A year ago I was busy thinking about a Word Of The Year (WOTY) to define my personal tempo for 2020.  I eventually chose the word “engage”.  In retrospect it should have been “acceptance”.  I think we can all accept 2020 as a tumultuous year requiring acceptance of so many changes to our way of life, as a Black Swan of massive proportions, altered everything we accepted as normal.

Yet, on this last day of 2020, I sit by the fire looking out a window at birds fluttering around the feeders.  Snow melts off the hill.  A pot of three bean turkey chili bubbles on the stove.  Portia cat insists on snuggling against my thigh while my laptop occupies her usual space.  Miles Davis plays softly in the background.  I’m writing again.  I feel better than I have in years.  This peace was a long time coming in an unpredictable year.

Doe raiding the bird feeders

Staying faithful to my WOTY, as January gave way to February I arranged for home care help, allowing me a weekly respite to engage with my new community.  During January I joined several local organizations for both Martin and me.  I planned for yoga and art classes at the Community Center as well as a bookclub.  Being the social creature I am, I reveled in the anticipation of making friends. I similarly planned for longer timeouts from caregiving starting with an April spa visit and winery tour at The Grand Traverse Resort.  That was to be followed in June with a long trip to storied Mackinac Island.  

Then, as we all know, the unthinkably devastating bug known as Covid-19 took over our lives.  By early March I became a presumed positive as a local hospital triaged me.  There weren’t enough test kits for everyone. Tests were reserved for the worst cases.  Mine was mild.  Having spent January recovering from bronchitis using a regimen of Prednisone, my doctor later suggested the steroids may have made the difference.  Regardless, the experience heightened my awareness of the consequences of the virus.  I canceled the trips and home care help.  The Community Center shuttered its doors.  During the next month we went nowhere, saw no one, excepting our daughter dropping off groceries.

Yet here I sit feeling peace, serenity.  I could ask the rhetorical question of why, but I know why.  Acceptance.  I’m paraphrasing here, but the Dalai Lama said if you can’t find a solution to a problem, then the solution is acceptance.  It took me several months to accept even the idea of acceptance.  I don’t like change anymore than anyone else. I mentally kicked and screamed a lot.  As a result, the thought of acceptance steeped in my consciousness for quite some time before the morning in late November when I awoke to feeling lighter, emotionally, mentally, spiritually.

In the months previous, there were plenty of days playing victim, especially as Martin declined.  Feeling emotionally defeated by his disease, wanting to think about anything but that, I indulged myself with negative thoughts about the state of the world, political divisions within the United States, my inability to focus long enough to write anything other than my journal, how much I hated the style of the house we bought, missed my South Carolina social life and anything else that came to mind.  But, whenever I have felt this way in my life, I get moving physically.  And, that’s what I did.

Despite feeling exhausted after recovering from Covid, I stripped more wallpaper and painted more rooms.  I’m becoming quite good at painting walls and ceilings.  Looking at the ceilings one day I realized the great room ceiling showed a huge leak coming from the master bath above.  I didn’t know whether to cry or do the happy dance.  The bath was in dire need of updating.  Old toilet plumbing caused the leak.  Ick!  While I saw dollar signs, lots of them, if the floor had to be torn up, I also saw an opportunity to replace the entire bathroom.  I went shopping.  Mostly virtually but also in person to a showroom open by appointment only.  As a bargain hunting enthusiast I was thrilled to leave paying 20% of retail price for floor models, which just happened to fit my plan.

My son-in-law, the builder gutted the master.  In the process, we could see mold where the leak found its way into the hall.  Ick! Ick!  Carpet was ripped up.  New hardwood and tile flooring was laid.  My oldest granddaughter ran the table saw while my son-in-law and grandson laid flooring.  I tried not to think about the cost.

While the interior was being completed, I stained and sealed the front porch deck.  Another new house maintenance experience for me.  Then, I began digging out the old gardens, dividing plants to spur renewal and settling them into spaces more attuned to their needs.  Martin helped with the gardening, moving soil, digging holes and spreading mulch.  By this time I had lost 15 pounds.  Yippee!  And, the style of the house was being transformed. I was beginning to like it.

Roses flourish in their new sun drenched position

By the end of August I finally had a much needed respite. Not 15 minutes from the house I rented a cabin from Michigan State University.  Quite by accident I discovered the rentals in an email from the MSU Bird Sanctuary.  With about 4,000 acres bequeathed to MSU by W.K. Kellogg, it’s used for various types of research including the Kellogg Research Center on beautiful Gull Lake.  The Center boasts the former mansion of W.K. Kellogg along with three cabins for rent on a private beach head.  I rented Cabin A, took long walks in the research gardens, swam in white sandy bottomed Gull Lake, laid in the sun. Best of all, thanks to Covid, I was the only guest.  However, these pleasant surroundings sans caregiving duties renewed me for but a few days.  

Gull Lake Respite

Upon my return home I was struck by another virus.  Sent to the ER for a Covid test, which came back negative, I received the dubious diagnosis of having a virus of the brain or spinal cord.  After a week of fever, stiff neck, excruciating headache, extreme exhaustion and soaked sheets, I recovered.  

Also, Martin’s neurologist, for many reasons, recommended committing him to assisted living.  During a pandemic?  With people dying in residential facilities?  My soul and heart screamed, “Noooooo.”  But my mind and body started going through the process of finding a suitable residence.

Still tired in every way imaginable, by late September, my frayed emotions gave way to a cosmic meltdown.  Geez.  The loss of my husband to his dying brain, the move to another state, my illnesses, the isolation, the worldwide pandemic, the division within my country all collapsed inward on me.  Logically, I knew I was better off than so many in so many ways.  That didn’t help.  I felt guilty for feeling this unshakable sorrow. A pall settled over my immediate world.  But days of crying, introspection, journaling did help.

As I settled upon an assisted living residence, an entry date was chosen.  It was to be a Wednesday.  I would have scheduled weekly visits as long as I had no Covid symptoms.  Then the Thursday prior to admission, I received a call from the Executive Director.  They were in lockdown due to a Covid outbreak.  Of 20 residents in the building, 14 had Covid.  Although there were separate apartments, communal meals and activities allowed it to spread.  Subsequently, even after the residence was cleared of Covid, I made the decision to keep Martin home until there was widespread vaccinating.

If you can’t find a solution to a problem, then the solution is acceptance.  We are universally in a difficult situation.  Some days it’s intolerable.  We all have a story about how the pandemic has upended our lives.  Though isolated, we are not alone.

Although I spent many months attending to my material surroundings, what I miss most is not material.  I miss other people.  The material things were just to occupy time.  It’s the touch of a hand, a real hug, not a virtual one, a smile not hidden by a mask, a meeting over lunch with friends, sharing thoughts about a recently read book or another students work of art.  That’s what I miss.  I accept it may be a while longer before those acts are again normal.

Yes, for 2021 my word is acceptance.  Within that word lies inner peace and outer calm, the capacity to be comfortable with oneself, the freedom to look at our current state with an open mind.  

I wish you all a Healthy, Happy 2021.

Are We The Captains Of Our Happiness?

My Journal Cover


In a word YES, we are the captains of our happiness.  I’m not going to offer up platitudes here about life handing you lemons and you mix up some lemonade.  There is value in sucking on the lemon for a while.  Identifying, then unloading negative emotions clears our mental outlook.  That said, what I am going to offer up are a few actions which help me get back to happiness after swallowing the lemon whole. 

As we travel through life, our time on Earth is fraught with lots of gloomy events — a serious illness, a job layoff, an economic downturn.  The list of negative life events and negative people can go on and on.  Even something as simple as the weather — rain, a snow storm, a sunny day are occurrences we can’t control, yet may effect our outlook. What we can control is our mindset. 

I will quote this truism, known as the Serenity Prayer.  For me, it proves a potent reminder of the power of acceptance.  

“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”  

Engaging in what I call mind-spinning, worrying about what may come, drains us of energy and leads to nothing.  Whatever is going to happen will happen whether we worry about it or not.  Better to not worry about it at all.

This morning I re-visited my gratitude journal from seven years ago.  Looking back at my life including my strengths, skills and accomplishments put me in a state of confidence, which led to a blissful feeling.  Over the years I learned a gratitude journal can do wonders for shifting my mindset to one of positivity, abundance and happiness.

For anyone seeking happiness, start journaling daily, listing what is good about your life.  Whether it’s a beautiful sunrise or sunset, the sighting of a blue bird in your yard, a child’s laugh at the grocery store, even a rain shower or a postcard view of a winter storm.  Anything from what appears to be a minor, trivial thing to an awesome event, write it down.

Take inventory of your personal assets.  I’m not talking about your material assets.  As mentioned above look at your abilities, skills, strengths, those assets.  That’s the stuff that got you this far and will take you through the remainder of your journey.  Hopefully, you are still growing, expanding those assets.  If not, cultivate curiosity about the world around you.

For many of us, we often associate happiness with occasions like buying a new car, shopping for a new outfit, taking a dream vacation, getting a promotion.  That brand of happiness is momentary.  The new car smell wears off, the outfit becomes last year’s style, the dream vacation but a memory.  And promotions?  Well, it’s lonely at the top. 

It’s recognition of the everyday simple things, which provide a feeling of well-being.  We can view our lives as one of scarcity or one of abundance.  What we need to survive is basic food, clean air and water, shelter, clothing and a good night’s sleep.  Everything else is an abundant life. 

While I don’t want to hang my happiness on someone else’s happiness, it makes me feel light-hearted to do a good deed for someone.  Volunteering for a favorite cause or just helping someone out through a chance meeting provides a shot of happiness.  Recently, at the entrance to a building, I encountered a frail woman using a walker as she approached a car at the curb.  Thinking she may need a hand getting into the car, I stopped and asked if I could help.  Just then two young men stepped out from behind a thick column.  I hadn’t seen her entourage. Their wide smiles and thank you’s for stopping lifted my spirits.  And, all I did was offer assistance.

Along with not depending on someone else’s happiness to define your own, refrain from comparing yourself to others.  In our social media world that is sometimes difficult to achieve.  A number of people have mentioned how they only put positive aspects of their lives on Facebook as they want FB to be a fun place to visit.  The downside to that view is other people begin thinking you have a lemonade life.  No one is without a few lemons.  It is a wonderful life, but no person has only good times.  Keep that in mind when you feel the urge to compare.

If there is one truly important lesson I learned as a caregiver, it’s take care of yourself.  In order for the good times to out weigh the negative, put some self-inflicted joy in your life.  Do what makes you feel happy.  Get out for a walk, join a gym, take a class, lose yourself in art, create a network of friends, meet someone for coffee or lunch, tour a museum or arboretum, get a massage, a manicure.  I recently learned my supplemental health insurance policy covers gym memberships 100%!  Now that’s a benefit to be happy about.  A local college offers a 60 minute massage by an advanced student for only $20.  Look for the happiness perks in your world.

No one is going to create happiness for you.  As the Dalai Lama says, “Happiness is not ready-made.  It comes from your own actions.”  We are the captains of our happiness.

An Educational Excuse

Fifty years ago today my mother gave me permission to accompany my brother, Rick and sister, Dianne on a trip to Washington, DC.  It was my sixteenth birthday.  Rick was driving south from our Jersey Shore home to see his future wife as she visited her sister living in Maryland.  I hopped up and down with excitement at the thought of seeing cherry blossoms in bloom along the Potomac and all those monuments.

Concerning my missing a school day, my mother said she’d write an educational excuse, meaning my absence should be excused because a visit to our nation’s capitol enhanced my learning experience.  At that moment neither of us could imagine how educational it would prove to be.  It wasn’t until early evening that Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated at the Lorraine Motel in Tennessee.

The following morning as we three drove to Oxon Hill, Maryland I watched Rick or Dianne intermittently fiddle with the radio dial in an effort to keep up with the news.  From my back seat perch I listened as reporters announced riots breaking out across the country, including turmoil in Washington, DC.  Should we turn around and go back home?  No, we decided to continue on to our destination.  It was a somber ride as we pondered the implications of King’s murder, the riots, an impassioned plea from Bobby Kennedy to choose peace over violence.  

In Oxon Hill we saw peace, but plumes of smoke rose in the distance as something burned in Washington, DC.  The door to the apartment where my brother was staying was opened by a man holding a pistol.  I wasn’t afraid.  Everything but the gun and the smoke in the distance seemed normal.  Yet nothing was normal.  It wasn’t going to be the weekend I or anyone in the nation anticipated.

As we heard about destruction and people running in the streets, I never did go into Washington, DC.  The riots were quelled by Sunday when Rick and my sister-in-law to be went to church there.  Deemed too dangerous for me, I stayed behind with Dianne.  Upon their return, they reported soldiers lining the streets to keep the peace.  I wished I’d seen that.

Back at school on Monday, I handed my excuse to my homeroom teacher.  He looked at it, then at me.  “What did you see?”  Nothing I told him.  There were riots.  Without a hint of sarcasm in his voice, he said, “I guess that was educational.”  He looked so serious.  It was a serious time with more to come.

More Living On The Edge

jcc-signFebruary has been a month of new experiences. Martin and I spent last week at John C. Campbell Folk School in Brasstown, NC where we took an art class in enameling. As artists this was a departure from our usual drawing, painting, carving — more living on the edge.

Taking Highway 11, also known as Cherokee Scenic Highway, across Upstate South Carolina, we meandered into the twisty back roads of North Carolina sometimes wondering if our GPS was really working. Highway 11 dumped us onto Whitewater Falls Road and so on and so on until signs of civilization markedly diminished.

I carried with me a copy of Hillbilly Elegy by J. D. Vance. As we snaked through the winding turns past dilapidated homes littered with rusted skeletal remains of cars and whatnot, I felt like I had entered the Appalachia described in Vance’s book. Martin and I wondered out loud how the inhabitants made a living. We encountered little traffic, and that which we did seemed to not care about speed limits or centerlines. Finally, after almost 3 hours on the road, out of seemingly nowhere, the school rose before us on a sparsely wooded hilltop. This was our home for the next several days.

Welcome to our room

Welcome to our room


JCC Folk School is an experience in itself. The accommodations consist of several homes spread across the rolling terrain within the Nantahala National Forest below the Smoky Mountains. Most likely describing the burning off of morning fog, Nantahala is Cherokee for “land of the noonday sun”.

The guest quarters along with assorted art studios, a dining hall, gift shop (of course), JCC history building and rustic offices for staff make up the campus. The main building also includes several rooms for evening events such as trivia games, square dancing and fiddle playing as well as the daily “morning song” of story telling and singing. Everything is very regimented with defined mealtimes announced by the ringing of a bell at the dining hall. There is not only six hours of studio time with instruction during the day, but many instructors also open their studio for evening work as well.

Dinner bell

Dinner bell


The houses are retrofitted into hotel type sleeping quarters. However, as we were told at Sunday afternoon orientation, this is not the Holiday Inn. There is no room service, in-room coffee pot or housekeeping to tidy up your room and make your bed every day. There are no phones, TVs or blow dryers and ironing boards. Wi-fi is weak and cell phone service is spotty. We were advised to drive a little further up the hill to a local church graveyard if we absolutely needed to make a call. There is a bin in every room with ‘towel exchange’ written on it. Towel exchange occurs on Wednesday. Oh, and there are no keys to the rooms. That’s right…no keys! You can lock your door with a dead bolt once inside. Valuables can be placed in a safe at the office. Talk about living on the edge, stepping outside your comfort zone; I found unlocked doors a little creepy.


Sunday night we were introduced to our instructor, Charity Hall (, a guest teacher of enormous talent. Her equally talented assistant, Paul Roche is an artist-in-residence. We also received an overview of the studio along with a sampling of Charity’s work — beautiful pieces of art. Ovens that would be heated in the morning to 1500 degrees lined one wall. Jars of powdered colored glass filled plastic tubs. Each student had a kit we inventoried. A couple of the seven students had previous experience, but most were novices like Martin and me.

Martin paints a switch plate after enameling

Martin paints a switch plate after enameling

An exercise in frustration for me, our first full day I sought only to keep up with understanding the process for enameling a piece of copper. Forget the artistry! I was overwhelmed. There were so many steps and they varied depending on the piece you chose to create — hammering, burnishing, wet stoning, filing, using saws and a drill. My more scientific husband was able to take the annealing, melting, pickling and various substances all in stride. The safety precautions alone set me back as I cautiously used the ever-clicking ovens and set timers for only two minutes to melt the glass into enamel. Fifteen hundred degrees is glowing hot!

Following dinner at 6 many students returned to the studio. A mentally exhausted me went back to our room to enjoy a glass of wine (no alcohol is allowed anywhere on campus but the rooms), take a shower, read a few pages of Hillbilly Elegy before tucking myself into bed at 8 p.m.

Next morning Martin walked to the main building to fetch coffee in our brought-from-home mugs. We sat with the blinds open enjoying the scenery of the notoriously foggy mountains and sipping hot coffee before heading to the dining hall for breakfast. As a gardener I much appreciated the five minute walk through the daffodil speckled woods each morning. Emerging at the main campus we were greeted with dusky purple, pink and green hellebores and tiny crocus among the periwinkle.

Kathy's enameled fall leaves

Kathy’s enameled fall leaves

After a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, fresh fruit and biscuits, we wandered down another path to the studio, me feeling more like I could grasp the intricacies of enameling, Martin ready for a larger project. By the end of this day, I was still living on my personal edge but approaching a certain comfort with the process as I produced some amazing pieces of art. Along with my comfort came confidence. Exhilarating!

While we, as human beings often shy away from any experience making us feel uneasy, with practice and patience (not one of my strong points) comes comfort. Stretching our abilities is the only way to continue stretching our minds and emotions at any age. Good stress creates a great life. Yes, February was a month of new experiences, of feeling overwhelmed at times and definitely uncomfortable. But, it was also a month for adventure and growth. As I look at what I accomplished this month, I don’t feel retired; I feel reawakened. And I look forward to more living on the edge.

What’s A Senior?

After announcing last week that I was only posting once a month, some of you wrote to suggest I re-post older blogs and others talked about searching my archives. I thought you had a good idea (thank you) and decided to re-post older blogs. This post originally appeared February 28, 2013.


I receive a monthly e-newsletter from an organization called Care provides all kinds of services…babysitting, tutors, pet sitters, senior care, housekeeping and more. I originally signed up with them for pet sitting for when we are away on our jaunts. Until recently I didn’t pay much attention to any of the other topics. But, a couple of days ago I received their newsletter including an article titled, “A Checklist for Aging in Place”. Thinking we intend to age in place as opposed to a retirement or assisted living community, I thought this is a must read for me. But, when the author started talking about walkers, wheel chairs, tripping hazards and the inability to drive a car, I immediately jumped to, “Wow, this isn’t me! At least not yet. I’m not a senior.”

Granted, when we built our house 12 years ago, we built it with the idea of aging in place. With an eye to the far, far away future and the help of our builder, we came up with an open floor plan one story with wide hallways, a huge walk-in shower with bench, and very few steps to the outside areas. According to a 20 year study by the US Census Bureau, 90% of baby boomers are planning, just as we have, to age in place.

But, back to the article. It made me realize there is a huge expanse of years involved when we talk about seniors. My point here is there are so many different stages a person can go through during a fifty year expanse of time that the term senior cannot possibly be all encompassing. In fact, the dictionaries I checked all define seniors as being elderly, on a pension and over either 60 or 65 years of age. Elderly is further defined by Merriam-Webster as “rather old” with synonyms like aged, geriatric, unyoung, ancient, over-the-hill (really!). As someone who goes out on my property and cuts down dead trees with a chainsaw, I do not consider myself elderly! Further, I know people in their seventies and eighties who I wouldn’t look upon as elderly. And, I doubt they view themselves as elderly.

Before age 50 I always thought of seniors as 17 or 18 year olds in their last year of high school. Then, when I reached 50 and saw how many times in our societal order of things, age 50 is referred to as being “senior” I thought this is too young an age to be considered a senior. Ditto for age 55. Now that I’m 64 and hitting my stride I question the entire use of the terms senior and elderly just as I do retiree and retirement.

As Bob Dylan, who just won the Nobel Prize in Literature at age 75, once crooned, the times, folks, they are a changin’.  According to the last census, it’s estimated by 2017 there will be more 65 year olds in the US than kids under 5. And, by mid-century there will be approximately 600,000 centenarians. So, if you become a senior at 50 and live to be 100, that’s your second half of life! Instead of seniors, retirees, elderly, this age group should be called “second lifers”. Or, maybe we shouldn’t be defined at all.

I’d like to hear your thoughts on this. Tell me, what do you think a senior is?

Indifference To Making A Difference

Making A Difference

Making A Difference

On a news blip this week I saw people on a California street being asked how they voted. Since California hasn’t held its primary election yet, I guess this was supposed to be funny when people told the reporter how they voted. One woman even said she didn’t have an ‘I Voted’ sticker because her polling place ran out of them. The reporter then stuck an ‘I Lied’ sticker to her shirt.

I don’t usually write about politics. And, I’d prefer not to hear about the candidates and all the hoopla surrounding this year’s presidential election in the United States. That said, this election cycle is like nothing I’ve seen in my lifetime. But, more unsettling is that as each four years passes, fewer and fewer people vote. The apathy highlighted by the above mentioned comedic street scene is actually no laughing matter.

As a high school senior my history class teacher required her students to read either The New York Times or Newsweek and be ready to discuss politics and weekly historic events in class. At the height of the Vietnam War, the war, demonstrations and the Kent State killings gave us plenty to discuss. This was serious, sobering stuff for seventeen year olds. I’d like to think we all continued to pay attention to politics and events affecting our country and the world.

In fact, I thought my generation would never stand idly by in apathy toward anything. But, the day Martin and I went to vote in the South Carolina primary, we walked into our voting venue with no line before us. We were voters number 6 and 7. The polls had been open for an hour.

I’ve heard all the excuses over the years from people who don’t vote. Everything from my spouse votes for me to not liking any of the candidates to my vote won’t make any difference. Now I’ve heard someone say how they are too old to be bothered with this year’s election.


Whether you like any of the candidates or not is irrelevant. There is no perfect candidate. I have never seen eye to eye on everything any candidate proposes. The reality is someone will win the slot whether you totally agree with their views or not. It’s a matter of choosing the one who comes closest to your way of thinking. And, if enough of us speak out, we may change their way of thinking.

Every vote makes a difference. Throughout our history there are elections where the winner took the seat by one vote or only a handful of votes, including the Presidency of the United States, gubernatorial, congressional and state legislator races. What if those few people made an excuse and didn’t vote? When we vote, we, the people, write history.

Wherever you are in the world, if you have the right to vote, don’t squander making a difference on indifference. Register. Know when the election takes place, date and time. Go stand in line at your polling place _ hopefully there will be a line. Walk up to the booth.



In the mid to late eighties I jetted the country end to end, top to bottom as part of my job. As I boarded my flight and settled in, I adjusted the time on my watch to whatever time zone I was headed into. Supposedly, that helped with adjusting my body and mind to the new time, thus decreasing the negative effects of what is commonly known as jet lag. I’m not sure if it really helped excepting in the weeks when I was in the other time zone for, well, the week or more. Then, after getting adjusted to the new time, I’d turn around at some moment, going back to my home base and have to go through the entire adjustment all over again. When I took the job and first started traveling from time zone to time zone, I quickly learned there are two very sane states in the US, Hawaii and Arizona, that don’t tamper with their time twice yearly like the rest of us crazies do. As I’ve spent the last week, like most of the US population, going through what amounts to jet lag, I can’t help but think of the lucky Hawaiians and Arizonans who are not subjected to this brain damage by their legislators.

Oh, sure, the federal government is slo-o-o-o-w-l-y shorting Standard Time so we’re now up to early November for “fall back” and early March for “spring forward” but why prolong the agony? Admit it. You probably don’t even know why we changed the time in the first place. Growing up my Dad used to tell us it was so the farmers would have an extra hour of daylight in the evening to harvest crops. Farming. Supposedly the same reason kids get out of school in June. So, even though our society is no longer largely agrarian and farmers have machines that can do the work of 10 people, we still enslave ourselves to this antiquated notion of time change. Well, not so fast. Farming has nothing to do with it. Daylight Saving Time is not just practiced in the good ol’ US of A. There are dozens of other countries bent on upsetting the sleep patterns of their populations. It seems this all started with World War I to save coal. Coal! Then we all stopped fighting and the time change was repealed. Even though legislators back then didn’t have data showing how the time change didn’t save on energy, disrupted sleep patterns and may even cause heart attacks, they saw the craziness of all this nonsense and pulled the plug. But, we all went insane again, got another world war started and, along with the guns and ammunition, we pulled Daylight Saving Time back out of the same hat. Only thing is, following the end of World War II, our legislators didn’t repeal the law. Hence, twice yearly national jet lag, save Hawaii and Arizona.

I thought, since I’m retired and all, the time change really wouldn’t have much effect on me. But, you see, like many people, I have pets. When a cat is used to meowing at the bedroom door for breakfast at 6:30 a.m., you can’t just say, “Now tomorrow the clock will say 5:30 a.m. so we want you to sleep for another hour so we can all adjust to the time change. Yay…we’re sleeping in. OK?” And, think of the poor people with dogs, who show up bedside, leash in mouth, eyes begging for that morning walk. How do you tell Fido he has to wait another hour to relieve himself? As the morning person in our household, Martin’s the one who feeds the “kitty kids” every morning. So, Martin’s solution is to make the cats wait an extra 10 minutes for him to get up. Then, once they’re used to that, he’ll stretch it another 10 minutes. I figure by the time we get to “spring forward”, he should have the cats on Standard Time and he can start all over again. However, so far, the cats are winning so he may just have to stay on Daylight Saving Time all winter. And, me? Well, I’m sleeping in.


A few weeks ago I received a jury summons. I’ve been summoned several times before. When I was summoned for federal court a few years ago, the summons came with a four page questionnaire asking all kinds of information about my jobs, Martin’s jobs and life events. After sending back the questionnaire, I received a letter telling me I did not need to report. I was rejected! Apparently, I wasn’t the type of juror they wanted. But this summons was for summary court, which is basically traffic court, so there was little to fill out on the questionnaire. Where it asked for place of employment, I simply answered “retired”.

So, last Tuesday I reported to summary court along with what looked like a hundred other people. By the time I arrived, there was no parking left in the court-house parking lot. Apparently arriving 15 minutes early wasn’t early enough. So, some of us parked at the church next door, flowing over onto their grass. Others parked at the gas station and Subway shop across the street. Still, others filled the side streets. We lined up, signing in when our turn came and then filled the court to standing room only. Along with we perspective jurors, there were attorneys with their clients, the defendants, a prosecutor and other defendants sans attorneys who were representing themselves.

I sat in the first seat I came to…the front row that nobody wants. Looking through the open door to the closed door across the hall, I stared at a poster of Albert Einstein on a big Harley hog of a motorcycle. Not exactly what you’d expect to see in a courthouse. The man seated next to me and I both laughed at the poster, surmising that must be the magistrate’s chambers. Yup! Eventually, the magistrate appeared through another door leading to the same office. He looked very official in his black robe. But, yes, he must be the Harley guy. The long beard almost touching his chest was a dead giveaway. As the buzz in the room quieted down, the magistrate introduced himself and the prosecutor and started to explain the process of jury selection.

There were several trials over the next three days, starting today at 11:30 a.m. They expected jury selection to be over by 11 a.m. Not wasting any time here! He asked each of us to stand up when our name was called. We were to state our name, our occupation, our marital status, our spouse’s occupation, if we had one, and our age. If we were retired or unemployed, we were to state our previous occupation. Ditto for our spouse. I found it interesting that they didn’t want to know if we had a significant other and what did they do with their living. I guess the influences of those close to you only count if you’re married. So, one by one, we stood up during roll call, gave our information in front of the group, as attorneys, defendants and the prosecutor made notes, presumably deciding who was acceptable or not.

Then, the magistrate proceeded to call out the possible exemptions from jury duty. He asked anyone meeting the criteria to raise their hands. There were several teachers, whom he excused with the promise they would be placed on the summer roster. When he came to the 65 years or older exemption, he paused. Then, noting how he was 67, he further noted retirees make excellent jurors because of all the experience they bring to the jury. Hmmm. The subtle guilt tactic. So, the pressure was on not to raise your hand if you were 65 or older. Regardless, one brave woman put up her hand, was excused and made a very quick exit. Next, he went on to ask about anyone convicted of a crime where they were sentenced to one year or more in prison. To my surprise, the man next to me raised his hand and was dismissed. When the magistrate asked who had been charged with DUI (driving under the influence), more surprise. I turned to look at a sea of raised hands. O.K. if they all get dismissed, there’s not going to be but fifty of us left to serve on all the juries needed this week. Alas. While they all had to get up and give their names, no one was dismissed.

Finally. We were at the moment of jury selection. We all received our summons because we are voters. Supposedly, a computer runs through the registered voters and randomly chooses the jury pool for the session. My ever-suspect little mind isn’t sure it quite believes the randomness part as my question, then, becomes, if Martin is also a registered voter, why has he never once received a summons when I receive one about every three years? Well, anyway, that’s how we all got there. Now that we’re all sworn as possible jurors, however, we are not chosen randomly by computer. Instead, our names, typed out on strips of paper, are stuffed into a little wooden box, which the magistrate shakes up, then opens up and starts pulling names from. It’s sort of like pulling names out of the hat. Very scientific.

If your name is called by the magistrate, you stand up. If the prosecutor likes you, then he says, “Present juror”. If he doesn’t like you, he says, “This juror may be excused from this trial”. Then, if the defendant’s attorney, or the defendant representing themselves, likes you, they say, “Please seat this juror”. If they don’t like you, they say, “This juror may be excused from this trial”. All very formal. Six jurors were chosen for each trial. After each jury was filled, a constable handed the selected jurors a paper with the date and time of their jury duty. One man, having already been chosen for one jury, was called a second time. When he indicated to the magistrate how he was already selected, the magistrate said, “Oh, you’re not off the hook. If you get chosen for five trials, well, then, go buy a lottery ticket.” I don’t think anyone was chosen for five trials but several people were chosen for two or more.

As for me, my name was pulled from the box five times. And, each time, either the prosecutor or the defending attorney/defendant said, “This juror may be excused from this trial”. I have no idea if they didn’t agree with the judge about retired people bringing lots of experience to the jury or they didn’t like the kind of experience I was bringing. Whatever the reason, I’ll never know. But, I do know, today, I’m going to buy my lottery ticket.