WORKING HARD IS HARD WORK. WHO KNEW?

Working hard used to be a rite of passage.

“Start sooner than later and enjoy the rewards longer,” was the message.

So hit the grind and go until there’s nothing left to grind, like this cartoon from the New Yorker?

Then what?

The ‘Then What’ question comes up frequently in baby boomer literature on how to live a fulfilling life.

Youngs take note; you’re closer than you think to ‘then what?’

There’s an industry built on ‘then what.’

It guides us toward something called ‘The Second Act.’

Why second act? Because we know what the third act is. The curtains close in the ‘theatah’ after the third act.

I know this because my wife and I are live theater fans, one of us more than the other.

My mother-law’s third act opened my second act, seated next to my wife, third row center at the old armory, working hard and not falling asleep.

Your Second Act Is Waiting?

Your second act does not depend on your first, but let’s take a look anyway.

Not me working hard on my boomerpdx second act, but a guy in the neighborhood.

I walked my dog the usual route when a car pulled up and stopped like a ‘shut-up and get in the van’ moment, except it was a 450 Mercedes SUV, or a Subaru.

It was dark.

The two old people inside, the woman driving, the man near the window, looked like I could take ’em both at the same time if they got feisty.

Does anyone else evaluate new people like that?

The woman shouted across the man’s head, “Is that a Bernedoodle? We have a Bernedoodle.”

It was a good start to a longer conversation. Nice people. Retired high achievers.

They parked and we talked the talk that weeds people out of the conversation. My new best friends weeded me out.

I helped.

Second Act Dream As Nightmare

This man and woman in their seventies had had busy lives as doctors in challenging specialties.

They were on-call life savers who answered the bell whenever it rang.

Then it didn’t ring any more. They were put out to pasture, a very nice pasture.

The woman took it literally.

She bought a horse and joined a stable, working hard to be the cowgirl in the sand.

The man used his time to stay in touch with his former patients.

He was a part of their lives, lives that included husbands and wives and kids and grandkids they never expected to have.

The patients give him regular updates on the joy he brought them, and still brings.

Sometimes he gets news of their third act. It’s happened more often in recent years.

Aging up does that, even if you’ve aged out of the life you once led.

That’s when it hit me. I realized this was the saddest man I’d ever met.

He’d been a doctor, the one called to consult on mystery cases; he’d been a scientist on the cutting edge of new discoveries; he’d been a most needed presence in decision-making rooms.

Now he walked a dog. It was a nice dog. Not as sweet as my girl, but still nice.

I’ve seen him a few times since, each more haunted than the last.

But that’s probably me looking to hard.

My Ongoing Second Act Working Hard

I remember seeing my folks together after I was out of the house.

They sat and watched TV in silence before their divorce. It’s been a warning.

Now I’m married longer than them and we watch television together.

It’s a show along with a shoulder massage. A show with tea and cookies.

Sometimes a show we talk through and ruin for each other.

That’s one way to get the television turned off, unless you have one in the bedroom.

Now every show includes dog-wrangling, because why have a dog if you keep it in a cage like a wild animal.

So we’ve got a wild thing added to the evening. She makes my heart sing.

2

BoomerPdx is my second act, and I’ll tell you why:

I like getting up early in the morning and starting the day with a routine.

At one time the morning routine was roll out of bed, make coffee, shower up, clean clothes, and and catch 8:15 into the city.

Meet up with the guys at the first break for coffee and something to eat on the third floor cafeteria with Battery Park and the Statue of Liberty outside the floor to ceiling windows.

Married morning routine: Get up, make the bed, do dishes, fold laundry, get kids ready, catch the #12 bus to Portland.

Ernest Hemingway always had a plan for the next day:

You write until you come to a place where you still have your juice and know what will happen next and you stop and try to live through until the next day when you hit it again. 

Ursula Le Guin had a plan:

You don’t have to write to have a plan. Any activity will do if done regularly.

Get up, and it doesn’t need to be god-awful early like you’re catching a seven o’clock flight that requires you to stay up all night sitting on your suitcase.

Get up when you either feel rested, think you’re getting a bed sore, or the cat looks like it might drop a load on the bedspread.

Now you’re up, ready to set the plan in motion.

The Plan? Work With Me:

I was an heroic caregiver in a Sandwich Generation house by accident.

As such, I did it all and pushed back when rank amateurs like doctors and physician assistants and nurses tried to take over.

My feeling was, “You had your chance and screwed up, so pound sand bitches.”

For five years I doctored my father in-law, along with my mum in-law, wife, and kids.

Once grandpa was in bed for the night the kids played on his lift chair, had wheelchair races in the street, and saw what life could have in store.

For five years I followed this plan:

Wake the old man up since no one sleeps on guard duty. He was a former Marine, so he got it.

To check his level of dementia I’d start talking about the big game, the big fight, the latest disaster, except the news was old, decades old.

“Did you hear about the Louis vs Schmeling fight? Joe got him this time. You should have seen it. A right, a left, then put him to sleep with another right.”

I’d dance it out, punch it out. He’d stare straight up, but I’d catch him looking.

Or

“The Hindenburg blew up last night. It was awful. Oh, the humanity. What do we do?”

I kept it up, each time more dramatic than the last, until he said, “What are you talking about?”

To which I’d answer, “I’m talking about getting up and get going here. What are you talking about?”

I waited until he registered reality, before adding, “I forget what we’re doing, and my back hurts. I need your help. What do we do first?”

And that’s when an old, confused, Parkinson’s sick man, picked up the baton and ran his leg of the relay. He was working hard and ready to do more.

He felt useful, helpful, and more than ready to take over and do as much as he could.

Instead of a ‘work product’ he was a contributing teammate in his own life.

And mine.

I ask myself even today, “Am I contributing teammate in my life and the lives of those I care about?”

My plan is to get better at it, after my writing day, which ends in 3, 2, 1, . . .

It ends after I read this ten times, cut it down, keyword it up, find photographs, check SEO metrics, then post to the void.

And the only thing that bothers me? The void never says shit back, sends a check, or delivers a swimming pool.

Dear Void,

Is a thank-you asking for too much?

Yours Truly,

Another Blogger Working Hard And Posting To You