Jennifer

                Her sadness stopped me.

                An instant earlier, I was ducking and weaving through the swarms of holiday shoppers on State Street, still feeling tense from the unexpected detour through those same crowds in my car when I found the entrance to the parking garage closed. I was downtown on an errand, picking up birthday dinner for my wife from one of our favorite restaurants, my mind focused upon getting the food and making my way home as quickly as possible. All of those things fell away when I saw the woman on the bench, head in her hands, radiating despair.

                State Street is lined with panhandlers. Some are mentally ill or inept, abandoned by society to fend for themselves years ago, when Governor Reagan closed many of the mental health care facilities. Some are veterans, usually with PTSD and drug or alcohol problems. Some are physically threatening or verbally abusive. You want to care, and you want to help, but who, and how? If you give them money, are you just getting them their next bottle, or their next fix? Then again, if I was living on the street and had no hope of ever having a better life, how can I say that I would not be tempted, too, to drink the days away until they finally ended? There comes a point when, lacking anything else, a bit of self-induced anesthesia seems merciful.

                The woman was clearly homeless. Next to her bench was a large, rolling case stuffed with belongings, and on it rested a sign: "Please help. God bless." Beside her, on the bench itself, however, there was a Bible with an artistic, hand-made cover. Her clothes were clean, and her hair was brushed. When she looked up, her eyes were clear despite the tears. She did not have the usual hollow look, nor did she show the more obvious signs of drug or alcohol use. Something in her eyes broke me open. I decided to take a chance. Finding a quiet eddy to one side of the crowd, I reached into my wallet, pulled out a $20 bill, and folded it into my palm.

                "Hi," I said as I walked up to her. "You look so sad. I'm sorry."

                "It hasn't been the best day," she said.

                "I'm afraid I'm in kind of a hurry." I was still thinking about my errand, and that Jo Ann was waiting for supper. "Will this help?" I handed the woman the money.

                She nodded. "Yes, it will. Thank you. Oh, now I'm crying again."

                "It's okay."

                "This is going to sound crazy," she said, "but could I trouble you for a hug? I don't get many hugs any more."

                "Okay." I have to admit, my first reaction was to tense up. How long had it been since she had bathed, or washed her clothes? I felt embarrassed by my own reaction, prayed that it didn't show, and put my arms around her.

                Her clothes smelled clean, and so did she. She hugged me for only a few moments, and then she let go and took half a step back. "Thank you," she said. "I really did need that."

                I nodded, not sure what to say. "I, I hope things work out for you."

                "Me, too."

                "Well, um, I'm supposed to pick something up. I'd better go."

                "Okay. Thank you again."

                "Good bye."

                I walked the remaining half block to the restaurant, but the woman stayed in my mind. How could I just throw $20 at her and walk away? I'd be returning to a warm home, a wife, and furry pets, to enjoy a steak dinner. Where would she be? Sitting on a bench, on the street, hoping for enough help to make it through the next day. When I paid my bill, I dug out some extra cash. I couldn't solve her problems, but I could help more than I had.

                The woman seemed a little surprised when I stopped again.

                "How long has it been since you've had a nice meal?" I asked.

                "A while."

                "Do you like Italian?"

                "I love Italian!"

                "That restaurant down there is one of our favorites, and the owner is very nice," I said. "If you'd like, well, here's enough money to buy yourself a good, hot meal there and still have some cash left over for tomorrow."

                "That is so sweet. Wow. Thank you!"

                "May I sit down with you for a minute?"

                "Sure. Wow, nobody ever wants to sit and talk. Most of the time, people won't even look at me."

                "Yeah, well, it is kind of hard. There are a lot of homeless people here, and we get jaded after a while. You seem different, though. If you don't mind me asking, how did you end up here, in this situation?"

                "I got laid off -- three times, actually. And my husband had died, and finally I just couldn't afford a place to live any more." She laughed. "It's kind of funny, I guess. I mean, my dad's pretty much rich. He owns some companies. He believes in tough love, though -- says I need to learn to make it on my own. He sent each of us kids to college, and then cut us off as soon as we'd graduated."

                "Wow," I said. "That's harsh. I mean, I have a daughter, and I totally understand about wanting her to be able to support herself. But, let her live on the street, like you're having to do? I couldn't do that. No way."

                "It is pretty extreme," she agreed. "Just before you got here, the last woman who stopped and talked to me, she was so mean! That's why I was crying. She said, 'You homeless people, all you ever want is money! You're all drunks and druggies, that's all you are. Why don't you get a job?'

                "Well," she continued, "I try to get jobs. I've worked part-time at that store there, and at some other places, but it's never enough to live on. Every time I try to get a real job, I run into the same thing: they want me to have a mailing address, and a phone number where they can reach me. I don't have either. Well, I'll have a post office box pretty soon -- I'm working on that one, anyway."

                "So," I said, thinking. "It would help you a lot if you had a phone?"

                "Yes...?" I could see her wondering what I had in mind.

                "Okay. Let's get you one."

                "Really?"

                "Yeah, really. I mean, you don't need anything fancy, do you? You just need a phone, your own number where people can reach you, right?"

                "Yes."

                "Well, let's get you a TracFone. They're not that expensive, and you don't have to worry about monthly bills or having a mailing address -- you just buy minutes as you need them, pay as you go. How about that?"

                "That would be wonderful!"

                "Let's go. I'll bet the drug store up the street has them."

                The drug store didn't have them, but Radio Shack, a couple of blocks down in the opposite direction, did.

                "What's the cheapest one they've got?" she asked. She found one for $5. "This would be just fine."

                "Maybe, but this looks like a better phone to me." I pointed to a $20 one -- not enough to break my bank, and hopefully not so much that it would embarrass her, either.

                "Oh - really? Would that be okay?"

                "I think so."

                "Oh, man! This is so exciting! I'm gonna have a phone!"

                It turned out that the phone I'd picked was on sale, and it, too, was only $5. I added the difference into what I'd already planned to spend on calling minutes.

                "This is just wonderful," she said, as the salesman unboxed the phone and set it up for her. "I can call my mom, and my sister, tell them I'm okay, wish them Merry Christmas...!"

                "You will need to watch your minutes, though," I cautioned. "They can disappear pretty quickly. We had another friend who had one of these, and you do have to keep an eye on that. You'll want to save some for your job hunting. Oh! What about the battery? How are you going to keep this charged up?"

                "Oh, there are lots of places where I can use outlets. It'll be okay. But, how do I buy more minutes? Do I need to come back here to get them?"

                "No," the salesman said. "You can get them anywhere."

                "I see the cards in all of the grocery stores," I said, "and most drug stores, too. You should be able to get them pretty easily."

                She glowed as we walked back up the street to her bench. "This could change everything," she said.

                "I hope it does."

                "I can't believe you did this for me. Thank you -- thank you! But, why?"

                "It just felt right," I said. "Besides, where you are right now -- that could easily have been my wife, or me. Both of us have lived on that ragged edge. We were lucky enough to have families who helped us out, but that's all that saved us."

                For me, that time was back in 1988. In the course of three months, I suddenly found myself divorced, laid off, and needing gall bladder surgery. I used to joke that I went under the knife in Indiana and woke up in California, but that was not very far from the actual truth. I was living on borrowed money, trying desperately to find a job while struggling to support myself, an ex-wife, and a child. People like to think they're safe, but the truth is that most of us, even if we have good jobs, are only a few paychecks away from living on the street. I was only unemployed for six weeks, but that was enough to drive me into bankruptcy. Even with the job, there were times, in the early days, when I had to borrow money from friends just to buy gasoline to make it to work and back.

                "Can I put you in my phone?" she asked. "You can be my first friend in my phone list."

                "I'd like that. Better yet, I'll text you, and then you can have my number and add me that way. What's your name?"

                "Jennifer."

                "I'm Daryl. Here comes that text."

                I did still come home to a warm, reasonably safe shelter, with my own bed and spouse and pets, and I did have that steak dinner. Maybe I fooled myself into thinking that I actually helped someone, but I hope not. I hope I did a little more than just toss money at a beggar and run away. And maybe, just maybe, reading this might encourage someone else to do a little more, too. I hope so.

                Jennifer texted me this morning. "Thank you again for the phone," she said. "I'm getting ready for church right now. I'll text you again later."

(Note: "Jennifer" is not her real name. I've changed it to protect her identity.) 

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A Great Day

     You never know what you might find when you leave your own back yard. Yesterday, it was – well, read on, and you will see.

     It was warm here yesterday, too warm for mid-December. I know that my friends living in the cold, snowy, icy regions will disagree, and rightly so, but eighty, in December, in North America? That kind of weather does not do much to instill a Christmas holiday spirit.

     The promise of high temperature also made it difficult to know what to wear on my hike. I was meeting my nature photographer friend, Barbara, at my favorite site to talk about cameras and life, and to shoot some pictures, of course. Since temperatures were still chilly in the morning shade, I opted for a lightweight, long-sleeved shirt, threw my camera bag in the car, and set out.

     A friendly group of birders was in the parking lot when I arrived. They were staring up into the eucalyptus trees with binoculars, sometimes pointing and saying, “There – was that it?” One of the women greeted me as I walked up.

     “Hi,” I said. “I’m guessing there’s something more than the Yellow-rumped Warblers up there?”

     “We’re not sure,” she said, “but we’ve been seeing a flash of orange. It might be a tanager, or maybe an oriole, but we haven’t had a good look yet.”

     (This morning’s SB County Birding newsletter listed it as a Bullock’s Oriole, confirmed by another birder who I saw there later when I was leaving.)

Yellow-rumped Warbler

     We chatted for another minute, and then I left them to their search. I had promised Barbara that I would meet her at the opposite entrance at 10:00, and I only had twenty minutes to get there. Besides, I’ve driven myself crazy before by trying to photograph the warblers that they were now watching. Those fast, flitty little birds seem to delight in showing themselves just long enough for you to finally lock focus on them, only to dart away and hide behind a cluster of leaves just as you press the shutter.

     A hundred yards further on, I was at the start of the trail. Ahead of me, a man in a blue shirt took a few hesitant steps, then turned and walked toward me. He was in his mid-60s, very fit looking, and wore a huge grin despite seeming a little bewildered. He looked at me, glanced at my camera, and said, “I’m guessing maybe you know this place?”

     “I do,” I said. “Do you need some help?”

     “This is my first time here,” he said in a slight Southern drawl. “I’m not sure where to go. This is fantastic, though! I had no idea that a place like this existed here.”

     “It’s definitely a hidden gem,” I agreed. “Look, I’m meeting a friend on the other side of the park. If you don’t mind some company, I’ll be glad to walk that far with you and show you around a little. I’ll take you around the back way, get you on the other end of the main trail, and then it’ll be an easy walk back to your car from there.”

     “That sounds great,” he said. “Thank you!”

     “My pleasure. I love this place. It’s fun to show it off.”

     His name was Charlie. Originally from Georgia, he had just retired to this area after a life-long career as a loading technician for cargo planes in the Air Force. His job was to make sure that the weight and balance distributions were correct, and that everything was secured for flight – an important, sometimes under-valued job that took him all over the world. Charlie loved nature and walking. His goal was to find as many places here as possible in which to enjoy both.

Nutmeg Mannikin (female or juvenile)

     I liked him immediately. I was grateful, too, when he waited patiently while I paused to shoot photos of Nutmeg Mannikins in the reeds, and other birds we passed along the way.

     Charlie was fascinated with the myriad side trails crisscrossing the landscape. “Where does that one lead?” he would ask. “How about this one? It looks like it loops around and re-connects with the one we’re on, is that right?” “Who would have imagined that all of this was back here? Wow!” His enthusiasm was contagious, and it reminded me of my own early fascinations with this place.

     Walking up a wide path on the other side of a footbridge, I saw a familiar face approaching. The man smiled when he saw me, too.

     “Art,” I said. “I’ve been wondering when I’d run into you again! How have you been?”

     “Good,” he said. “And you?”

     “Great! Art, this is Charlie. He’s new to the area. This is his first time here. So, what’s happening?”

     “Well, the White Pelican is still hanging around and, you’re gonna love this – the cat is back!”

     “The cat? The bobcat??”

     “Yes!”

     “Oh, man! That’s fantastic! Where??”

     Art described the site to me, and it happened to be close to where I was to meet Barbara. My heart bounced. A bobcat! After a two-year dry spell, would my luck finally change?

     As we talked, two other groups of people walked by. All of them knew Art and greeted him as they passed.

     “I’d love to stay and talk, Art, but I’m supposed to meet Barbara over at the other entrance in just a few minutes. I hope I’ll see you again soon.”

     “I’ll be around,” he grinned.

Pale Robin

     “This sure is a friendly place,” Charlie observed as we walked away.

     “That’s part of the fun of it,” I said. “It’s kind of magical, in a way. You’ll meet regulars here, and families, and newcomers, and most of them are just as enchanted by it as you are.”

     I took him around the eucalyptus grove, pointing out other trails and connections as we went. Art’s comment had distracted me, though. “Bobcat,” I kept thinking. “Bobcat!”

     When we finally reconnected with the main path, I said, “Well, I guess this is where I say good-bye. Just follow this wide path to the right, and it will curve around and eventually take you right back to the parking lot.”

     “Thank you,” Charlie said. “This is fantastic! Say, what about that trail there?”

     “That one goes back along the outer edge of the property and sort of parallels the main one.”

     “That looks like a good one to me. I think I’ll take it.” We shook hands, and with eager steps Charlie disappeared behind a low rise on that little dirt trail.

     I, meanwhile, was on the verge of running late for my meeting with Barbara. I turned left and hurried toward the east entrance.

    

     My watch said 9:58. I was 50 yards from our meeting point, and I thought I saw Barbara disappear behind a tree, headed back toward her car. I hoped she hadn’t given up already. I….

     What was that?

     In the open field to my right, a distant brown lump looked somehow out of place. I raised my camera for a closer look. Through the 420mm lens, I could see a shape – a feline shape, with white spots on the backs of its ears. It couldn’t be…! But it was. Yes!

     I fired off a few shots, reluctantly lowered my camera, pulled out my cell phone, and dialed.

     “Barbara,” I said. “I’m here, and I’m looking at something that you need to see.”

     “Where are you?”

     “No more than 200 feet from you, right up the main path. There's a bobcat!”

     “Really?”

     “Really.”

     “I’ll be right there!”

     We watched and photographed while the cat slowly stalked something in the tall grass. It crept, paused, pounced, and came up with empty paws. Then it turned, walked a short distance, and sat in the grass, quietly watching for another opportunity for lunch. Most of the time, it was facing away from us.

     “That’s how it always seems to be with bobcats,” Barbara said. “You get great views of their back-ends.”

     “Too true.”

     The cat ignored our presence, but it was also pretty far away. I was shooting hand-held and at the edge of my lens’s capability. I didn’t know if any of the images would turn out. The thrill of watching the bobcat outweighed those worries, though. I would come back, with a tripod, and eventually I might get better shots. Just seeing the cat and knowing it was there was enough.

     Half an hour earlier, I had known nothing about the bobcat’s presence. If I had not bumped into Art and been forewarned, I might have walked right past that field and not noticed that brownish feline lump in the grass. If I hadn’t met Charlie and paused to point out a few sights along the way, I might have arrived too early and missed the cat. It felt as though the entire day had conspired to put me there, at the right place, at the right time, to see that cat. 

Some other cool sightings from the day:

A swan eyes the American White Pelican as he swims past. "What kind of a bird are you? You're white like me, but what a huge bill you have!"

A Belted Kingfisher. Another shot that was a huge stretch of my shaky hands and limited telephoto lens. I would never have even seen this bird if we hadn't met up with that group of birders again and had one of them point it out. "See that little white spot in the tree over there? That's him."

Bold and posing.

   


                American Kestrel -- a female, I think.

A gopher doing some housecleaning and tunnel expansion.

                                             Bath time!

A closer view of that White Pelican.

Canon SL1

     Sorry it’s been so long since the last post. With Christmas approaching, the “to do” list keeps getting longer instead of shorter. I’m sure you’re up to your own elbows in pre-holiday preparations, too, so I’ll try to keep this short.

     I’ve been looking for a backup camera for a while. I love my Canon 7D, but sometimes I just want something smaller and lighter that I can toss into a carry-on bag when I fly, or leave in the car for when we’re on a short drive and find something interesting. I also wanted something that my wife would be more likely to use. She has a great little Nikon point-and-shoot, but it doesn’t have much telephoto capability. I’ve been trying to get her to go back to an SLR (she has an old one from the days of film), but the size and weight have been an issue.

     I tried a Panasonic Lumix, the DMC-FZ200. The size, weight, and telephoto capability were all pretty good, but I didn’t like the difficulty in setting the controls, the image quality, the viewfinder, or the rear LCD quality. Maybe I would have liked it better if I wasn’t already used to the SLR.

     What I kept looking at instead was Canon’s new Rebel SL1. The ads claimed it to be the smallest, lightest SLR on the market. Another plus was its low-light capability. Its ISO range was double that of my 7D, which was being stretched to its limits by some of my early-morning shooting of birds in the bushes.

     Would the SL1 be small and light enough for my wife? I decided to find out. On Thursday, I drove to Samy’s Camera Store to hold an SL1 in my hand.

     Honestly, that is all I intended to do: hold it in my hand, try a few test shots with it there in the store, set it down, thank the clerk, and come home to ponder it some more.

     The sales woman handed me their display model. It actually was small and light – hardly bigger than the Panasonic Lumix I had riding around in my car. And yet, it still fit my hand, and the controls were familiar, even if the touch-screen access was new.

     “There’s an instant rebate,” she said. “$150 off the regular price, and we pay the sales tax.”

     “Really?” Here in California, the sales tax alone would be nearly $48. That made it nearly a $200 discount.

     “Yes. Really.”

     “Oh.” I stopped breathing. This was unplanned and unexpected. The SL1 body alone was normally about $600, which was beyond what I wanted to spend. But $450?

     The crazy, twisted thing about getting caught up in the SLR world is that your mental scale for measuring “cheap” and “expensive” gets skewed. I used to think that $200 was a lot to pay for a camera. Not any more.

     “Four hundred fifty dollars, huh?”

     “Yup. And we pay the tax – but only for the next few days.” There. She’d used the artificial time pressure tactic with practiced skill.

     “Um, do you have a kit deal with the 18-135mm lens?”

     “Not as such, but I can see what we could put together for you.”

     That ended up being too much, but the $450 price on the body kept luring me back. “What’s the price if I get the regular kit deal?”

     “With the 18-55mm lens, it’s another $150.”

     “Okay,” I finally said. “I have lenses. I don’t really need another lens, and I don’t like that 18-55 kit lens anyway. I…. I’ll take the body.”

     There. I’d done it. Yikes!

     But, I took the camera home, showed it to my wife, tried it, and fell for it immediately. Side-by-side with the Lumix, the SL1 was only a tiny bit larger. The 18-135mm IS STM lens feels like it doubles or triples the overall weight, but the 55-250mm IS STM lens is hardly noticeable weight-wise, and that’s the lens that will probably live on the SL1.

     Here are some of my first images from it. All were shot with the Canon EF-S 55-250mm IS STM lens:

1/320 second at f/5.6, 194mm, ISO 2000

                   1/400 sec, f/5.6, 250mm, ISO 100

Orange-crowned Warbler in shade.

1/400 sec, f/7.1 at 250mm, ISO 500

                   1/400 sec, f/7.1, 250mm, ISO 640








Some more shots from this morning:

      

Today (12/09/2013)

     Today was one of “those” days. You know what I mean. We all have them. They might not turn out all that badly in the end, but we dread them before they arrive, and we do our best to get through them while they're happening and, if we can, we try to turn them into something good.

     Mine began with a doctor’s visit. Oh, it was a regular exam, a routine follow-up to blood tests pertaining to the usual maladies of getting older and being overweight. I always go into those, though, feeling like a college freshman who is meeting with a professor to discuss the latest exam in a crucial course in which I know I am failing. I should mention that none of this is my doctor’s fault.

     My doctor is a great guy who always emphasizes that he’s on my side. He never comes down on me in a negative way, and he really, truly, always, only seems to want to help me live a longer, healthier life. He plays no part in encouraging my subversive thoughts like, “You can live to be 100 if you give up all of the things that make it worthwhile,” etc. However….

     The minute that appointment was over, I high-tailed it out to Lake Los Carneros for a nature fix!

     Sadly, I missed my LLC friend, Barbara, by what was probably mere minutes. (Sorry, Barbara!) On the positive side, I got my best-ever photo of a beautiful Townsend’s warbler.

     I need to point something out here: I am not a birder. Yes, I do shoot a hell of a lot of bird pictures! I know that. But I only shoot them because there are no bobcats, snakes, or lizards around. I’ve been out with real birders, my friends, and I am nowhere near being in their league. I’m a mere “nature.” I am a generalist and photographer, and that is all. If I’d found some fantastic fungi, I would have shot them, too, but I didn’t. So, you get birds today.

     I’ll shut up now and just post the photos. You, dear Reader, need only scroll through them and enjoy.  

His Royal Merlin-ness. He has nothing at all to do with my trip to Lake Los Carneros, but since he is my Feline Master and I, his willing human servant, I thought I'd throw this in anyway.

I love the clouds this time of the year.

This juvenile White-crowned Sparrow was not at Lake Los Carneros, either, but his photo was in the same batch so, well, here he is. Cute, isn't he?

Nutmeg Mannikins (female or juvenile?) at Lake Los Carneros.

Nutmeg Mannikin at Lake Los Carneros.

Probably a Yellow-Rumped Warbler?

In southwestern Michigan, where I grew up, a robin would hardly be considered exotic. Well, my friends, it's different here in southern California! This was one of a flock that was feeding upon toyon berries.

On the lookout.

I don't know what it is, but it's cute.

Townsend's Warbler. Just wait until you see the NEXT shot!!!

This is the best image I've captured so far of a Townsend's Warber. This beautiful little bird didn't give a hoot that I was standing right there. He was so busy chasing insects that he flew up within the near-focus limit of my lens! I absolutely love this shot.

Black Phoebe. I have a soft spot for these characters. They're so small in size, but so huge in attitude!

Hummingbird Moths

     It was dusk when my wife and I arrived home last April 14^th. We had spent the day in Malibu at the annual Chumash Day Pow Wow and, after a day of driving, drums, and visiting with friends, we were tired.

     That’s why I first thought what I was seeing was an illusion, a trick of eye or mind. My wife had opened her door, and when I looked past her toward our blossoming Pride of Madeira bush, there was an unfamiliar movement.

     “Honey, look over there. What is that?”

     “What?”

     “Just watch. I’m sure I saw something, and it was strange.”

     “Oh – oh, my! I see it, but I don’t know what it is, either.”

     Something flitted from flower to flower, moving quickly and then hovering just like a hummingbird, except that it wasn’t a hummingbird. The longer we watched, the more fascinated we became. There wasn’t just one of the strange creatures, there were half a dozen, maybe more.

     “They’re moths,” I said. “Moths like hummingbirds. Hummingmoths?”

     “Listen. Can you hear them? They even sound like hummingbirds!”

     I couldn’t hear them from where I sat, but I heard them later as I stood there with my camera, trying desperately to capture images of the strange, fascinating insects. They were hard as hell to shoot. I normally shoot in Aperture Priority mode so that I can control the depth of field, letting the camera choose shutter speed and ISO unless there’s a need for me to take over and do it myself. In this case, none of my normal settings were working. I put the external flash on my camera, switched on the autofocus, turned the dial to full Automatic mode, aimed, and prayed.

     These hummingbird-moths were fast, and they were shy. They didn’t like bright light, and they did not like me being close enough to get a decent shot. I had to wait, frozen in place, and watch. Occasionally, one would fly near my ear or hover nearby. They did, indeed, sound like hummingbirds.

     Finally, the moths moved on. Praying that I’d gotten at least a few decent captures, I sat down at the computer to develop the photos and to try and find out just what the heck we’d seen.

     What we saw that evening were White-lined Sphinx Moths, Hyles lineata, also known as Hummingbird Moths for obvious reasons, and as Hawk Moths, because of the way they fly, raptor-like, from one plant to another.

     The sphinx moths became a photographic obsession for the month that they were here, but despite trying various lenses and settings, I never got any better images than the ones I captured that first night using the 18-135mm commercial-grade Canon zoom lens and shooting in fully automatic mode.

     Now, as we move into winter, I look forward to the eventual coming of spring, and the return of the sphinx moths.

Anna's Hummingbird (right) and White-lined Sphinx Moth (below), both dining on the Pride of Madeira flowers within a few hours of each other. I tried putting the images side-by-side, but Blogspot wouldn't let me.

More images. Right-click on them to open in a new tab, where you can enlarge the pictures and check out details like the super-long proboscis. For more information, check out this link:

    http://www.butterfliesandmoths.org/species/Hyles-lineata

Retirement, Panic, and Peace

     When I retired last February, I felt eager. My job had long been stale, and the last two years were the worst of all. I had weeks, sometimes months, of being stuck at the desk with nothing to do.

     I pleaded with my boss, “I have a cell phone. Just let me go walk around Lake Los Carneros while I wait. You can call me the moment something comes up, and I’ll be back within fifteen minutes.”

     My boss was sympathetic, but the company rules were clear: the minute I left the company campus, I was off the clock and using precious vacation time.

     I walked the halls every week, talking to anyone who might have work for me. I nearly always returned empty-handed. In times past, I would use those periods of down-time to study, to hone my engineering skills, to “sharpen the axe before cutting down the tree,” as one manager used to put it. Our new department manager didn’t see the value in that, however, and actually told me not to do it. (I often did anyway, because not doing it seemed stupid.)

     We weren’t supposed to surf the Internet on company time, and it was considered bad form to be seen reading a non-work-related book or playing on your smart phone. We had a small field at one corner of the campus where we could walk. I wore grooves in that path, but how many times a day can you walk around and around in the same circle? I thought about all of the things I’d rather be doing, and I counted the months, weeks, days, and hours until I could finally be free.

     It was a shock, then, when the panic set in.

     The first morning of my retirement, I woke up, looked at the clock, and smiled. It was Friday. “I don’t have to go to work today,” I thought. “Wow!” And then….

     “Holy shit! I don’t have a job! What the hell have I done??!”

     Except for when college was in session, and one 6-week period when I got laid off, I had been employed since graduating from high school, 36 years earlier. To be suddenly and voluntarily jobless – what had I done, indeed?

     I’d had panic attacks before. Many years ago, my wife had a brush with cancer. She survived, thank goodness, and is doing well today, but we went through a hellish year when it happened. I was her primary caretaker, while holding down a full-time job, managing doctors' appointments, and wrestling with insurance companies. The experience drained us both. Then, when she began to be well again and things grew quiet, my own panic attacks started. 

     I hated and feared cancer, and something deep in my subconscious was convinced that I would be its next victim. Every ache, every odd lump, bump, sore, or asymmetry because a cause for worry. Each time, worry would grow into obsession, and obsession into panic. Adding to the worry were strange physical manifestations: a rash that nobody could explain, and which would not go away; a lump on a testicle; an odd sore in the mouth.

     Time, therapy, meditation, Buddhist lectures and mantras, anti-anxiety medication and, most of all, a steady succession of medical tests proving that nothing I had was malignant, finally brought calm. I thought I had made peace with my mortality, even if I still didn’t like the idea of dying.

     Retirement taught me that accepting my mortality and finding peace with it was not a one-time thing. The sudden, open expanse of time in my life put me, again, face-to-face with my demons. This time, however, I knew them, and I had the tools to tame them. 

       The other thing that I need to tell you about my experience of retirement (knowing that yours will probably be different) is that the days pass with blinding speed. It feels like the slide of time has been greased and tilted downward by another ten degrees.

     There are no more long days of sitting in front of the computer, wishing or imagining that I could be doing something else. When I sit at the computer now, it’s because I am doing something there: writing, processing photographs, communicating with friends. And when I want to do something else, I simply do it. 

     Long days are no longer balanced precariously upon wobbly, week-high stacks of too-short nights. Now, I wake up when I’ve slept enough. The days fill with whatever each one of them wants to contain, and then suddenly it is evening again, and time to snuggle in with my wife and our pets.

     Am I doing what I thought I would? Yes, and no. I am not, sad to say, writing much fiction, which is what I thought for years that I’d be doing if I ever slipped the corporate yoke. I’ve had to make peace with that, too. I’ve tried forcing the fiction to come, and it always sounds exactly that way: forced, stiff, and contrived. Better, then, to let it go, and to let the writing simply be what it is. I won’t stop doing it.

     Writing is how I process life. Others have already said, “I don’t know how I feel about that, I haven’t written about it yet.” For me, that is a deep truth.

     I am doing a lot of photography, however, and I am happy with that. I am calmer, too. Without the external time pressures and constraints of work days and weekends, I can relax and breathe more deeply. I see others rushing, trying to get to work on time, squeezing in a quick stop at the grocery store on the way home to whatever personal chaos they have in their lives, and I can feel empathy for them without being caught up in their stress. I am glad not to be living at that pace any more.

     Speaking of pace, it is time for my morning walk. Live deeply, for we never know if we will live long.