The Dark Side of the Moon

It's been a little over a year since I wrote my last blog post. Since then, the well has dried up. Is this connected to my slipping out of the workforce and into the dark side of retirement? 

To truly answer that question, I suppose I should first ask myself why I am writing a blog at all. In Where Ketchup Will Travel, my first blog post written ten years ago, I described my original motivation as follows:

"For all of you Canadians still out there in the mother country, and you Israelis who are still wondering how all of these immigrants made it in here, I offer you a slightly different look at identity mislaid, sometimes lost, and occasionally gained - here, and in further entries to come."

Most people who knew me were surprised at how someone as socially autistic as myself could open himself up in that way. What they didn't realize was that I had found the perfect medium for doing so.

So, eighty-eight blog posts and ten years later, I ask myself where do I go from here. The emphasis, until now, has been on sharing. By sharing, we shed light on ideas and they become real. But these two last years, a worldwide epidemic has changed the world greatly, forcing us to adapt. And now we have seen how a despot can hold the world captive, turning millions of people into refugees, threatening world order, and perhaps leading to World War Three.

That's the world. And we also have our own personal trials and tribulations where we can exchange notes,

Until now, we have been travelling under the light of the moon. Now is the time to also visit the dark side. You are welcome to join me on the journey.

Last stop - Beer Sheva

"So, this is it, then - the end of the line."

"Really? Can't I take a transfer? I hear that they are talking about setting up a separate line to Eilat." 

"Not in your lifetime. Chin up, old man. You've had a good, long life (more or less) and there is still time for you to do more."

"In Beer Sheva?"

"What's wrong with Beer Sheva?"

"I don't know, it's..."

"It's come a long way since you called it a cow town."

"Shh! They may hear you. I have to live here now. I don't want to get off on the wrong foot even before I get going."

"So what are your plans?"

"For retirement?"

"Yes, for retirement in Beer Sheva."

"I'll play it by ear. I have started to explore Beer Sheva by foot, which should also make my neurologist happy as she claims that walking is the best exercise the body and mind can share."

"So, everything is coming up smelling of roses."

"Are you making fun of me?"

"No, of course not. Well, maybe just a little."

"Anyhow, watch this space. Beer Sheva will soon take its rightful place beside the others... Toronto, Scarborough, Kibbutz Palmachim, Midreshet Ben Gurion - from Lake to Sea to Desert to City"

I welcome tips from those of you who know Beer Sheva well or are just starting out like me. 

 

The art of not turning 60.

I'm not here to talk about turning 60. I know that many of you expect me to write a blog on this subject, since I came face to face with the BIG 6 0 this month. But no, it is not a matter on which I desire to dwell. "Leave it behind!" I say. I have looked into the eye of my own mortality and it is time to move on.

So there will be no blogs from me about turning sixty. Nothing about the mental anguish, dramatic build up, or trauma in pulling myself out of bed that fatal morning. Nothing about a world which has slowly lost its lustre and colour. I won't even introduce quotes on the subject, such as the one by Albert Einstein:
"The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion that stands at the cradle of true art and true science. Whoever does not know it and can no longer wonder, no longer marvel, is as good as dead, and his eyes are dimmed."

They say that 60 is the new 40, so I could write about forty instead. Many of you claimed that 40 was the beginning of the best years of your life at the time. How did that work out for you? No, if I were to go back, it would have to be back to the great divide: thirty. 30 was the first real ball breaker. We, the post-war ME generation, grew up believing that anybody over the age of thirty was over the hill. They ceased to be relevant to our own existence. So upon reaching thirty, I experienced a trauma that was totally new to me. I was getting old.

Yes, I know, we would all kill to be 30 again. Even 40 doesn't look that bad once you reach 60.

Not that the feeling of alienation is all that new. For a long time, I appeared to be the youngest in the group - whether it were professional, social, or otherwise. And then at some time in the past, people around me suddenly appeared younger than me. And I imagine that they looked at me as I had once looked at older people at that age. Which couldn't help me but feel... wait for it ... drum roll ... irrelevant.

When Adva and I got married, her relatives - even at the wedding reception - asked about when we planned to have baby. I didn't know that it was a package deal at the time. I mean... I knew that we would have a child at some time, but it still seemed far off.
There were echoes of this when I turned 60.
"Aren't you looking forward to retirement?" they asked.
"Just shoot me," I wanted to answer, but I attempted one of my now infamous strained smiles.
Can't be avoided, I guess.

A good friend of mine decided on a big birthday bash with friends to celebrate her 60th. While drinking a glass of wine with her to quietly celebrate my own passing, I told her:
"I'm not like you. I don't see what there is to celebrate in turning sixty. I just want it to quietly come and go so that I can ignore it as much as possible."
She was strangely quiet when I said this, which I later realized was because she knew what was coming.

My wife and children threw me a surprise birthday party. They invited me for a small party gathering at a Irish pub. When I got there, I received a boisterous welcome from extended family and good friends. Caught me by surprise, as I stood there rooted to the spot, not knowing how to react at being suddenly thrown into the centre of attention. But once it was affirmed that I still had a pulse, it was quite nice. They had come, at least at this time, not to bury me, but to praise me. My daughter Nicole, the mastermind behind such operations, had put together a touching presentation, and now - instead of mourning years that had passed - I could enjoy in their celebration. And suddenly it all seemed that much easier.  Nicole had even included a quote of mine from a previous blog post, at the top of the special menus they had created:
"In many ways my life has turned upside down, but friends and family stay with me, and keep me from fading away."

My grandson, almost eight months old, was there also. Watching him take in everything with glee and great interest allowed me to once again marvel at things forgotten, and I realized that there were still mysteries to be explored. And a short time later my daughter told me that she had become engaged. And although one of my initial reactions was to get out an old  copy of Father of the Bride with Spencer Tracy, mourning the loss of a daughter to a man much younger than myself, all in all I was truly happy for them. Another beginning, which would hopefully lead to big and beautiful things.

And it wasn't so bad then - turning 60. But that isn't what this blog is about.