Well, after decades of working at jobs at which I felt unsuited and uninspired, I was finally employed at something I did not find hateful, rather enjoyed, in fact. Then, suddenly my employer stated that the company would be moving to a major change in the way it developed software projects. Estimating and scheduling projects as I had done for the last eighteen years would no longer be necessary. In addition, my skill sets were clearly not adequate to meet the new technical requirements, and therefore, I would need to find some other role for myself within the company.
I was not ready for this. I did not desire it. I knew I could become non-essential in this high-tech envoronment, but I had hoped for maybe two or three more years of full employment. Under the circumstances, the company that had employed me for eighteen years treated me fairly enough.
They gave me a couple of months to apply for a new position there, which I did numerous times. There were some for which I actually was qualified, and yet, not chosen out of hundreds of other candidates. In spite of my attempts and those of the HR person assigned to help me and others like me in similar circumstances, the efforts were futile.
After several rejections, I gave up the search and faced the inevitable change of status to “retired”.“Thank you for your service, and please accept our best wishes,” HR told me.
I was never highly skilled in a technical sense; more of a poet than a techie, and alas, poet applicants have never been in demand in high tech companies. Pity that, and rather remarkable that I had somehow landed in the position I held with such a company.
Previously, when asked by new acquaintances what it is that I do, I would reply retired rather than suddenly, sadly unemployed. Well, clearly I had aged, so it was not a hard sell; really quite plausible what with all the balding, graying, and sagging that had occurred. People accepted that response easily--more easily than I did. Eventually, as I aged more, people stopped asking, they just assumed. Clearly, the wrinkled old man before them must have hit that retired stage.
So, without desiring it, I embarked on that journey, the one we call retired. I joined a writers’ group. I committed to working out and reading more. I played more pickleball, until I injured my foot rather severely. My wife and I moved to Arizona to a scenic location of vast, star-filled skies and ranch style homes surrounded by high desert cactus and mountain ranges between Phoenix and Prescott enroute to Flagstaff and the Grand Canyon.
Wickenburg, it’s called to memorialize the Henry Wickenburg who managed to obtain mineral rights from local, indigenous people in a primitive spot that later was called Vulture Mine back in the late 19th Century. This became one of the highest producing gold mines in the history of the U.S. Now, in my view, the mountain top that is Vulture Mine does not look like a vulture at all. I haven't heard it described as a known vulture habitat. I can’t find any historical data to explain why someone chose the name Vulture Mine. The why of the name just seems to be accepted as obvious or unimportant by the locals, near as I can tell.
Henry’s success at gold mining and many of his other ventures, such as real estate, produced great personal wealth. He invested heavily in the development of the town and the surrounding desert, building an empire that stretched some fifty miles to Phoenix.
As the Wickenburg area grew in structure and resources, its clean desert air helped make the area a highly desirable location for those with TB and other lung ailments about a century ago, and so it has remained. In addition, it has become a center for specialized rehab facilities. Perhaps it’s the peace and restfulness of the place that make it conducive to life changes and recovery from certain human compulsions.
This is the most sparsely populated area in which we have ever lived. It has vast unobstructed vistas--no urban congestion here. It is a center for dude ranches, attracting urbanites from across the country.
It is also famous for “roping” in rodeos and other competitions. This is an activity in which horses and riders chase down frightened calves, bringing them brutally to ground by ropes thrown round the animals’ distal ends, the neck of a calf or the horns of a steer, and the hind legs of either. This stretches the poor creatures like pasta dough for the amusement of thousands of people dresed in cowboy attire who are purported to be animal lovers caught up in the romance of the old west.
I’ve actually been asked if I am a roper. I don’t dress like a rodeo performer and clearly, I am incredibly old, so I don’t know why anyone would so inquire. It is just so commonly discussed around here, and folks make assumptions. I’ve heard others, men and women, asked the same. I’ve heard the follow-up question when one of them responds in the affirmative, “Well, are you a header or a heeler?”
The other prevalent question In this area of mostly non-youths is “Are you a golfer?” The expectation is a response of “Sure am”. When I respond in the negative and explain that I have done the golf world a great service by staying the hell off all golf courses, I think I am considered possibly odd for that alone, never mind my other discernible eccentricities, such as liberal political and philosophical thought.
Wickenburg Ranch, a gated community in which we now live, has one of the country’s most highly regarded eighteen-hole championship golf courses. Membership initiation is in the five figures and greens fees are high, I hear. However, for residents of more modest means or those not inclined to make a large financial committment to the sport, there is a highly desirable, high quality nine-hole course free of fees of any kind. It is on this course that our friends ride their golf carts and play swing-and-giggle before descending on the club’s saloon for hydration.
Merv Griffin was one of the early principal investors in The Ranch. He had a passion for tennis and made it one of its most appealing and popular activities along with golf. Tennis remains popular here and the courts are of the highest quality. However, pickleball now surpasses tennis in acceptance and participation here on The Ranch. Well, its an older crowd, y’know, and pickleball's smaller courts require less, you know, movement. Some portion of the downtown citizenry here retain fond memories of old Merv, who actually made this one of his multiple residences. The old charmer was long gone before pickleball became popular. I wonder if he would have adjusted to it.
Shade and air conditioning are highly prized and sought after during the summer. There are monsoons toward the end of summer, we heard, but we did not experience that our first year here. Evidently, fall and spring are as clear and beautiful as any can be. Winter is cool but not extreme. All in all, not sure how it could get much better weather-wise.
Landscaping here is not artificially ornamental. It's more about burnished gravel for ground cover, strategically placed granite boulders made to appear randomly distributed by nature, simulated dry stream beds, desert scrub, cacti, Palo Verde and other trees. Manicured grass is rare at residences and abundant and well nourished at golf courses.
Fauna in the lower elevations include javelina, a large boar-like rodent--mean as hell, we are told, rattle snakes, hare, road runners and numerous other birds of prey, coyotes, tarantulas (harmless, contrary to wide-spread perception), scorpions (definitely not harmless) among many others. At higher elevations; add deer, elk, cougars, and even bears.
The remoteness here and restrictions against light pollution make this an excellent spot for astronomical observation. Telescopes abound. We use online tracking apps to observe locations of constellations and the route of satellites passing by. Some evenings, we gather with neighbors to watch the fast moving red lights of those satellites.
Here, we discovered that long drives are scenic, peaceful, and filled with the pleasant sounds of road noise, surprisingly soothing on the long ribbons of highway. We enjoy the sight of rock formations that rise to the category of mountains, some of them reddish/rust in color, and an abundance of desert flora, much of which blooms in spectacular color in the spring.
In this community of older folks, we encouonter most of the old age maladies and we connect each with the person so afflicted. For example, Carl, he's the one who had the recent hip replacement, Susan the knee. Jake just had the prostate and urethra roto rooter service. Marge is ambulatory again but has to drag along her oxygen tank. Marc is the one who recently got hearing aids, so we no longer shout to facilitate his comprehension of what we say in conversation. Sadly, there is nothing we can do about Joyce’s comprehension, so we are patient with the dear girl and try as best we can to engage her. A few in our group have the palsy associated with neurological disorders, but they manage to remain socially active, and we hold them dear.
And then, a large segment of residents here are irritatingly athletic and fluid in their movements, especially those damn pickleball and tennis players. These folks also remain defiantly mentally acute with no apparent cognition problems. We hate them, of course.
To get along here while shopping downtown one must be patient in lines as people search within silk and leather coin purses, hands shaking, for exact change. During these delays, we peruse the supermarket checkout counter assortment of tabloid headlines that we would never allow in our homes, fearing that someone would discover our interest. We wait while customers, grocieries already bagged, are unable to find their rewards cards and can’t remember the telephone number they need to plug into the machine for that important discount. There is a higher proportion of people here who respond affirmatively when asked if they need help getting the groceries to their car. We have learned to park some distance from those seniors so afflicted to ease our egress from the parking lots.
Small inconveniences aside, it is clearly our best choice so far of locations in which to settle now that we enjoy our sunset years. What would have seemed too remote, too slow-paced, and boring years ago is actually none of those now. The high desert has its own beauty and excitement, and the clubhouse activities keep us socially busy enough. Sunrises viewed from our patio give us a peaceful, calming start to our day nearly every morning.
This northern Arizona area has a vibrant art community. We’ve been accepted and welcomed into the Wickenburg chapter of that community; my wife as a visual artist and me as a writer. We appreciate the support.
We’ve formed some delightful new friendships. The town itself is all western/cowboy charm. Short, pleasant drives get us to Prescott, Flagstaff, Jerome, Cottonwood, Sedona; locations with their own history, beauty, and interest.
So, having involuntarily passed over to that retired stage, we chose a good location for this new life phase.
The wife has enjoyed a few golf lessons and spent some very pleasurable hours with her lady friends on the nine-hole course, Lil’ Wick. I’m physically active as well, with a passionate commitment to the sport of Recliner Chair. Honestly, and with modesty aside, I’m quite good at it: lots of reading and a bit of creative writing now and then in that sport's required equipment. I don't over-do, though. Don't want to risk muscle strains or serious injury, don'cha know?
And so it goes, this thing called retired, now that I am clearly old.