October Years - for some that means Going Poor

   Here’s hoping the wild and crazy shopping frenzy we call the Holiday Season has nearly run its course---unless you count gift returns, after-Christmas sales, and a flood of gift-card spending. In any case, I am ready to put all that foolishness behind me and celebrate the real meaning of the Christmas season---the promise that makes everyone a winner.

    Sadly, that is too-often not the way our culture operates. We love to keep score, and worship our “winners.” For the last week or so it seems that every network and news channel has been busy analyzing our national spending habits---who is spending how much on what, and what companies are likely to emerge as winners. 

    Fact is, when you measure any human activity in dollar terms not everyone will win---whether at the spending game or anything else. It was that way when we were youngsters. It’s like that in the world of business, even in the sometimes uncertain lottery that is marriage. In every facet of life there are those we are quick to identify as winners, and those who seem not to win.

    That too is true in the October world of late-life. Many of us have experienced our own age-appropriate forms of “not winning.” Our trials may have arrived in the guise of health, relational, career, or retirement challenges. Whatever the issue, the result was likely to come at a cost---financial or otherwise. You have seen the television commercials offering their dire October question---”Will our nest egg last as long as we do?” 

    And what place, you might ask, do those gloomy questions have in a blog which claims we can thrive in our 60s and 70s, and promotes the relational possibilities of October and beyond? How does the possibility of financial distress fit into a relational story? Without resorting to more complicated reasons, I am willing to settle for the obvious. October poverty is the stuff of real life---both the unpromising fact of it and the way it fuels the urge to have a special someone with you to help deal with it. With those obstacles in mind I created a story I call Going Poor, and I must admit it is one of my favorites.

    I’ve said it before---our October Years can be an intimidating time. When I started working on Going Poor, with its depiction of poverty’s impact on the October soul, I had already written about relationships impaired by divorce and death, Alzheimer’s and heart disease, stroke and decades of separation. So why not explore yet another all-too-frequent element of October life? Why not take a closer look at poverty, in particular what can happen to an October relationship when it bumps into the harsh realities of Going Poor?

    I’m not sure what prompted the story. I suppose it’s a child of our times. We read every day about how many of us are unprepared for retirement, and facing an uncertain, even perilous financial future. Yet by itself “poverty” is probably more depressing than interesting, not a likely subject for most storytellers. 

    But what about the impact of poverty---its effect on the October unfortunates who are constrained by the fact of it and forced to live accordingly? Beyond our basic needs for food and shelter perhaps the most crushing impact of financial hardship is on the human psyche---the emotional price we pay for believing that in a culture like ours, where perceived worth is so often a function of dollars, we have not measured up in the ways we and society expected. What happens to dreams of affirmation and success in the face of late-life poverty? How does it affect self-esteem and willingness to take relational chances? It seemed to me those questions provide the ingredients for an interesting story. 

    Can you imagine, or have you experienced the effects of poverty on a potential relationship? The more I thought about that the more it seemed to me that perhaps no one is more in need of a caring and committed partner than a truly needy person---someone who seems not to be thriving.

    But of course, thriving is a relative term. My “thriving” may strike you as very “unthrivinglike.” (I think I just invented a new word.) True, satisfying relationships can thrive in any home, no matter how modest. Yet poverty and homelessness are bound to impair permanency, an important element of a safe and secure partnership. Add to that toxic mix doubts of self-worth and one's ability to be a provider, and the promise of a healing relationship moves even further out of reach.

    What might that sad state of affairs look like? How must it feel? Of course every situation is different, a unique blend of circumstances. In the following excerpts from Going Poor I depict Lane Tipton’s efforts to deal with the sour hand that life and his own bad choices have dealt him---leaving him poor, with no apparent prospects.

Going Poor - #1

    Lane Tipton was sixty, tired, and broke---nearly at the end of his rope. Asking for sister Sally’s help was a last resort, but he seemed to have no other choice.

    Lane flinched a bit, remembering how much he dreaded those moments when his sister’s questions turned to his unfortunate circumstances. 

    “So how are you doing?” Sally asked again. “Have you been working at all? If I remember right the last time you called you were retrieving shopping carts for the Merchants’ Association, and living in someone’s garage.”

    “I worked myself out of a job.” He was laughing to himself as he switched the phone to his other ear, wondering why she would remember something like that. 

    “A place like Medford only has so many shopping carts,” he continued. “It took  me about two weeks to round up the lost and stolen ones, at least the ones I could find. That earned me a few bucks, but then I was out of work again. As for the garage, that worked out pretty well, until I got evicted.”

    “You got evicted from a garage? That sounds like a first.”

    “I should have seen it coming,” Lane admitted. “Ron had been talking about getting a car for his wife. When he finally did that, there wasn’t room for me and the Honda in the garage. The Honda won out.”

    “So where are you staying now? Have you come up with any new answers?”

    Lane turned quiet, offering no hint of his normally upbeat banter. It took only seconds for Sally to put her own spin on his silence. For years her brother had endured bad luck and hard times without complaint, relying on his characteristic optimism and an exaggerated bravado to mask the hurt. But now, as his stubborn silence continued, she was inclined to believe there was something different at work this time. 

    “Lane. You’ve got to tell me. Does it feel like you’ve run out of options? Is that it?” She paused, wondering how to pry the truth from him. “Come on. I know exactly how that feels. I’ve been there. Remember?”

    His reply arrived in a hushed near-whisper, tinged with a hesitant resignation that was unlike him. “Yeah,” he finally said. “It kind of feels like I’ve hit the wall. There’s not much work to be had around here. There are a couple dozen guys going after every job that comes up. Truth is, an old fossil like me doesn’t stand much of a chance. 

    “The only ones who are hiring are the orchards. They’re pruning this time of year, and looking for young bucks who can run up and down a ladder a hundred miles an hour. I just can’t do that anymore.” He paused, scolding himself for sounding so down in the dumps. Still, he owed her the truth. 

    “The thing is,” he said. “The few shelters in town are turning guys away. They don’t have any more room. There aren’t enough beds to go around. Winter’s coming on and I’m fresh out of ideas.

    “So?” Sally voiced her one word question and waited.

    “So? What does that mean?”

    “It means ‘what are you going to do’? You can’t do nothing, can you?”

    Though neither of them wanted to be the first to put the truth of it into words, each of them understood where their sparse dialogue was taking them. Sally knew well her brother’s reluctance to admit he was giving up. Yet, if he could not force himself to say what needed saying, she would have to do that herself.

    “Listen to me, brother. How many times have I told you that you ought to come back here, back to Tanner. Why not do that now? Stay with me until you get things sorted out. I’ve got room for that. It’s not fancy, but it beats the heck out of staying in some camp out on the Bluffs.”

    “Sal, don’t you kid me. You don’t have room for that. You’re still in the same single wide, aren’t you---the one you had at the other park?”

    “That’s right.” 

    “Which means you don’t have room for another body bouncing around your trailer. I can’t be imposing on you like that.”

    Brother Lane was raising his predictable objections. That was not so surprising. Her challenge was to make him listen to reason. 
    “Don’t be silly. You wouldn’t be imposing at all. In fact, I think I’d appreciate some company for a change. I think I’d feel more comfortable having a man around the place. Who knows what kind of guys are poking around here at night?”

    “And you expect me to scare them off?” The thought of that had him laughing. “That’s not too likely. Besides, how are you ever going to get acquainted with any of those guys with little brother hanging around.? I might end up scaring off the wrong one.”

    “Don’t you fret about that. You won’t find any fellows buzzing around this old girl---at least none that I’d be interested in meeting. That doesn’t bother me at all. Don’t forget. I know very well what the real thing is like. I’ve been there. Why would I ever settle for second best?”

Going Poor - #2

    Lane had returned to Tanner, staying with Sally. There, on a cold, drizzly morning he made his way to the downtown Job Market, where eager, strong-backed young men from the neighboring homeless shelters and hillside camps had gathered---waiting for the trucks and buses that came from the region's farms and nurseries to hire day-workers. 

    “So tell me,” Lane said, turning to the only other fellow waiting in what appeared to be the senior section of the Job Market waiting area. “What are the odds of making a connection here? Is there any work out there for us mature types? I’m standing here in the rain, hoping to make a few bucks before the day is over. I need to do that. It’s been way too long between paychecks.”

    “You can see how it works,” the man replied, rubbing his gray-stubbled face and tugging his cap over his ears. “Most of the outfits that come in here are looking for young guys, like that bunch down on the corner. Those farms have crops to get in, or plants to tend. They need help and they’re not fussy about age discrimination issues and stuff like that. Those young kids, especially the Mexicans, are hard workers. That’s who they’re looking for. Hell, I’d hire them in a minute if I had work to get done.”

    The rain was picking up again, sending the two of them down the wall, under the wider awning in front of the fitness center. “During the summer,” the fellow continued. “There’s plenty of work for everyone, even us old farts. But by now, in the fall, it gets harder. The work has slowed down. The only thing in our favor is a lot of the Hispanics have headed south to California, where there’s more work. Another month or so there won’t be much call for extra help up here. Except for the Christmas tree farms, everyone will be going with a skeleton crew.”

    “Does that mean you’ll be going south, like the others?”

    “I don’t know,” his new friend answered. “I’ve done that the last couple years. Mostly because it’s warmer. But the truth is, I’m at the point where my body can’t take that kind of beating year round. I turned sixty-one this summer. Been dealing with bad knees for years. And they’re sure as hell not getting any better.”

    “You got a place to stay?” Lane asked. “If you decide to winter here?”

    “Yeah, sort of. Another fellow and I have what we call our Penthouse. We’ve set up a tent, made out of plastic sheets, against one of the warehouses on the bluff. It’s not pretty, and sure as hell doesn’t meet code. But we stay dry, even half-warm most of the time. That, along with the Mission House shelter, keeps us going when there’s no work.”

Going Poor - #3

    Climbing the front steps of Sally’s trailer, Lane was home from his first day of Job Market employment. His clothes were soaked, he could not stop shivering, and his back felt like it was on fire. If he actually believed he could hide his distress as he came through the front door, it took about two seconds for his sister to shatter that illusion.

    “Are you out of your mind?” she was asking even before he closed the door behind him. “You’ll catch your death of cold. More likely pneumonia. What were you thinking, trying to work on a day like this?” 

    In no time at all Lane’s jacket, shirt, and tee shirt had been deposited in a soggy pile just inside the door. When Sally turned on the stove-top burner to warm some water for instant coffee, he was there beside her, holding his hands over the propane flame. 

    A moment later, from deep in his pants pocket he produced four twenty dollar bills, a bit damp, but none the worse for wear.   
    “This is what I was doing, Sis,” he said as he carefully spread the bills across the counter top. “I’m getting back in the game. Paying my own way for a change. At least part of it.”

    “And for that you’re willing to ruin your health? What kind of deal is that? Where is your good sense?”

    “I’m not ‘ruining’ anything. I’m just fine. After a hot, soaky shower I’ll be good as new.” 

    Sally had gathered his wet clothes and carried them down the hallway, where the stacked washer and dryer units were wedged into a narrow cubicle. “Now get your shoes and pants off.” She was resorting to her command mode. “And get in the shower before I use all the hot water washing your things.”

    She looked up to find Lane still standing beside the stove, making no effort to remove his shoes. Before she could prod him into action, he was asking for a favor.

    “Do you suppose you could pull my shoes off?” he asked timidly. “I don’t think I can reach them. Even if I got down there, I probably couldn’t straighten up again.”

    Why had she not noticed sooner? Seconds later, on her knees, Sally was still in a scolding mood as she untied his shoes and pulled off his wet socks. “You are out of your mind. When will you realize that you’re not a kid any more? It makes no sense at all, wrecking yourself like this for a few dollars.”

    Taking her arm, Lane helped her to her feet. “Sis, I told you before---I need to do my part. That means bringing home some dollars. It’s not that much, but at least it’s something.”

    “But, you don’t have to .......” Before she could finish her complaint Lane’s hand was clamped firmly over her mouth.

    “Don’t you give me that,” he growled. “I got wet and cold today, because I wasn’t dressed for the weather. That’s what made my back tighten up on me. It’s still messed up. But once I get a hot shower and a little rest I’ll be fine. Then I need to round up some rain gear for tomorrow. I’ll do that after.......”?” 
    "Tomorrow?" It was Sally’s turn to interrupt. “Are you crazy? I’ll bet you won’t be able to get out of bed in the morning.”

    “Yes I will. I have to.” He unbuckled his belt and lifted his foot to let her pull off his pants. “By then I’ll be good as new.”

    I must admit, it was an interesting process, creating a relational story, actually two of them, from such unpromising fabric. Fact is, stories like that---sad reflections of the times we live in---are being played out all around us every day. The challenge was to focus on the inconspicuous possibilities  hidden among the makings of a tragedy. I hope you’ll take time to check it out.

Meaning? What does that mean?

You’re right. You may have seen this before. Remember, I’m in a recycling mode these days.

Many of my heros---from Viktor Frankl to Wayne Dyer---have stressed the importance of living a life that has meaning, whatever that means. If you are the kind to be drawn to such things, perhaps these October Years provide the time and mind-space to consider that question---what does the notion of “meaning” mean to you?

First of all, whatever it means I happen to believe that the “meaning” of your life is a very personal thing. I don’t think it’s a “one-size-fits-all”  thing. At the same time I realize that for some folks the subject may be theologically “out of bounds”---already prescribed by their faith and beyond the realm of allowable exploration. Yet in the course of my reading, writing, and meditation---as well as in the stories I have imagined into being---I continue to explore that ground, trying to make sense of the “why” of life. 

In the process I have come to realize that meaning is not measured by the success and acclaim we so proudly list on our personal resume. Instead, it is better judged by what we allow to motivate us, the reflection of what is most important to us. If that is true, it would seem that I, in my Soul, in the core of my being---whatever you choose to call it---must bear responsibility for my own “meaning” search.

Truth to tell, during the spring and summer of my life I seldom stopped to wonder if my life had meaning. Those years were filled with their own sort of busyness---some of it important, some not so much. Still, for many of us, perhaps most of us, there comes a time, often in our October Years, when we pause to consider the purpose of our stumbling efforts. Even then, the process is seldom a formal interrogation, with pointed questions in search of direct answers. Rather, it is by recounting our own personal story that we come face to face with clues that may reveal whom we are meant to be.

Because the experience of “meaning” is so personal there are endless ways to illustrate its impact on our lives. Dr. Frankl and Dr. Dyer each had their own way of describing it. But depicting ones search for meaning does not require theological or philosophical jargon.

In the following excerpt from Family Matters , Dan Padgett is on his back-road tour of the western outback when he meets a fellow who is willing to explain his personal “meaning” in terms Dan had never considered.

              

                        

    The Stone Bridge Saloon was not a spacious watering hole. The bar itself seated just three on high wobbly stools. Fortunately, since I appeared to be the only customer, seating was not a problem. I had scarcely sat down when the creaky rest-room door on the far side of the room opened and a balding, jean-clad cowboy limped across to the bar to plop himself down on the stool next to mine.

  “Howdy, friend,” the newcomer mumbled, taking the glass the lady behind the bar held out to him. He took a long drink, then turned to me.“Buster Henshaw here. Don’t believe I caught your name.”

   “It’s Dan. Dan Padgett.”

  “Glad to meet you, Dan.” He raised his glass in my direction, then put it to his lips. Seconds later, with a single long gulp, in was empty. Pushing it back across the counter, he explained, “Gertie was hoping to get a little business from that bull-riding thing down the road. So far it’s just the two of us.”

   “I expected to see more folks,” I nodded, taking a stale pretzel from the dish Gertie pushed my way. “Especially after all those signs  advertising The Battle of Stone Bridge I passed out on the highway. But so far I haven’t seen anything that looks like that.”

   Buster took a moment to fondle, I believe that’s the right word, the refilled glass Gertie slid across the bar to him.“That’s Pokey Turner for you,” he said between sips. 

   “No one knows how to squeeze a few bucks out of a bad idea better than that old bandit. Folks around here know it’s the wrong part of summer to find enough riders and decent bulls for a dinky little bull-riding show like Pokey’s. All the good cowboys are out on the circuit. So he rounds up a few kids and a couple of worn-out old-timers, pays them ten bucks to ride a couple used-up steers, and puts on his show. I guarantee you he don’t get many repeat customers.”

   “I don’t think it would matter how used-up the bulls were,” I offered. “From what I’ve seen on the tube, riding a bull is a tough way to make a few bucks.”

    Something seemed to have set Buster thinking. He sat staring into his beer, until I asked. “You ever done that? Bull riding?”

   “Oh yeah.” There was a remembering look in his eye. “I’ve done that. Rode most everything with four legs. But I don’t do bulls any more. I might try the buckin' horses again, come the county fair. But not the bulls.”

    “Horses are easier to ride. Is that it?”

    “Not really. Either way it hurts like hell when you hit the ground. But it’s a lot better to get bucked off a horse than a bull. At least that horse won’t try to run you down when you’re on the ground. Not the way a seriously-mad bull will.”

    “So, how old are you, Buster?” 

   “Well sir, I just turned fifty-one. I expect that’s close to a hundred in ‘rodeo years.’ About thirty-five of those years been spent on ranches all over the Outback---from Provo to the Canadian line, Ogallala to Boise. Hell, I’ve done it all---trailing cattle, pulling calves, breaking mustangs, and baling hay. For a lot of those years I’d schedule my jobs so they didn’t interfere with my rodeoing. That’s really what I lived for in those days---a good bull, a good brew, and a good woman. Not necessarily in that order.”

   “You ever been married?” I asked. “Sounds like rodeoing would play hell with a relationship.”

     “A relationship?” my new friend repeated with a laugh. “Now there’s a big-city word if ever I heard one. Fact is, I was married---three times. Had three kids that I know of. Don’t remember that I ever had a ‘relationship,’ but I did have three wives. The best of the bunch was Elsie. We were together almost a year, ‘til she made me choose between my job at the grain elevator and the Four Corners Stampede, down in the canyon country.”

   “And you had to decide? Between a rodeo and a job?”

   “Yeah I did. And I gave it quite a bit of thought.” Buster paused to nod his thanks to Gertie for the beer she handed him. “But you see, I’d won four-hundred bucks down there the year before. Took first in a short go-round. How could I pass up a rodeo that had been so lucky for me?”

   “So you went back again?” His dejected nod confirmed that much. “Did you win anything that time?”

    “Nah. I ended up with a couple busted ribs. Couldn’t do much of anything for a month or two. By the time I got back home Elsie was long gone, along with the cutest little girl you’ve ever seen.”

    “Do you ever see her? The daughter, I mean.”

    “I have no idea where she is. She must twenty-five or so by now. Probably has babies of her own.”

    Buster set his beer down and half-turned to greet the lanky fellow, a cowboy from his Stetson to his boots, standing in the doorway. “Howdy, Tom. Good to see you again.”

    Tom answered with nothing more than a touch of his hat brim as he followed Gertie out to the front counter. 

    “Ole Tommy and I go way back,” Buster explained. “We started out together up on the North Fork. Went to lots of rodeos together. Had some good ole times. At least we did ‘til he went to work for old man Brunner on the Cold Hand Ranch. After that we didn’t see much of him, especially after he married that Carrie Braxton gal. She was a sweet thing. A heck of a barrel racer too.

    “Anyway, I’ve run into ole Tommy a few times over the years. Heard that they had a couple kids and built up a nice little spread of their own. Near as I could tell he was always working. Didn’t have time to rodeo.”

    I watched as Buster turned silent again, perhaps wondering how things had worked out so well for “Ole Tommy.” Finally, I had to ask, “You ever wish it had been like that for you? You know---a real family, a place of your own.”

   “Sure,” he nodded. “There were times I wished it could have been that way. The thing is, stayin’ in one place that long just wasn’t in me. My old man used to thump me around a bit when I was a kid. By the time I turned sixteen I’d had enough of that. So I hit the road. I was a damn good ranch-hand. Everyone knew that. Finding another job was always easy. So I just kept moving around, from one place to another, riding bulls when I could. 

   “Then, after I’d slowed down a bit, I moved on to broncs. Anymore, I don’t even do much of that. It got to where I couldn’t ride nothin’ but a barstool.” I caught a flash of his gap-toothed grin. “Hell, I’ve been bucked off one of them a time or two.”

     “I can tell that rodeoing must have been hard on your body,” I said. “Seeing how you limp like that.”

    “Yeah.” He offered a sad little laugh, trying to make fun of what was not a laughing matter. “It’s my hip, you know. It’s kind of messed up. Been bent, broke, and stepped on.”

   “Damn. That must hurt, whether it’s a bull or horse, or even a bar stool. If it hurts like that, why would you keep doing it---even a little bit?”

   “You’re right. It does hurt. Sometimes a lot.” By then his grin was about as sad as his laugh. “But what most fellows don’t understand is how good it feels when you make eight seconds. Hearing that buzzer---and knowing that you’re still up there and not on the ground. Let me tell you, that’s worth a lot of hurtin'.

   “Anyway, the doctor in Butte told me I needed a new hip, a ‘replacement’ he called it. He also said that I needed health insurance. Turns out, if I don’t have the one, I don’t get the other. It’s the pits for sure. But I guess it’s the price I paid for doing what I was born to do. I was meant to be a cowboy, and this is how a lot of cowboys end up. That’s a fact.”

    I left Stone Bridge that afternoon thinking sad and sometimes envious thoughts of Buster Henshaw---of the hopeful young man he must have been, and the sad and tired old man he had become. Yet even that late in the game he was still claiming to have lived the life he was meant live. A part of me had wanted to argue that point, to help him understand that “what was meant to be” was not suppose to leave him broken and hurting. 

    I’d gone a few miles further before I settled on the truth of it. It wasn’t my place to judge Buster and what he was meant to become. He had made his choices, and followed what had meaning for him. In his eyes he had been true to himself. What more could I add to that? By the time I had chased away the last of those Stone Bridge thoughts I was wondering if Buster’s choices held any lessons for me. 

    Here’s hoping that your October Years are a time filled with your own personal brand of meaning, the kind that satisfies you. I like to think that by now we’ve earned the right to decide what “meaning” means to us. They tell us that we mustn’t die with our music (meaning?) still inside us. I happen to believe that, even if our “music” is telling silly stories, or getting bucked off a bull or a bar stool.