Ladies of a Certain Age ~ for those invisible powerful, dynamic, vital women

Trying to adhere to my self-imposed bi-monthly schedule for this blog, I knew that I would be putting something out Father’s Day weekend. Thursday, I told my friend,  a lady-of-a-certain-age,  at coffee that I did not know what to write.  She, age 60 and exhausted, told me that her financial advisor told her she had to work to age 70.  In my direct, blunt way I told her he was full of S!

“Father’s Day, what a non-event in my life now,” I thought as I pondered further writing this blog. My own dad, Robert Earl Wheeler, died at age 68 in 1986 and my former husband is no longer in the lives of my children, suffering from a progressive fatal disease of the mind, body and spirit as 12-Steppers say.  I remembered Father’s Day before this disease got to the acute stage – days filled with fun barbeques, golf, and excited children who loved their father dearly.

For me, my father’s last Father’s Day, was filled with angst, exasperation, terror and grief.  Our Grand Junction home had finally sold and that Saturday my then husband and son filled one of our cars with what remained in the garage, while I and our oldest daughter, age 16, headed to the Grand Mesa to pick up our 14-year-old daughter at the Girl Scout Camp.  Of course, the 16-year-old insisted on driving, as only 16-year-old daughter’s with newly minted (two weeks) driving licenses can.

We headed up the winding road on the world’s largest flat-top mountain and ran into a cattle drive, replete with cows, calves, horses and cowboys. (With cattle drives, no flipping the bird or honking your horn works  to hustle them along or out of the road.)  We would be late to pick up sister and the camp staff would not, I knew, be pleased with our tardiness.  We finally made it.  The staff was none too happy with us.  The daughter had more camp stuff than I remembered to put in my little 1974 Volvo and our beloved cat, Dude (forgot to mention he was along for the ride – our pretty dog, mostly Golden Retriever, Daisy Mae, was is the other car) and I were cramped in the front seat with Dude, who was howling for the next four hours straight.

Well, we got to our new house close to Columbine High School, the girls and the cat went inside, and I immediately drove downtown to Presbyterian Hospital, where my tall good looking 6’2” dad was dying from cancer.  I parked, ran to his room, but no dad was there.  I have never forgotten the panic and fear I experience.  A couple of minutes later, an aide with dad on a walker, now a 100 pounds or so, came out of the bathroom.  I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry; but, no show of emotions was allowed in the two girls Bob Wheeler raised.  It would be another six weeks before we buried him in  his good native Colorado soil next to my mother, who died in 1964.

My dad always told me life was short.  Several of our relatives, who had worked hard all of their lives, died shortly after retiring.  My dad at age 62, so that he could spend time with his second wife, daughters and grandchildren.  After working 43 years for Dixon Paper Company, he got four years to enjoy retirement.

So, that is why I think I blurted out to my friend that the financial advisor was full of you-know-what.  Actually, I am sure he was doing his professional best.  I saw my exhausted friend and I hoped that she would find a way to leave her demanding position soon.  It seems to me that we have a certain expectation of what retirement should be financially, a dollar figure that would scare even young parents, who are already terrified with the amount of money needed to put children through college.

Life is short.  There are so many ways to trim expenses and to truly appreciate and see life. For example, many ladies have told me, and I know from personal experience, that shopping at Good Will can be fun, and Hondas don’t cost near as much as Volvos, etc.  Repair costs are significantly lower, too.  My friend might consider not having her hair dyed and nails done all the time, so that she would have a little extra time to smell June roses.  Life is short.

So, this morning – Father’s Day – I was headed down the street with my Airedale Terrier, Bonnie Buttercup. We often begin our walks going north because that is the direction where Phoenix, the most loving incredible Golden Retriever, lives with her two dads, Brian and his father.  Bonnie loves to “talk” to Phoenix and Phoenix has always loved me and the treats I have for her in my pocket.

Brian had just gotten out of his red truck when I told him what we were doing.  Then, Brian told me Phoenix passed away Friday, a large tumor on her spleen took her life.  They did not know their 81/2-year-old dog was sick.  I’ve been trained well not to cry. I told Brian how sorry I was.  Bonnie and I continued on our walk.  One of my neighbors saw us and asked me if I knew Phoenix died.

She was a wonderful dog. She knew everyone in the neighborhood and everyone loved that dog.  In human years she would be 60.  What I can tell you about Phoenix is not only did she bring joy to everyone, she obviously  loved and enjoyed each day.

I got home and in the privacy of my kitchen I cried.

Life is short.  This week, the Royal Gorge and its famous carousel burnt to a crisp.  A Colorado native,  the Royal Gorge was one of the few attractions I had never seen.  It was on my bucket list.  It is gone now, too.  Life is short.