Wading into Nostalgia

     Last week I was in Myrtle Beach, SC, playing golf with a friend who owns a condo down there. When it was time for me to leave, he advised me to take Route 17 up to Wilmington, NC, then catch Route 40 over to I95. It would be faster than going straight out west, over country roads, to get to 95.

     So I took his advice and wended my way to Wilmington. As I approached the city, listening to some oldies on XM Sirius radio, I couldn't help but remember coming down here in the 1980s to one of my favorite vacation spots -- a remote, almost-untouched beach about 20 miles outside of this port city on the Cape Fear River.

     Back then a friend of mine -- an older colleague at work -- bought a little cottage up on the dunes, courtesy of her son, who had recently moved from the New York area to Raleigh, and he'd persuaded his mother to invest with him in some beachfront property.

     The place sounded intriguing, so my wife and I decided to take a vacation there. We went in September -- this was either 1981 or '82, long before Route 40 was put in -- driving down 95 through Washington, past Richmond and Rocky Mount, until we cut over on the back roads, past some tobacco fields and cotton fields, through the military city of Jacksonville, NC, and then out to the beach.

     We found the cottage along the beachfront road, perched up on the dunes overlooking the beach and the Atlantic Ocean.  A little front porch, two small bedrooms and a living room with a kitchen on one end. Old appliances and linoleum on the floor, a few dented-up pots and pans in the cupboard. No television. Out back was a screened-in porch that spanned the back of the house, just steps from the sand. The screens wore a constant covering of moisture, blown up from the sea below.

The porch overlooking the Atlantic

     The nearest telephone was a quarter mile down the road, at the little bar and grill at the beginning of the town pier. Between us and town stood four or five other bungalows, plus a small motel with room for a dozen cars to park out front. On the other side of our cottage was an acre of empty grass-covered sand, then a three-story cement structure -- an old, ugly gray military installation left over from World War II, where they used to watch out for German submarines.

     We'd rented the place for a week. We spent five days lying on the sand by day, sitting on the screened-in porch by night. There was no connection to the outside world. For dinner we'd walk down to the pier and eat fried fish, Southern style, and on the way home in the dark we'd see the crabs scurrying across the moonlit sand.

     Every day, the surf rose a little higher. We heard that a hurricane was coming. Local authorities advised tourists to evacuate, but we thought it would be fun to ride out the storm at the house.

     I loved wading into the ocean, then catching the waves and body surfing to shore. But I remember on the fifth day the waves broke with a force that scared me. We talked to some locals. What did they think about evacuating? Well, you never know, we were told, it could get bad.

     We finally decided to leave, a day early, to make the long drive home. We later heard that the hurricane did skirt the barrier island, but caused minimal damage.

     Two years later, we were back at the cottage. This time we made it a family vacation. First, my wife's brother came over from Atlanta for a few days. After he left, my sister came up from Florida. And by that time my wife and I had a young daughter, so we were loaded up with toys and buckets and shovels, along with extra sunscreen and hats and all the paraphernalia that young families bring to the beach. I still remember taking my daughter by the hand and walking along the beach; wading into the water; building enormous sand castles; burying one another in the sand.

     We went one more time, but could only go during a week when the cottage was booked up. But by this time, now the late '80s, a condominium had sprouted up at the end of the island. So we booked into the condo, where we had a pool and two bathrooms and other comforts that a family -- now four of us -- would appreciate. But the condo was back  from the water, with no salt spray limning the screens, no sound of the surf lulling us to sleep at night.

     After that trip, the kids were growing up and other activities took precedence, and we never went back. We took vacations closer to home because the kids didn't like the long drives; and then the kids started going to camp.

The ocean cottage used to be yellow

     Now my two kids are well into their 20s. My wife and I got divorced. We moved out of our old house. We've all moved on with our lives. But as I headed toward Wilmington last week, I could not resist the pull. Perhaps like the tide. The little island was only, maybe, 30 miles out of my way. I had to go see.

      Would the place be the same? Or was it all developed by now? I found the main road on the other side of Wilmington. As I approached the turn-off, I saw a big high school back off the road. That wasn't there before, was it? As I turned onto the beach road, leading out to the barrier island, I saw a shopping center, complete with a Lowe's big-box store. Then I came to the bridge over the Intracoastal, and that looked the same. As I drove down off the bridge and rolled into town, I saw the pier straight in front of me, with the same old bar and grill.

     But what was that wall of buildings, just to the north? I saw a lineup of half a dozen four-story condominiums blocking a view of the water. I turned down the beach road, and saw new homes built on stilts, one right next to the other. I drove to the end of the road, about a mile, and could not find our cottage. I turned around, and spied an old man tending a little park on a corner. I stopped and asked him if he'd lived here a while.

     Yes, he assured me, he had.

The submarine tower, now with decks

     I asked him if he knew about the old cement submarine tower. Was it still here? I couldn't find it.

     He explained that the tower had been bought up by someone who built a new house around it, incorporating the tower into the house. It was just down the block, he said, pointing somewhere along the solid line of beachfront homes.

     I slowly drove along the beach road, down and back, until I spotted it. Yes, I could see the cement tower joined to the wooden house. Nearby were a few older homes, low and squat next to the new and much bigger beachfront homes.

     And then, there it was, looking a little run down, with paint peeling off the porch. I had no idea if my friend's family still owned it. I'd lost touch with my friend after she retired in 1996. That was 15 years ago. She might even be dead by now, I didn't know.

     But there was her cottage, bringing back those memories of a time gone by, when the beach was a lonely solitary place, cut off form the rest of the world, and I was young and and newly married with little kids, and I thought I had all the time in the world.

Remember Him?

     His daughter was in the news earlier this year because she was breaking up with her high-profile husband, after being married for 25 years and having four children. In 1953, he himself married a high-profile woman, from an even-higher-profile family. But he remained married to the same woman for 56 years, and together they had five children.

     Today is his birthday. He was born on November 9, 1915, in Maryland, the descendant of a man who in 1776 signed the Maryland Constitution and Bill of Rights. He was a Catholic and attended Canterbury, a Catholic prep school in Connecticut. From there he went to Yale and then Yale Law School, where he was a vocal opponent of American involvement in the European war that started in 1939. He joined the America First Committee, along with fellow student (and future president) Gerald Ford, a group that worked to keep America out of World War II.

     Nevertheless, he joined the Navy even before Pearl Harbor, because he felt it was his patriotic responsibility, and he spent four years in active duty throughout the Pacific. He served on the USS South Dakota, reaching the rank of lieutenant and taking home a Purple Heart for injuries sustained at Guadalcanal.

     After the war he met Wall Street tycoon and famous anti-World War II activist, Joseph P. Kennedy. The billionaire from Boston hired him to manage the Merchandise Mart in Chicago, part of the Kennedy business empire. He also met Kennedy's daughter, and after a seven-year courtship, they were married in St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York City.

     When his brother-in-law ran for president in 1960, he was tapped to spearhead the primary campaigns first in Wisconsin, then in West Virginia. After winning the election, President John F. Kennedy turned to him to start the Peace Corps, and he served as its first director.

Daughter Maria

     After the assassination of JFK, he stayed on with the Johnson administration, becoming Special Assistant to the President, then director of the Office of Economic Opportunity, all the time working to help craft Johnson's War on Poverty. He was active in creating many seminal social programs including Head Start, VISTA, Legal Services, and the Jobs Corps. As a Catholic, he was a public opponent of abortion. He also became involved in the Special Olympics, founded by his wife Eunice.

     President Johnson rewarded him in 1968 by naming him ambassador to France, where he represented American interests in Paris from 1968 to 1970. Then, in 1972, when Sen. Thomas Eagleton was forced out of the vice presidential race, presidential candidate George McGovern turned to him as his running mate. The Democratic ticket lost that year in a landslide, leading to Richard Nixon's second and ill-fated term of office.

Sargent Shriver, 1915 - 2011

     And if you don't know who is is by now, you must have been asleep in the early 1970s. After the election Sargent Shriver, affectionately known as Sarge, went on to practice law in Washington, DC. He briefly sought the Democratic nomination for president in 1976, but dropped out early in the race when he garnered less than 2 percent of the vote. He returned to private practice in Washington. With his eldest son Bobby Shriver, he invested as part-owner of the Baltimore Orioles baseball team. He became president of the Special Olympics in 1984 and chairman of the board in 1990. In 1994 President Bill Clinton awarded him the Presidential Medal of Freedom.

     Shriver was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease in 2003. In 2004 his daughter, Maria Shriver Schwarzenegger, published a book, What's Happening to Grandpa? which explained the complications of the disease for the benefit of children. He nevertheless survived his wife Eunice Kennedy Shriver, who died in 2009.

     Sargent Shriver died in January 2011, at the age of 95. A Job Corps center in Massachusetts is named after him, as well as an elementary school in Silver Spring, Md., near where he was born, 96 years ago today.

Who Knows How to Drive?

     I spent a couple of days driving to Myrtle Beach, SC, and back home, and I've made a few observations about the people who drive certain cars and trucks up and down our highways.

     I might offend a few people here. Just remember, I'm no different from anyone else. I think that I'm a good driver, but that everyone else on the road is a complete idiot. Furthermore, the guy driving in front of me is always going too slow -- what's the matter with him?!? -- while the guy in back of me is without a doubt a menace to the road, speeding, tailgating, flashing his lights.

     So . . . to the survey. Yes, there are still young men out there driving old, dark colored Pontiacs or Chevys or Ford Mustangs -- usually with scored paint, a spoiler mounted on the rear, and smoke belching out the back -- who drive like they think they're NASCAR drivers, weaving in and out of traffic, tailgating people, and pushing 30 miles per hour over the speed limit. These guys (and they're always guys) have been with us since the automobile was invented, or at least since James Dean came on the scene, and they probably will continue to be with us until the last gas station closes its pump and the final drop of oil is sucked out of the Middle East.

     Speaking of which, I was on the lookout for bad SUV drivers, because I am anti-SUV for all the obvious reasons. But I must admit that people driving SUVs do not think that they own the road; they do not try to run other cars off the highway. They are, in fact, mostly normal drivers, and many of them are safe and responsible behind the wheel. Still, I don't have to like SUVs.

     For some unknown reason, Ford drivers speed more than Chevy drivers, at least according to my admittedly unscientific survey taken mostly on I95 up and down the East Coast.

     The drivers of white delivery vans are often pretty reckless. I assume that's because many of these drivers work for someone else; do not own the van and therefore just don't care as much how they treat the vehicle, or whether they bring it back to the company lot with a dent or two. Drivers of the big tractor trailers tend to be speeders -- I  guess time is money for them, but they scare the hell out of me when they barrel down the hills at 80 mph. For some reason, car carriers seem to be the worst.

     I noticed a few Hondas go flying by me. But there are lots of Hondas out there, so I'm thinking, percentage-wise, they're no better or worse than anyone else. I did notice that Acura drivers are a cut above Honda drivers. But then . . . well, I'll tell you in a minute.

Volvo drivers don't speed

     VW drivers seem to be pretty good. But the best are Volvo drivers. Those Volvo owners are concerned about safety, and they are careful on the highway.

     But I have to tell you about the very worst -- the car that I witnessed speeding more than any other -- and it is the BMW. These people obviously do think they own the road; they plant themselves in the third lane, step on the gas and woe be to anyone who gets in their way. Not to be unkind, but watching those BMWs fly by reminded me of the old joke, which I hope won't offend anyone (except the BMW owners):  What's the difference between a porcupine and the owner of a BMW? With a porcupine, the pricks are on the outside.

     Okay, okay, before you BMW owners come after me, I can say not every BMW driver is a pri . . . . I mean, an antisocial speeder who recklessly endangers everyone else on the road. I have a friend who recently bought an eight-year-old BMW convertible, and I happen to know that he's a nice guy. Besides, it must be just a regional problem -- I never saw a BMW south of Washington, DC, so the issue must be restricted to the Northeast.

     So just in case you're wondering, I obviously do not drive a BMW. I do not drive a Volvo. I drive an Acura, which is, as I suggest at the opening, probably the closest thing to the perfect car, for the (ahem) perfect driver.

The End of the World

     I have seen the world after the economic collapse. The world without light, without heat, without internet access, with no water and no food. It is the world of the Northeast, after the October snowstorm. The storm dumped heavy, wet snow from Virginia to Maine -- onto trees that still had their leaves, and the combined weight of the snow and leaves brought down branches and whole trees, making a tangled mess of electric lines splayed all over the ground.

     We lost power on Saturday afternoon. I was sitting there, innocently pecking away on my computer, when the screen suddenly went blank. The lights went off. It wasn't dark yet, but we hustled around the house gathering candles and flashlights, and I found my special hats with LED lights mounted on the brim. Of course the reason the lights went out was because of the snowstorm, dumping about eight inches on the trees and the wires and the ground. It was cold out. And soon it started getting cold inside.

      I went outside and brought in some wood from the woodpile. We started a fire in the fireplace, and by that time it was 6 p.m. I volunteered to go out and get some food (since we couldn't cook), and took B's four-wheel drive crossover up to the strip, where we have two malls and a row of gas stations, stores and eateries. Chili's was closed. McDonald's was closed. The diner was closed. I found a pizza place, elbowed my way into the crowd and bought a large pizza for the three of us.

     We spent the evening huddled in front of the fire, then went upstairs and bundled under lots of extra covers. B and I used our LED-lighted hats to read, then we went to sleep.

     We slept okay, but getting out of bed in the morning required a monumental effort. The bed was warm. The room was like a refrigerator. We had no hot water; indeed precious little water at all, since we have a well, with an electric pump that wouldn't be working. We had whatever water was in the water tank. No more.

     On Sunday we headed out to Best Buy and Barnes & Noble and Panera Bread. We knew Panera's had wi fi, and electric sockets, and we thought we might be able to charge up B's laptop and our cellphones. However, several hundred other people had the same idea. We did get something to eat, but there was not an electrical socket to be had.

     Monday brought no relief. I went to my health club, which had heat and electricity, but no hot water. I took a (very quick) cold shower. B's son went to a friend house to have dinner -- they'd lost electricity, too, but had gotten it back. B and I found a coffee emporium where we dined on a wrap and a piece of pumpkin cheese cake -- remember, it's not winter, it's still October!

     Halloween was called off in our town, because too many tree limbs were down, too many wires crisscrossed the streets and too many houses were still dark. Halloween night we went over to a friend's house. They'd lost electricity as well, but they have a gas-powered generator which allows them to run their furnace, use their stove, and turn on a few lights. B brought over some defrosted chicken, and we all had a nice friendly dinner. The silver lining to our storm cloud.

     The first day, with the fire, was kind of fun. The second day, trying to hook up our phones and computer at Panera's, was more stressful. By the third day, we were out of patience, out of good cheer ... and out of water. I did manage to get into Panera's (where I wrote my last blog post) and power up B's laptop, and we sat in bed that night, freezing our fingers and ears and noses off, but watching an episode of Doc Martin on the laptop. We thought the laptop might warm us up a little. It didn't.

     So what do you do when you feel neglected, when you thought that it was over , when everyone's out to get you, when everything is lost, and you're counting up your demons? What I did was ... beam myself off to Myrtle Beach, SC!

     My buddies and I had actually been planning this trip for a couple of weeks. So it wasn't just me abandoning my family for warmer, more pleasant clime. You see,we were all doing it!

     B and I had heard rumors on Tuesday that the power would be coming back that night. By 11 p.m. we heard. We went out to dinner at a local hamburger joint, driving home around 9 p.m., hoping for the best. It didn't happen. It was still dark at 11 p.m. Still dark and cold when we went to bed at 11:30.

     "I sure hope the electricity is back by the morning," I told B. "I don't want to feel guilty leaving you here in the cold and dark."

     "Oh, yeah," she shot back, but with a laugh. "I bet you'll feel guilty. For about five minutes. then you'll be going, 'Woo hoo! I'm outta here!'"

     I chuckled. "Well, you see, that's what I mean. If the electricity is back in the morning I won't have to feel guilty for those five minutes."

     But she really didn't mind too much that I was going. She was back at work by then. Electricity, heat and water were all back on at her office. So I left early Wednesday morning with a (semi)clear conscience.

     B called me Wednesday evening. She reported that she'd gotten home from work around 5:15 p.m. The electricity was still off. The house was dark and cold. But just as she was heading to the hall closet to find another coat (yes, we were actually putting on our coats when we came into the house), the lights blinked on. The furnace started rumbling. The well pump started pumping. All she had to do was wait an hour or so, and then she was going to take a nice, long hot shower.

     And at my hotel that evening, I stood in the hottest shower I'd taken in years, for the longest time -- the first hot water I'd felt in 4 1/2 days.

     I now appreciate my modern conveniences more than ever. Halloween night, I sat in bed, watching the candlelight flicker against the wall, and I understood how our ancestors concocted stories about ghosts and other shadowy creatures. They seemed so real in the dark, dancing against the wall. I was reminded that electric lights -- and all our other modern conveniences -- are really very recent developments. When my mother and father were born, less than half of the households in America were electrified. Many rural areas didn't get electricity until FDR's electrification project in the 1930s.

     I'd seen all those electric trucks out on the street, straightening out the spaghetti of wires on the street. I'd observed the Verizon trucks fixing the cables, the fire trucks and tree-trimming trucks, and the volunteers working through the night. I don't know about you, but I'll never again say anything bad about my electric company, or Verizon, or the fire department, or even the oil companies that deliver heating oil to the tank by my garage. In my opinion, after the last four days, these people are true American heroes.

Blogging Boomers Carnival # 231

Dateline:  Oct. 31, 2011 

Situation:  Day 2 without power

Place:  Panera Bread. Table in the back room, with wi fi and a free electrical socket, and hundreds of other survivors of the October snowstorm of 2011 waiting for a table.

     Nevertheless, Blogging Boomers Carnival marches on!

     And so, we have the Accidental Locavore, who wants to know what items in your kitchen scare you. And are you haunted by parchment paper?

     The Midlife Crisis Queen is excited to celebrate four years of exposing myths and stereotypes of "what we women over 50 do, think, and believe about ourselves." She enjoys empowering others through courageous, positive, self-confident images and messages about what 50+  looks like and feels like.

     Midlife Musings says the question of what makes you happy seems easy to answer on the surface, but for midlife women who finally have the time to do what makes them happy, recognizing what happiness is may not be as easy as it seems.

      Meanwhile, the Boomer Chronicles asks a simple question (one that I bet many of us have asked ourselves along with way): Do I spend too much money on my dog?

     And Vaboomer asks another question which may or may not scare you:  Is Temperance a Good Thing? (I wonder if she watched the Ken Burns special on Prohibition?)

     Over at Contemporary Retirement Ann knows that many people say the best thing about being retired is that they're finally "free to be me." So Ann asks: What does free to be me look like for you?

     Finally, So Baby Boomer brings up a real life-or-death subject. And I'm not kidding. He reminds us that the health reform law has made some important changes to Medicare that go into effect in 2012. For Boomers approaching 65, the annual enrollment period is right around the corner and it's starting a month earlier.

      And now, while I'd like to stay and chat a little longer, the manager at Panera's has come to the back room and is telling everyone they have to unplug and make room for new customers coming in, who want a table where they can eat lunch (and access wi fi).

     So for you, go check out these links to some great Baby Boomer material. For me, it's back to my cold, dark house. And I'll update you on the storm in a couple of days.