Retirement Commences

Escape velocity has been attained. I retired at the end of February and, so far, it's really the cat's pajamas!

At 4:30 on a Thursday afternoon working from home, gainful employment ended quietly and peacefully. Although, after 31 years cracking away as a commercial insurance underwriter, the conclusion was amusingly anticlimactic.

As I closed in on retirement with 20 minutes remaining in my career, before clicking off the laptop, I was getting giddy. After 31 years, only 20 minutes to go, then 19, 18, and so forth . . . I set my permanent retirement out-of-office email reply, signed off my apps, turned off the laptop, bundled the electrical cord, and removed my chair and computer table out of my son's room from whence I'd worked the final two months.

Being a self-proclaimed goofball, I awoke earlier than usual to see what it looked like and felt like. Then Ghost Dog and I went for a longer than usual morning walk. Building out that elusive and fabled retirement routine had begun.

Day one of retirement, being a Friday, was more like the onset of a three-day weekend. Beyond that, though, that next full week and beyond, in my head, was represented largely as a blank space. There were a few lunch playdates on the calendar, but it was as if there was a roadmap in my head, the destinations were there, but everything was dark as if the infrastructure had not yet been built-out. No roads, no streetlights. That would hopefully be mentally built out in the subsequent weeks as my retirement routine became established providing the infrastructure to better envision my future.

A few early observations from Retirement: 

[1] A fun side effect leading up to retirement in the preceding month, I'd enjoyed an enhanced coherence of thought. It's as if my brain was preemptively reallocating brain power away from work, freeing it up to deploy for non-work activity. It's been neat, and surprisingly noticeable, as if a distraction has been removed from my consciousness.

There is a book by Kurt Vonnegut Jr., Player Piano, where citizens have an alarm device implanted in their heads. The alarms periodically activate distracting them from deep and thoughtful contemplation. As retirement approached, I enjoyed enhanced clarity as if my distraction device had been deactivated.

[2] Referenced earlier, the mental blank space when thinking of the future. This was similar to what I experienced graduating from college, the summer of 1990. I had graduated and a job had not yet been procured. When I thought of the future at that tender point in my almost-adult life, thinking of those coming weeks and months, I had difficulty envisioning what that would look like. That's me again. As if I'm entering a dark room. I know there are things in there I want, but I haven't yet located the light switch. However, there is no fear about entering that dark room.

[3] I no longer have an adversarial relationship with the clock. By the fourth work day into retirement, the clock had lost its sinister persona. It had been my taskmaster, and I had been totally unaware until that morning's surprise revelation. But no longer would it dictate to me, with roving pin pricks throughout the day, what had to be done or be completed by when. An inconvenient constraint. The clock now merely represents a stationary point on a map.

[4] I've enjoyed a noticeable bump-up in patience! I've considered myself a patient fellow, although there have been triggers, like if there is not enough time to complete the desired array of tasks. Even then, I had developed an awareness of the onset of impatience, and that possibility of such a flareup has lately become more remote.

Life is good. And to be clear, life was good even during work. I was fortunate in my career of gainful employment, that employer, those professional tasks matching well with my abilities, and that coterie of distinguished colleagues with whom I worked. This has been a good run. Now then, just one final professional task remained, set my permanent retirement voicemail message.

"This is Bill with State Farm insurance. I am retired as of March 1, 2024. For assistance please call Underwriting, your assigned Business Lines Consultant or engage the Underwriting Chat feature. Thank you for calling."

With that, I turned off the cell phone and concluded my career.

Book Lover's Companion podcast

I had the good fortune of being on another podcast! The marketing plan for my novel Magglio Cervantes, published April 2023, was to engage podcasts to discuss the book. I sought out, and continue to seek, podcast opportunities, then email my marketing pitch offering myself as a guest.

The first five marketing email pitches yielded no response. But much like life, this was to be a learning process. The Book Lover's Companion podcast, my sixth pitch, was the first to respond favorably to my advances.

That initial email exchange was August 2023, and a recording date for January 2024 was offered. I gladly, and nervously, accepted. Heck, I didn't know what the process was, but was surprised, and thankful, to be offered a recording date without first vetting me, [well, they scouted out my Amazon author page], or make sure I could speak coherently, which I often do. 

The January recording date was proudly marked on my calendar for five months forward. [Note: this was my first podcast for which a recording date was set, though two other podcasts were subsequently corralled and recorded between August and January.]

As preparation for this upcoming date, I listened to many Book Lover's Companion episodes. Common questions were identified for which I could then prepare. It also allowed me to get familiar with the format and what to expect.

I practiced in the weeks leading up to the podcast appointment. On my morning walks with Ghost Dog, I'd play out conversations and interview questions in my head. Questions asked by a host, me answering, then replying to follow up questions. I was trying to manufacture hours of interview experience, because by the January recording date, this would be only my third podcast, barely one hour of actual podcast experience. And I must admit, by the recording date, I felt good and confident about my speaking points. 'If only they will ask me the right questions,' I thought to myself.

A week prior to our recording date, I received an email from the host. Our appointment was confirmed and a subsequent email contained a link. I was to click the link on the appointed day to join the podcast by video.

We recorded on January 20. Our conversation was conducted on video, though only the audio was recorded. The hosts were in Vienna recording at 8 pm their time. I'm here in Southern California, recording time was 11 am Pacific. [Very nice of them to accommodate me on the time conversion.]

I spent much of that Saturday morning managing my pre-game nerves by staying busy. A walk with Ghost Dog preceded breakfast, followed by a walk to Vons for groceries. Keep active, was the goal, do not get bogged down in a nerve-rattling game of wait and over-thinking.

I clicked the link 10 minutes early to join the video. Got in early as a courteous show of appreciation, instead of coming in late or too close to Go time. One of the two hosts was already present!

The extra minutes allowed us to confirm no IT difficulties, audio and microphone input and output were adequate, then fun pre-game conversation of Hellos and greetings before Go. For all the pre-game nerves, this felt more like a conversation than an interview.

Shortly before the start of recording, the host, of whom there were two, moved a green screen behind them, then picked their preferred virtual backdrop, the bookcase seen in the episode's media post, then clicked a screenshot of us to be used for the episode on their website.

During the recording I didn't feel nervous and the two hosts were delightful. The audio, however, doesn't lie, some choppy cadence on my part near the end, balancing nerves and trying to respond to questions for which I was unprepared. Don't take my word for it, listen in and decide for yourself. But hey, life is about the experiences. Regret is best relegated to the things we did not do or try, not the things we did.

Please click the following link to listen to the podcast. [Book Lover's Companion - Magglio Cervantes podcast]

[Thank you and much respect to my hosts, Edith and the Chattering Teacup @ the Book Lover's Companion podcast. -Bill]

Klem's Goals for 2024

[I'm a little late documenting the 2024 goals, but let the record reflect, they've been in force since the year's inception.]

This is a big year for change. It's Year One of retirement commencing 3/1/2024! I do Not want to simply be napping and relaxing all the time. The objective is to stay constructive and productive.

[1] Publish the book of short stories Unlaundered Shorts, expected to be on Amazon by end of May.

[2] Read these books this year. There are some books, I just need a little nudge to make them go, and writing them here makes it so.

Emma - Jane Austen 

One each from the Bronte sisters: 

Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte

Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte

Brothers Karamazov, Dostoevsky

Madame Bovary, Gustave Flaubert

Canterbury Tales, Geoffrey Chaucer

[3] Stay healthy:

Blood test,

Physical exam,

Prostate exam, [I'm sorry you had to read that.]

Read a book on age-appropriate Nutrition,

More oatmeal, fewer pancakes.

[4] Physical goals:

Do more push-ups. [100+ every other day]

Pull ups [every other day]

Swimming [commencing Q2]

Bike riding [commencing Q2]

Cardio [gonna to have to figure this out, maybe a stationary bike, but something more strenuous than walking]

[5] Improve the marketing reach for my novel Magglio Cervantes (available on Amazon).

[6] Scrub old Mac laptop and discard that computer.

[7] Do a 1-handed push-up.

Fireman's Descent

Fall 2012

Alhambra, CA

He didn't even know he could do it. Yet, there he was implementing a skilled fireman's descent as if honed from decades of firefighting duty. But this guy, no fireman, was merely a weekend warrior waging a losing battle on an inopportunely housed beehive.

This was at his momma's house. He loved his momma. What a bad day that might be if those bees, under the second floor eave, got loose on her. Not so nimble on her feet anymore, so he went on the offensive that fabled, lazy Saturday afternoon. A constructive effort that should have been done months ago, before the hive got so big. But he hadn't noticed.

'What now,' asking himself rhetorically. 'No biggie. I'll get this done quick enough, then make dinner,' he played out in his head. Only tonight, he was not going to make dinner. He'd be in no condition for a culinary creation.

A simple task, it seemed. Point, aim, shoot. Spray the beehive, then descend crisply, but in an orderly manner. The bees, after all, would be doped up with insecticide. They'd be lethargic once hit with the poison, thought our hero.

Actually, the poisoning effect is an eventual effect. Like drinking a tasty beer from a chilled glass. The effect takes time to establish a beachhead. In the immediate term, the bees would be angry and aggressive. This they displayed from the onset.

An important note about our guy. He was not allergic to bees. Well, that is to say, he was not allergic to bees when he awakened that morning. By nightfall, however, this would take a wildly divergent turn.

His neighbor facilitated the task as it unfolded. He held the ladder as Emmett ascended with the necessary tools of war, insecticide spray. The bees, though, would not be simpatico with his desires. He was not afraid of bees. Nor was he overtly agile, so he was deliberate with each rung of the ladder.

Having attained adequate altitude and proximity to the hive, he drew up the chemical spray and was poised for assault. Nothing personal against bees, he told himself, a kind of mental confessional, it's just business. One final deep breath, he held it and pulled the trigger. That’s the last thing he remembered until awakening in a hospital bed.

His neighbor, Tim, watched as the spray-phase of the offensive got underway. He also watched as the bees shot out of the hive quick and thick like molten lava.

Immediately before the assault commenced, he thought possibly that Emmett was too close to the hive. But what did he know? Nothing, he thought. Thirty minutes earlier he had been vastly enjoying a recurring weekend treat of pancakes for lunch. At least, he had been until the knock on the door disrupted his final bite.

"You ever spray a beehive before," asked Emmett skipping over the preamble of a greeting, so went their familiarity.

"With what," Tim.

"Bee killer, an aerosol spray."

"No, not yet."

"Whatchya doing right now."

"Lunch," replied Tim, wiping syrup from his mouth with an already tainted sleeve, the uncouth rascal.

"Your weekend pancakes?"

"Just finished."

"Want to help?"

"Bees?"

"Just hold the ladder, and watch how it's done," said Emmett with a slant toward well-practiced braggadocio.

"Can I clean up first, the dishes?"

"This'll just take a few minutes. Do the dishes later," believing his own ill-founded self confidence.

"Here we go."

The dishes would still be waiting several hours later.

Tim was ground level watching how not to spray a beehive, but he couldn't be certain of this until the effort had run its course. It would then be abundantly conclusive.

As the bees exited the hive, they swarmed our hero with the viscosity of a well placed smoke bomb. It was awful, scary, and fascinating. To Tim's amazement, Emmett performed a surprisingly impeccable feat. He did not perceive his pal to be capable of such dextrous command of his motor skills, nor so quick on his feet.

Under the beehive's retaliatory retribution, Emmett instinctively dropped the spray bottle. Then he placed both hands on the outside rails of the ladder, did the same with his feet, and performed an immaculate ladder descent that would have made any veteran firefighter proud. He dropped from the cloud of bees with the quickness of a mud pie dropping from a second floor window.

He wouldn't remember any of this afterwards. His neighbor, however, would later tell him what he had witnessed, thankfully for Tim, from a safe distance.

When the angry cloud of bees dissipated, Tim retrieved the jettisoned bee spray, returned the ladder to the garage, then checked on his friend.

"Hi, Emmett came inside in a hurry. Did you see where he went."

"He shot upstairs with speed I haven't seen since he was a teenager. The day I told him I'd found his Playboys and was going to burn them. Is everything all right?"

"I don't know yet. I think he might've gotten stung by a bee."

"Well, by all means, go on up and check on him."

When Emmett had returned to the safety of terra firma, he was wildly brushing his hands through his hair, then ran into the house. He started stripping off his clothes as soon as he entered. A trail of spent clothing followed him to the upstairs shower.

Tim didn't want to look. He'd known Emmett since he was a boy, since Tim was a boy. Emmett was ten years his senior. He really liked him, but was not eager to make a visual.

"Emmett, you OK," eyes wide open with concern.

"I needed to wash the bees out of my hair. You should see them all, they're clogging the shower drain. I'll be right out." Something in his voice, it wasn't right. Excited. Vacant somehow. 

Tim was not a child, he gathered that something significant had happened and he thought, maybe, that the brewing sequence of events was going to get messy.

"I'm going to get my dad. I'll be right back," he said.

Five minutes passed.

As our delirious hero exited the shower, got dressed, remembering none of this later, still in a bee-sting induced stupor, came downstairs, and answered the front door as Tim returned with his dad.

"Emmett, everything OK," asked the dad knowing that all was not OK, but knowing not the depth of degradation to which he was entering.

"Yeah, I'm OK," said Emmett, then promptly barfed on the dad. Not like, barfed on his feet, or a glancing blow on the arm. The vomit was delivered from a fellow who was so far gone that there was no attempt made to soften or deter the vomitous load. No attempt to cover his mouth. No attempt to turn to avoid an unwitting target. It was a free flow delivered by a body desperately seeking to void itself of an alarming load of bee sting venom. The dramatic result of dozens of stings.

Dad was nailed with the full force of vomit, a direct hit on his classic weekend Hawaiian shirt. A favorite, but not so much after today.

He was a man of considerable life experience. Tim had mentioned bees, but dad knew not the magnitude. The load delivery, however, told him everything he needed to make some snap decisions. All of them correct.

The shirt was discarded and he carried on in his tee shirt, issuing commands decisively and calmly, orchestrating the saving of a life. 

"Tim, get the car keys and my wallet. I'll get Emmett to the curb. We're taking him to the hospital emergency."

Emmett was treated at the hospital for four days. He would live. My friend would live with an allergic reaction to bees going forward for the rest of his days, those days not yet termed out as of this recounting of his tale. He lives with a potentially life-saving Epee pen within reach in case of crisis.

The bees did not return. The bee-spraying was not deemed a success. The life saving quick reaction of the neighbors, however, would be.

[Based on a real life experience of my pal.]