My favorite bar mates are the locals.  The other night I was there on the early side and the bar was pretty quiet.  (Unlike other communities in Florida, people in Key West don’t seem to have  a need to hit the early bird specials)

As people started wandering in, two women in their late sixties, well dressed but in an understated kind of way,  took the stools next to me.  It quickly became clear that they were locals..(“hello and great to see you” to the bartender).  And they struck up what appeared might be an interesting conversation with a fellow two stools to their right.  That’s when I got my notebook out.    The conversation started something like this:

“Have you been working?”

“Oh, no.  I can’t seem to be able to work.”

In my naivete, I thought, poor thing, she must be sick or unable to find a job.  I put my sympathy in check when I heard:

”  Wasn’t it a great seminar? Did you spend any time with Judy?”

“Yes, and I’m so happy she’s working again.”

I listened more intently trying not to be obvious in my eavesdropping. (Something I’ve become quite practiced in.)

Then I heard someone say the word “Wifey” , a book title I recognized and I realized they were talking about the prolific author  Judy Blume, who apparently lives here.  And the “work” they were referring to was not the same “work” that I once knew. Theirs  is artistic:  painting, writing, maybe sculpting.  The Seminar they referenced was the annual Key West Literary Seminar that had recently taken place, drawing such notable authors and poets as Joyce Carol Oates, Michael Cunningham, Margaret Atwood and Billy Collins.

I quickly put my notebook away before they asked me about my ”work” but not before making  a note to myself to check out the seminar for next year.

B. enters the room pitching from side to side, balancing her over-stuffed backpack. She lands in a chair where she crumples and sighs.   She wears a woman’s extra- large Red Sox tee shirt that has a tear in one armpit.  Under her baseball cap there are random strands of grey in short dark hair.

N. walks in with an angry face that softens when I greet her.   She has a thin frame and carries a small bag filled with tattered notebooks. A scarf is partially wrapped around her head and she tells me that helps her hide.  She walks with a determination that I will later see in her writing.

This is my first day volunteering at a local women’s shelter where I have offered to facilitate a creative writing class. We sit at a round table near a window that looks out on a small urban garden of shrubs that surround one tree.  N. tells me she was under a tree when she was saved, found the Lord.  It’s where she experienced a spiritual transformation and got the courage to get clean and begin the work to overcome her past, to face her demons. We move the table closer to the window, closer to the tree.

This is our first meeting and we are strangers.   I share some things about my self and they ask questions.  Are you a real writer?  Have you ever published? Where do you live?
The last question is the easiest to answer.

For some reason I want them to ask me if I’ve ever been homeless.  If I’ve ever relied on a shelter for my meals.  Or if I’ve ever been estranged from my entire family.  Maybe I want to acknowledge our unspoken differences to find out if they will accept me.

I have come prepared with lists of journalling ideas and poem starters.  These stay in my notebook for most of our first session while B. and N. share with me journal entries and poems they have already written.  Their writings have characteristic themes.

N. writes of her spiritual and emotional journey.   She tells of being one of 15 children growing up in a house that had a “secret behind every door.”  She’s been sober for 17 years and credits the Lord for giving her strength. When she reads a piece about her recently deceased  AA sponsor, her eyes become cloudy.  Her journal entries read like prayers, her poems have the quality of psalms.

B.’s journal is a duel of anger and affirmation. Every entry begins with her rage at being hurt, rejected and insulted, usually because of her weight.    Then her writer’s voice transitions into that of a personal cheerleader and she coaches herself to stay strong and positive.  Her poems always rhyme and could be the lyrics to a song.

Over the course of our many weeks together our sessions become more relaxed and interactive. I offer material to jump- start our writing and I am amazed at how quickly these women begin to write.  No hesitation, no grimacing or glancing up to the ceiling to find words. They scribble frantically and I wonder why writing comes so easily to them.
Is it because their experiences and struggles have pried their lives so wide open that all of their inhibitions have been released?  Has their adversity robbed them of any pretension?  Does writing give them a voice they’ve never had?

This workshop has been billed as Creative Writing but there is nothing creative about it.

These women write stories that are real, raw and redemptive.

And they inspire me.

-Why is it that just when I was spelling relief as “D-o-n-a-l-d  T-r-u-m-p  i-s  n-o-t   r-u-n-n-i-n-g”  I read where he is reconsidering his decision?

-Why do the publishers of  the local paper ask readers to not only report, but take pictures of roads with excessive numbers of  potholes?  Don’t these people drive?  And wouldn’t it save time if instead,  we reported the streets that don’t have potholes?

-Why is it that when I download a free preview of a Kindle book I really get into it, then buy the full version and find that it’s so bad  I have to quickly get out of it?   (Note to writers everywhere:  be sure to make your first chapter captivating and then feel free to write the rest while watching TV—you’re book might still sell)

-Why do people spend so much money buying Adirondack chairs?  I see them on lawns everywhere, but I never see anyone sitting in one.

-Why is the biggest delay at a road construction site usually caused by the safety detail guys chatting with the work crew?

-Why do I long for Memorial Day weekend all winter and when it finally comes,  it goes so fast?

And being approached by strangers at an alarming rate.  This is what has baffled me the most.

Yesterday I had a long wait to speak to an officer at the local bank.  You may have noticed how scarce bank managers and officers have become. Believe it not, things like closing accounts can’t be done at the ATM or online. Yet.  So my waiting time was substantial.  The woman in the seat beside me was screaming into her cellphone at someone, warning them not to dare ask her for any more money for the rest of the month.  She was next in line and when she was called in by the officer, the door closed rather abruptly.    I knew I was in for a long wait.

I always make the most of these down times  by observing things and people around me.  Ok, mostly people.

A burly man in line to cash his paycheck must have observed my rain jacket because he said, “Hi.  Still raining out?”  I responded that the rain had been upgraded to the level of “mist” but that the air was quite cool.  He shared with me his love of cold weather and that he was not looking forward to the summer heat.  Our exchange about warm vs. cold weather continued (blah blah blah, then more blah blah blah) and before I knew it, he was inviting himself to visit me next winter in Key West! What nerve!!  Why did he think we had become such fast friends?  I could only blame it on the weather.

Strangers usually don’t approach me so I started thinking about this experience.  And then I remembered that in the past few days  more and more unfamiliar people seemed to be offering me a friendly nod and a comment about the weather. Sometimes it even
turned into a brief exchange about the trickiness of mother nature. This had happened in line at the Post Office and several times at Stop and Shop (especially after one of those sudden downpours.)

I know that  some of my new friends are the same people who will soon hurry past me in good weather, eyes straight ahead in total disinterest.   Nothing to talk about.  Not even the beautiful, cloudless blue sky above.

I won’t be hurt by the impending disloyalty of these foul weather friends. Fortunately we never exchanged phone numbers, e-mails or astrological signs so I won’t get my hopes up about socializing with them.  I may miss them for a while but I know we’ll see each other again, maybe during the next nor’easter.  Hopefully that won’t be very soon.

So I was pretty excited to receive an invitation in the mail yesterday.  It promised to afford me an opportunity to relax with my neighbors and enjoy a cup of coffee.  (I assumed that snacks like donuts and pastry would accompany the cup o’ joe)  I continued reading and was delighted that not only would I be able to relax, sip (hopefully eat) and chat with my neighbors, but the format of the meeting would be that of a seminar.  Since I retired I have been actively seeking out programs and events to further my learning.  I look for interesting workshops,  attend a weekly short story discussion group and occasionally take advantage of lectures at the Kennedy Library.  So naturally, the opportunity to attend a free seminar caught my attention.  Until I read the fine print, which was in bold font for some reason.  The topic of the seminar I was so graciously invited to was how to plan my own funeral.  Out of all of the interesting things I had considered doing during my retirement, this particular activity had totally slipped my mind.  Fortunately, people at the local funeral home had more foresight.

The brochure pointed out that “an estimated one million people, last year alone, had planned and paid for their own final arrangements”. (The only downside I could see to this investment is that you would never find out how the services went, thus never know if you got your money’s worth). I have never liked being left out of a trend, so I felt a rush of gratitude that I would be on the cutting edge of this phenomenon.  I also learned that the seating for this seminar was limited to 50 participants.  For some reason that always makes an offer even more irresistible.  Really, who wants to be number 51, standing outside the door?

There’s nothing like a reminder of your mortality to ruin your day.  The more I thought about this invitation, the more anxious I became.  Why did they choose me at this particular time?  Was it just a coincidence that I have a birthday coming up in a few weeks?  I have recently made an appointment for my yearly physical.  Did they somehow already know something I didn’t?  This last idea really spooked me.

I started to visualize what the seminar might be like.  Who were the other 49 people?  Were they really my neighbors?  Or just a random group of people who also happened to have May birthdays?   Did we share the same birth year? Would we sit around a pot of coffee exchanging the details of our current maladies?  I wasn’t feeling good about this.

As tempting as the offer of coffee and a snack was, I decided that if I attended this freebie,  they would definitely have to serve me something stronger.  And nothing on ice.

It took retirement for me to gain the confidence I needed to feel comfortable with a sabbatical leave.  Some people may consider the idea of a “retirement sabbatical” to be an oxymoron.  Or one might imagine that a sabbatical from retirement would actually mean re-entering the workforce, i.e., getting a job.  Perish that thought immediately.

The dictionary defines sabbatical as “any extended period of leave from one’s customary work, especially for rest, or to acquire new skills or training.”

So my sabbatical involved taking a five-week leave from my customary work.  Those who haven’t retired yet may scoff at the idea of having “customary work” during retirement.  I challenge them to try this lifestyle out before making such a judgment.   The life of a retiree is anything but stress-free.  First of all, many daily decisions have to be made.  What time should I get the mail today?  Should I shower now or go to the gym first? Both? Or should I bother going to the gym at all?

And household tasks abound.  The fireplace needs to be swept out.  Something has to be done about that leaky faucet.  Brushes and combs need to be cleaned.  That spare key has to be made (for someone to check on my place while I’m on my next sabbatical).

Yes, all you currently employed people, retirees have their work cut out for them.  In my case, one may have noticed that I took quite an extended rest from blogging. Those who didn’t, in fact, notice, should not worry that I will harbor any ill feelings.  But to be on the safe side, don’t let me know who you are.

So spring is here, I’ve returned rested and recharged after my sabbatical and I’ll get back to blogging.  And it’s just a coincidence that I’m writing this on April 1st.  Honest.  Stay tuned.

Having your nose in book in a bar has many advantages.  It gives you a great excuse to ignore the person next to you who has had one too many and thinks he’s hilarious. Or you can avoid the overly chatty out-of-towner who wants information on anything from restaurants to tourist attractions to directions to the closest Target. On the other hand, occasionally someone interesting sits next to you and you might actually want to have a conversation. But here you are, buried in your book using the sure-fire “I’m ignoring you” technique. You can get out of this by starting to chuckle every time you turn a page. Shake your head once in awhile and smile as you’re chuckling. Chances are that the person next to you will ask what you’re reading and you can take it from there.  If this doesn’t happen immediately, check your voice volume and consider moving into a guffaw.  Or fall off your bar stool in hysterics.

That night I was trying to become engrossed in my book but was distracted by a young man in his twenties who sat three stools down on my left. His baseball cap was on backwards and he was wearing casual work clothes. Any facial hair consisted of a very thin goatee.  A consummate eavesdropper, I tuned into the conversation between this fellow and the bartender, expecting the usual guy-chat about sports. I had to put my book down when I realized that these two were swapping ideas on the best way to cook a turkey.

My bar mate expounded on how he deep fries his turkey and the stress that comes with trying to get the fryer at just the right temperature. I learned that dipping the bird twice into oil of exactly 325 degrees was critical to crispy skin and moist meat.  Not to be outdone, the bartender described his special stuffing recipe and shared that this year he was thinking of grilling.  There was much discussion about that!

My niece arrived, apologizing for being late and I told her it wasn’t a problem. I had a chance to hear two guys talking  turkeys instead of last night’s Celtics game. Refreshing.

Firewood hauled home and stacked?  Done

Faux Christmas greens wreath hung on the door? Done

Screens removed? Er…..Maybe this week-end.

It’s hard to bite the ice cube bullet and move into winter when you’re a spring, summer, fall kind of person.  All of the seasons are beautiful where I live, but somehow the bitter winds of winter will eventually get to me.  And my bones.  And sometimes my mood.

I know I’ll enjoy the first snowfall.  And maybe the second.  But by the third one I’ve usually had it.   I’ll be cursing myself for being too cheap to get snow tires,  yelling at my car because the  window defroster is too slow and  wrestling with my steering wheel while dressed in a down parka that makes me feel like  either an astronaut or a UPS package packed in bubble wrap.

But I’ll take it. There’s nothing like having a good reason to sit by a fire with a good  book.

I’m on the second floor of the Jewish Museum in Prague.  This is the first day of a two- week bike trip through Germany and Austria.

The walls behind the suitcase are covered with children’s art work, poems and some worksheets that look like grade school penmanship papers. They have been hung in neatly ordered rows, yet there is no sense or pattern in their arrangement. Poems and writings are randomly interspersed with the drawings.

The tour guide tells us the history of these artifacts.  They are the things left behind by Jewish children who were interred in Terezin during the Holocaust. Terezin  is 35 miles outside of Prague and was used as a holding place, a temporary home for the children of Prague who were rounded up under the guise of going on a vacation. They would stay there for months until they were sent on to die in gas chambers.

We are a small group of strangers on a tour and the cramped, winding rooms force us to stumble into each other.  We are polite and patient.  The occasional creak of old floorboards is the only sound.  Like most museums, this one has the air of respectful silence.  But unlike most museums, it also screams of sadness.

When I can move my eyes from the suitcase, I study the hanging artwork and writing.  There are pictures of stick figures with large heads and smiling faces.  Some sketches are more detailed.  There’s  a scene of the city center with people bustling around on pavement that I recognize as the cobblestones I have just walked upon.    Finger paintings of brilliant colors hang next to scribbles that may have been done by younger children. Most of the pieces are signed in the irregular, bumpy cursive of child writers.

The pictures seem contradictory. Bright blue skies with extra large yellow suns that shine down on families walking dogs. Night scenes with brilliant stars and always a full shining moon. And then a pencil sketch of uniformed men with angry faces.  But I understand.  Terezin was also holding place for the memories and future dreams of the children.

The next day I’m on a train leaving Prague.  Large windows frame the remains of the former Jewish Ghetto as we leave the city.  I think Lilly might have lived here. She may have played in these streets with her friends before being told to pack her suitcase.  Maybe the tracks under me are the same ones that took her out of Prague.

Then the landscape becomes lush and forested and the people in my bike tour group talk excitedly about our next stop, the terrain, the challenging hills, the next hotel and where we will eat.

And I can’t stop wondering about Lilly.