move, when we move, and be ready to represent any new accomplishments and activities in a way no star or angel ever could.

Music that resonates:

There's No Place Like Home for the Holidays

The Musician and the Thespian

Hunter & Carl, 1987

The holidays are coming and this was holiday party weekend. An open house tonight found us enjoying the energy of small children. Of course, those of us with children fully grown started to reminisce about magic moments when our kids were growing up. We have two adult sons who are without a doubt the most wonderful guys in the world. Certainly in my world and Dan’s world.

Hunter & Carl, 1996

Resistance to moving south has always been contingent on their futures. I made it clear to Dan early and often that if the boys stayed in the Milwaukee area I needed to be there too. However, they’ve charted a different course, away from home and drop-in visits.

Carl, the musician, lives in Philadelphia, with plans to make a musical future for himself in New York. Music is what he loves. More importantly, it makes him happy. He first picked up an instrument in the fifth grade. Carl was set on being a tuba player but due to size, forced to start on the baritone. This was not acceptable and as soon as he hit middle school he convinced the band director to let him switch. As a freshman in high school he discovered the bass guitar as the passport to the jazz ensemble. He taught himself to play, using an instrument borrowed from his Uncle Brian.

Carl & Hunter, Peavey museum, 2000.

Sophomore year was a crucial point for Carl in asserting control over his destiny. He walked around the house for hours on end with the bass in his hands. More than a few arguments were focused on our requests for him to put the bass down and “DO YOUR HOMEWORK”. Exasperated by less than stellar grades we took him to a psychologist for an evaluation. The therapist showed us a picture Carl drew of a mobile home threatened by a large, nasty looking tornado. Carl had explained that it was “the juxtaposition of outside factors on the safety of the home and family”. Take a chill pill mom and dad, nothing wrong with this kid.

Hunter (center) & Carl (right) in Music Man, 2002

Hunter, the thespian, always knew he wanted to be an actor. In the third grade he donned a hula skirt, bikini top and lipstick in a risky performance for Odyssey of the Mind. He got his first video camera in grade school and made a stop-motion short story for a middle school project. Hunter was cast in two First Stage productions and all but one of the high school plays. He wrote and directed “Zombies, the Musical” for the Student Play Festival at Wauwatosa East. He brought tears to my eyes as a fireman in "Working", in a production staged by his theater class.

While in college we’d hear about a project Hunter was involved with, and if we were lucky enough, he’d let us know when and where to see a performance. He’s written and directed his own full length movie, a project that found me dying a slow and painful death covered in blood colored liquid laundry detergent. “Now mom, could you just gasp and struggle until your final breath? Oh, and then hold your breath and DON'T MOVE until I say cut.” (My best and only movie role and it hit the cutting room floor.) He landed a lead role in the independent movie Driver's Ed Mutiny. And just like Carl, Hunter is truly happy with this life choice.

As a parent the best thing in the world is to see your children thriving, happy and pursuing their dreams. That’s what my kids are doing. They no longer live in their home town, they are pursuing dreams and their adult futures in other places, with plans to move even farther away. My resistance to moving diminished when it became clear that one or both of them would be a plane ticket away, no matter where we live.

Hunter & Carl 2010

Periods. And the periodic table.

I need to set long term thinking aside for a while to deal with short term issues. At least I hope they are short term issues. The problem is I’ve been absolutely difficult lately, in emotional flux, riding some nasty mood altering roller coaster. I totally blame this on hormones, or lack of, or imbalance – whatever, but I need to get a handle on this. And this is not at all helped by my husband’s belief that women have a propensity to hit menopause and go crazy, ending long term relationships for some undefined better place. His opinion is based, of course, on well informed and insightful observations of more than a few breakups.


The stupid thing is that I have none of the “normal” signs of menopause. I’m 53 (there, I’ve said it), I had one hot flash about 4 years ago and I can still rely on the calendar. What I’m mostly dealing with is insomnia and anxiety. My new best friends are 2am, 3am, 4am and 5am. They greet me every night, twinkling at me from the clock. All I can do is pull the covers over my head and hope they will go away. I’ve resisted the urge to get out of bed and watch TV, bother Dan, shop on-line, or worse yet, post stupid insomniac status updates on Facebook.


Compounded by poor nightly sleep is an increased level of anxiety that I can’t seem to get control of.  Not that I haven’t tried. I started with my primary care physician.  From her I got the second best medical advice ever...”your symptoms will eventually go away”.  This $250 proclamation is only slightly less helpful than the advice I got from a previous primary care doc about a different issue. When I reported stabbing right shoulder pain while moving laundry from the washer to the dryer, he said…”use your left arm”. Really Sherlock, that’s the best you can do? 

Feeling far superior to the lame advice of over-educated medical practitioners, I began chatting with friends about symptoms and possible remedies.  After all, who knows better than peers who are in the battle, have survived it, or have thrown in the towel and now live alone? A friend described a peaceful office and a skilled practitioner, who combined listening to both the person and the body to define a balanced treatment plan. This led me to a chiropractor/nutritionist who specializes in health, energy, balance and natural remedies. Perfect. I’ll take it.


The doctor listened intently, completed an extensive physical examination using kinesiology, and read the entrails of a sheep to determine that I’m allergic to potatoes, tomatoes, mushrooms, and salt. She found my CVS multi-vitamins were causing more harm than good and the calcium supplements were hard for my body to digest.  A saliva test found levels of some adrenal something or other were off balance and contributing to my sleep issues. Three visits, and a $120 checkbook adjustment for the purchase of various cleansers and vitamins, found me at home with “the remedy.” Of course I’d have to go back for more adjustments, but my health insurance was covering the visits so this must be OK, right?


I had to stop with the supplements after three days because I got a nasty stomach bug. Everything I ate completed the incredible journey, very quickly and painfully.  Thankfully, that subsided within 24-hours and I added in the supplements to my nightly routine. Three days later I woke up needing to call in sick to work because I couldn’t be more than 3 feet and 2 seconds away from the bathroom. Stop everything again, except this time I had figured it out. Something in my diet was causing this, and the only thing new was the supplements. I was no better the next day and needed immediate relief – I had two weddings to attend, one that day and one the next. I wasn’t going to miss them. 


I took a chance that I could make it to the walk-in clinic 5-minutes from the house. After a bit of uncomfortable banter with another physician, as well as a detailed review of the ingredients on the bottles, I was informed that taken alone, none of the supplements was harmful. Combined, they created a mega-dose of magnesium with an explosive laxative effect. Some direction on appropriate over-the-counter remedies and I was patched up enough to attend both weddings. Unfortunately what I’m finding from October into December is the half life of magnesium must be 20 years or something like that. Unbelievable, because I never knew it was a radioactive substance. 


I’m going to get myself past the holidays, then re-engage the medical profession.  I’m zeroing in on someone who specializes in the care of “women of a certain age”. In the meantime, I resolve to count to 10, bite my tongue, keep my thoughts to myself, not go crazy, generally hold onto my opinion and try very hard to be easier to get along with. If I’m not, I’m absolutely giving those people that care permission to call me on it.

The trouble with normal

For years I’ve been listening to an insightful performer by the name of Bruce Cockburn. He’s got a lot of angry political songs on his playlist. From one of the songs I extracted a line because if felt like it applied in all situations - the trouble with normal is it always gets worse.

I’ve always thought about that phrase in the context of aging. I get older and the long term effects of gravity become more visible. I’ve aged into routine and uncomfortable preventive diagnostic protocols. My fertility wanes with unpleasant side effects. My parenting emphasis has shifted from babies to toddlers to young children to pre-teens to teenagers to young adults, and so on.

One of the things I fear about the idea of relocating is what that means in terms of a life milestone. When I think about moving south, I must admit, I think of a stereotype (bad, bad Paula). Old people, gray haired people, retired people, weak and wimpy people move to warm and sunny climates because they can’t handle the extremes in temperature, the snow shoveling, the leaf raking, mowing the lawn and tending the garden. I feel like the big move means giving up and getting old, because, as the song says, normal just gets worse.

In order to more fully explore this notion I sat down and completed a self-styled “is normal worse?” exercise to validate my perception – I used two points in time, 10 years apart, for comparison.  Suffice it to say that 20 years ago was not memorable.

PROOF POINT	10 Years ago	Today	Normal
Marriage	21+ years; a lot of “discussions”; intimacy - meh	31+ years; great communication;   intimacy - breathless	+  It just gets better!
Parenting	Teenagers; 16 & 14	Adult children in Philly and Chicago	+ Low key parenting stress
Work	Laid-off and between jobs collecting unemployment	Project manager with pension, 401k, health/life benefits, excellent salary	+ Improved
Health	30+ pounds overweight; pre-diabetic; high cholesterol	Would like to lose 10 pounds; normal blood sugar; improved cholesterol	+ Improved
Family	Parents, 4 brothers, 2 sisters	Parents, 3 brothers, 2 sisters	- Loss of 1 to Big C
Housing	Valued at high end of market	Lost value due to economy	- Same house, new roof, less equity
Fitness	Couch potato	Could complete a sprint triathlon tomorrow	+ Much improved
Hair color	Blonde	Blonde with reddish highlights	= No change in methodology

So, that’s 5 in the plus category, 2 in the minus and one unchanged. My take away? Life “gets different”, but it doesn’t have to “get worse”. I can’t stop aging, but I don’t have to be old. My hair color can continue to come from a bottle to match the current aesthetic. I don’t want to retire today, but no one is asking me to, and I certainly won’t want to work forever. Family dynamics inevitably change, so it’s best to concentrate on the quality of relationships. And I’m not wimpy or weak unless I choose to stop moving and go back to the couch.

I’ve decided to return those lyrics to the song, placing them back in their original context. With all the political nonsense and lack of civility it will be nice to move to the Conch Republic. After all, they seceded where others failed. That’s my kind of normal.

Music that resonates:

Bruce Cockburn -- The Trouble with Normal

Follow me

Hunter came in by train from Chicago on Wednesday night. Late. To make things easier we decided to drop off a car for him at the train station. On our way out of the house Dan said “follow me.”

I followed him down our street and through the parkway to 76^th.  When he got to Wisconsin Avenue he turned left and I followed him into downtown. He parked his car and jumped in mine.

On the way home he asked me why didn’t I want to take the freeway? I don’t typically take the freeway in town, so I was heading up St. Paul. Why was this a problem?

Dan said no, why didn’t I want to take the freeway on the way to the station, it’s faster?

What? I was following you on the way there.

You turned on your directional at Wisconsin Avenue. 

I did?

Yeah, so I figured I better just turn left.

But I was following you and you could have gone to the freeway.

Well, I figured you didn’t want to take the freeway for some reason.

Hmmm.

I took Hunter back to the train station this morning. Halfway there I realized I was on the freeway.

So now this is stuck in my head. Who is following who?

Music that resonates:

R.E.M. -- Stand

Plate Tectonics

With Thanksgiving just around the corner I dove into the china cabinet to set the table for twelve.  As I started to pull out my wedding china (because Thanksgiving CAN NOT be served on paper plates) I became aware of the various plate options that I had.  Turns out I own 249 plates, not counting miscellaneous paper plates, and those currently in the dishwasher.

249 plates!

:Dan steps in: China cabinetSSSS. four, (not the singular Paula implies above) not counting what’s elsewhere in the house. After 32 years, we can address the madness of the plates. It has been nuts—we have plates that have never seen food—never seen a party—never seen the dark wonder of the Dish Washer. But they hang from walls, fill cabinets and when a plate is needed “NO! YOU CAN’T USE THAT PLATE!” 

A weapon not used is not a weapon at all.

I still flinch remembering the “Enchilada Episode.” We had enchiladas on a Friday night and there were two left-over. The one and only time Paula ever had a rummage sale was the following Saturday morning. This was many years ago, and as I recall the story I realize that Paula was high on something, for she decided to SELL SOME PLATES. That’s right, actually get rid of the plates THAT WE USED EVERY SINGLE DAY. I awoke, excited as a five-year-old knowing there were two left-over enchiladas for breakfast. But where could they be? Paula had washed them down the garbage disposal to sell the plate for a quarter. No, I am not bitter. I have, over the years, learned to bury the pain. But I digress…

I will downsize the motor vehicles. The convertible, DeLorean*, motorcycle and Toaster are going. A 66% reduction. I need to ditch one of the two party refrigerators (the 1954 Graf’s is going, the 1932 GE stays.) But now it’s a matter of what to do with all of the plates, “Oh Ashley!”, and I’ll turn this back over to Paula. I have to (believe it or don’t) empty the dish washer.

*It’s a long story.:

Ahem. 

The wedding china, all gifts, service for 16 and lots of extras. Blue depression glass bubble plates were found in my grandmother’s china cabinet after she died, my mom-in-law rounded out the set for me. Green and pink depression glass, not sure where I got those. Halloween plates, too cute to pass up. Large serving plates from a variety of sources.  Decorative plates of many patterns were all gifts. And the Gone With the Wind collection, frankly (my dear), I love them all. They are not microwaveable, a concept lost on Dan. I LOVE Gone With the Wind, the book, the movie and the plates.  The plates are … a passion that my mom-in-law indulged. 

Clearly, I need to come to grips with all of the plates…and make Dan two enchiladas…

Separation anxiety

Life is full of difficult choices and uncomfortable situations. When you make a personal decision to change your trajectory, other people are going to be affected. The stone in the pond metaphor becomes more and more relevant. A stone is dropped and the ripples of water begin to radiate. Sometimes the smallest of stones create an unexpected wave that just knocks me off balance.

Last week Dan dropped a stone. It was a mutual decision, but I let him drop it. This time it was a money stone, our annual allocation to the church. We’ve been members of the same church for years. We attended every Sunday. Our boys were confirmed into membership. We became more and more active, ultimately becoming church elders (first Dan, then me) chairing a committee. Members of that committee included a bunch of grumpy old men. What I learned from that experience as an elder was that bullies come in all ages and they certainly bullied me.

So we stopped attending regularly, then pretty much dropped it, but our giving continued because I always expected to go back. This year the pledge card arrived and we made the decision to redirect some of the money to the United Way and use the balance towards our relocation goal. For me, this meant I would not be going back, except for the occasional special event.

In theory this should not be too difficult, we had not been to a service for a long time. Dan sent the pledge card back with a note regarding our decision. Then we had dinner with good friends Jim and Sarah. Friends we’ve shared many a meal with, friends we’ve taken to the cottage, friends we’ve vacationed with, “default friends”. Jim delicately brought up a note he had received this week, from us, stating our decision to stop giving to the church.  He got this because he’s not just a friend, he’s also our minister.

There it was, in front of us and it needed to be discussed. We were stepping away from the church, but not from Jim and Sarah. Their friendship is cherished but the ripples from the stone in the pond had reached them, touched them, affected them. I felt the water slosh back and wash over me. There I sat, sharing bar food and drinks, smiling through tears.

Change in direction

Do you ever play the what if game? That speculative game where you think about the events and choices in your life where critical things happened to get you where you are today? I played that game this morning and this is what a came up with (critical path begins in September 2008 and there is some future speculation as well) -

Happy to report only green arrows so far. Let me know if you have any questions.

Dark, but true, context about the first plan

I need to say straight up and for the record, this is not a work of fiction. People who can write fiction have an imagination and an ability to tell stories. I can only tell the truth, as I have no imagination and a passable ability to tell stories. But I do have something better. I have Dan.

In my last post I said Dan does not plan to reach 54. This was absolutely the truth. He has an exit strategy. This truly means that he does not intend to get old, or become an invalid, or die of some debilitating disease. Which is not to say he hasn't been on the road to a heart attack, or a stroke, or who knows what else, because he hates seeing a doctor.

Here are the facts. Dan has watched too many of his relatives waste away, young at heart and feeble of body. This is never going to happen to him.  He told me this early and often in our relationship. Initially I did not believe him, it was too crazy to be true. But the longer we were together and the more opportunities I had to experience his resolve, the more I came to fear and then believe it was true. If you are having any difficulty with this, let me say it more plainly. He is planning to end his own life before nature can find a way to slowly end it for him. Was that 54, is it still 54? I don’t know for sure, but that is what he has always told me.

A critical reality check came for me when Dan turned 50.  He and best friend Malcolm had made a pact to have a pie fight in honor of their 50th birthdays.  This pact, made while still in college, seemed years away. Overnight, there it was, Dan and Malcolm's 50th just around the corner. They planned, and executed, a stunning birthday event complete with over 500 pies and over 100 guests. 

Now what? Four short years from Dan’s self-proclaimed end date, he had already provided Carl and Hunter with disposal instructions for his ashes (a topic for another day), and this was pressing on me. I had one ace to play and I played it – “don’t even think about this while your mom is alive, it would devastate her, she’s already lost one son.”  He agreed that would not be wise. So you can see, as a couple, relocating anywhere was not something I ever needed to think about.  I had a more pressing matter at hand. I needed to come up with a plan…

Music that resonates:

Warren Zevon -- Don't let us get sick

Change in plan

Let me be honest. Any formal plan to make a location change is going to involve a lot of discussions about money. The topic is going to come up early and often. It’s stressful. And because I’ve never taken the idea of moving anywhere very seriously we did not put a firm long term plan in place.

I’m not kidding when I say this, I’m married to a man, who up until he ran his first marathon 6 weeks ago, planned to be dead before he was 54.  He absolutely told me this when I was 19 and we got engaged. He repeated this for the first 25 or so years of our marriage. My instructions were to collect the life insurance payments, become a rich widow and get married again (my silent amendment to that plan was to get a pool and a pool boy). Seriously, this was Dan’s original plan. And just for the record, I was never in favor of this…well…except for the pool boy part…I kind of liked that idea.

Our entire married lives we’ve negotiated money this way…I handle the monthly bills, Dan gets the taxes done. We’ve always had joint accounts. Money is pooled, bills are paid, a set amount goes into savings and the rest is, well, spent. We cinch in when we need to and our outflow flexes with our fortunes.  We’ve lived on one small salary and two generous salaries. We’ve both embraced the theory of if you can fix it with money, it’s not worth worrying about, because you can always make more. Shake your head in disbelief now, it’s OK.

As we begin to seriously discuss a relocation, we need to examine our lack of a truly responsible long term fiscal strategy. Please don’t misunderstand, we do have savings, 401k and retirement plans working quietly, in the background. However with this shift in thinking the magnifying glass is out.  What can we do with these accounts and how can we make more money? What are the trigger dates for maximum pension payouts? What happens if we exit work on this date versus that date?  It’s exhausting and I don’t like it.

And I won’t get to interview prospective pool boys.

Loose change

Anyone who knows my husband Dan, knows he's a man with a plan. For years now his plan has been to move south, specifically to New Orleans. He's convinced that his soul was switched before birth and that there is some guy, trapped in Louisiana, who thinks ice fishing is a good idea. All along I've nodded and smiled and said OK, sounds good, some day. But in my heart of hearts I have not been interested or motivated to move.

I fundamentally agree with Dan that there is no compelling argument to live in Wisconsin forever. My biggest reason for staying has left town. Our two boys have graduated college and are slowly moving to the coasts. Carl, a musician, lives in Philadelphia and seeks jobs playing his bass in New York. Hunter, an actor, lives in Chicago and has his sights set on Los Angeles. No matter what, they will live a plane ticket away. And yet, I'm not ready to do it, commit to the big move. 

But wait, I did say Dan's plan is New Orleans, and this blog is about moving to the Keys! Yes. There has been a location change in the plan. I'm a beach girl, I like to scuba dive and I don’t like cold water. So move south? Maybe, but New Orleans...no. We needed to compromise, and in our 30+ years of marriage we’ve learned how to do that. So, three trips to Key West and Dan is sold. He now understands why, if we are going to move, I need quick access to a warm ocean!

So that’s it, right?  Put it on the calendar and go.  Not so easy for me, which brings me to the title of this post, “loose change”.

We just returned from a vacation in Key West.  Dan, excited about the idea of moving, needed to ACT.  He proceeded to find all the loose pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters in various containers about the house.  He pooled all the coins and took them to the bank, making a $123.00 deposit.  “Paula, we need to pay down that bill, so mail it in.”  And that’s it, he’s off and running – next stop, Key West.

For me, it’s not so easy.  I've determined my inertia comes from other places that I need to explore. Extended family, a multitude of friends, community and neighborhood, a great job, a house I love and a feeling of stability I'm afraid to uproot.  Dan’s personal self-confidence in maintaining the important connections, regardless of location, has not rubbed off on me. This blog is my attempt to gather up the loose change in my life, figure out what I’ve got and turn it into a plan. Those of you who know me, know that once I've made a commitment, I'm all in. The question for me is, what will it take to get there?

I expect this will be part stroll down memory lane, part self-awareness exercise, and part check-list, as I push past invisible and real barriers.  Probably not the most interesting topic in the world, but I’ll try to keep it fun. I’ve read enough blogs to know the best ones allow the writer to talk about what is important to them. And, in my opinion, the best blogs are not so much prolific as they are pertinent to the author, in that moment. If you choose to read more, thank you.  If not, that’s OK too. For me, this is all about the journey. It will be fun for me to see where it ends…