Looking back along the road I've traveled, the miles can tell a million tales. – from Starlight on the Rails by Utah Phillips
August 2019
Across Quiver Lake, an Illinois River backwater, near the top of a large dead tree, is an active bald eagle nest that I’ve kept track of since late February. I’ve enjoyed watching the nestling grow, but I worry on windy days when the tree seems to sway a bit much. It wasn’t so long ago that bald eagle nests were highly scarce in Illinois. So the recovery of this species to a healthy population is cause for optimism, quite appropriate for the spring season…especially spring 2019.
For last summer I entered that phase of life known as “retirement.” The word evokes many emotions and expectations, undoubtedly different for every individual. For me, it is a time for rest and reflection, for pursuing new adventures with my wife, and for tried and true personal interests unhindered by work-a-day demands (no timekeeping).
This is the first spring that I’ve had the time and wherewithal to observe seasonal changes in minute detail, from the shortest days of winter, buried in cold and ice. As the calendar advanced, I looked for those changes along the home trails, but sometimes beyond. The spring bird migration, for instance, is heralded in my mind with the first red-winged blackbird song, this year on February 19th. The first turkey vulture of the year is another sign (February 28th). But I’ve followed such changes in bird communities for many years. And even on my busiest of working days, I always took the time to glance around and listen for birds, though it might have only been moments while walking from the office to my parked vehicle.
Changes in plant growth from day to day are much more subtle. In central Illinois, one might not think to search for the first spring flowering in February; but with a mild winter, that is when I’ll start closely looking at hazelnut shrubs. This year, I was able to watch their buds swell just slightly more each day, but with plenty of cold weather setbacks. Then as February passed, I became anxious; until on March 14th, several tiny, fully formed petals finally emerged. A similar story I could tell for all of the other plants along the home trails. Of course, I’ve watched all of these developments for many years, but never before with enough time.
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Always remember: The longer you live, the sooner you'll bloody-well die. – from Isn’t it Grand Boys - Traditional Irish Folk Song
It has been said that life in general occurs in four phases, and at age 61, I’ve found that concept to resonate. The following is simply my interpretation. The first phase, of course, begins at infancy and continues to young adulthood, when everything is new, learning is effortless and swift, and time passes the slowest, with the future open ended. The transition to the second life phase is rather abrupt, at the arbitrary age of eighteen. Thereafter we are considered adults; from this point onward, life inevitably becomes more complicated. Time still plods along, and sometimes progress is slow. But it’s a time for fearlessness, adventure and taking risks, blending new experiences with old and new knowledge; taking wrongs paths, making mistakes; backing up and correcting course while hopefully making progress.
As the second phase begins to show wear and adolescent ideas of fun begin to be not so amusing, one gradually enters the third and perhaps longest phase of life, middle and late-middle adulthood: a time of serious dedication, accomplishment, increasing responsibility, and means. Time begins to move noticeably faster, and this shocking reality is frequently a topic of conversation among contemporaries; ten years no longer seems to be such a long time. One may begin to look backward, hopefully with satisfaction, as much as forward, still with much anticipation.
So when does the fourth phase begin? In my view, the fourth phase begins as abruptly as adulthood: with retirement from the working, wage-earning world. But that point does not necessarily equate with being elderly, especially for those retiring well before the usual age of sixty-five. An elderly individual, however, certainly is within the final life phase, working or not. Knowing it is the final phase, some attempt to delay entry, but time eventually wins out, and drags everyone through. The fourth life phase is for taking stock; one tends to look backward more often simply because there are more years behind than in front. Time gallops along, and that is usually a source of sadness. One likely has acquired a certain degree of wisdom and skills, such as playing a musical instrument, that can sweeten these years, even though younger generations will probably be dismissive—just as it has always been. Living in the moment provides security; the future is contemplated with an optimism that comes with being in control, but it is also viewed with increasing trepidation.
It is in this frame of mind that I opened our three-season Quiver Lake cabin in early April. But where I once unlocked the cabin with open-armed enthusiasm as soon as winter weather was barely over, I have begun to approach the event with a certain degree of apprehension. Why? There was the year when turning on the water pump blew out the connectors on the old toilet; the year water pressure in the old toilet pulled the tank’s worn rubber stopper into its drain, and allowed water to run continuously (we purchased a new toilet); the year I delayed shutting down the cabin for the winter, so the pipes froze and all had to be replaced; the year the water pump malfunctioned and had to be replaced; the year we finally discovered the leaking roof, but not before dripping water ruined a piece of artwork (we re-roofed the cabin); the year the kitchen faucet leaked from a crack created by a tiny residue of water not drained in the fall; the year the new roof began leaking (“That’s not possible!”); the year of the carpenter ant invasion; and the year the new siding let rain in through the wall at every nail, as if the siding were not even there. What will it be this year, I thought, just before I flipped the power switch to the water pump? At first, air in the pipes caused an uneven flow of water, which gave me a scare. So I shut everything down, and then re-started the system. After a little coughing, it worked! But then I saw the leaking kitchen sink sprayer. Again, a small residue of water left behind over the winter had frozen and cracked the housing. But that was easily replaced without calling a plumber. And with good health so far, I let my guard down and was ready to enjoy a new season at the cabin.
As my wife and I plan ahead for the coming years, there are days when anything seems possible: European trips, Alaska, northern Canada, New England, driving a rented RV across the country, Florida manatees, a new home in a culturally diverse university town, gardening, beekeeping, a published novel.
Are we running out of time? Of course, but the passage of time is not constant, as life and Einstein have shown; time can be slowed. By watching plants grow, tracking cloud formations across the sky as they imperceptibly change shape, listening to wind in the trees, watching hawks soar on rising air thermals, and taking afternoon naps, time can be seized and then slowed down. At the Quiver Lake cabin, I will give this idea further thought, perhaps while watching a pair of bald eagles raise the next generation. In the end, time will remain the master, but not without at least some opposition.
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Oh, I don’t know how I got this old, how the winter got so cold, now the morning’s turning gold, and I should stop my dreaming. – from Mind to Think, by John Gorka
Although the middle of July might seem early to expect the start of the fall bird migration, indicators abound, even in the unyielding summer heat and humidity. The pattern repeats yearly; it is something to be counted upon. So when I looked down the country road west of home, I was gladdened to see a small group of bank swallows perching on the telephone wires. They had left their breeding colonies along some stream or hillside and were beginning to stage for their upcoming flights to South American overwintering territories. At the same time, it was a slightly bittersweet moment, because the sight of those swallows also meant the first year of my retirement was over.
One year before, I stood at the same location, viewing the same scene with swallows on the wires, pondering how the rest of my life might unfold, still somewhat in shock at having arrived at that point. In this phase of life, the discovery of one more year passing provides little comfort. But my attention was quickly diverted from a path toward darker thoughts by a singing blue grosbeak and calling dickcissels; from the timber I heard a yellow-billed cuckoo, two excited red-headed woodpeckers, and an eastern towhee. It was still the middle of summer after all; I had just walked through the backyard prairie, where blooming partridge pea, gray-headed coneflower, and Monarda dominated the view. And this scene anticipated the next stage in the seasonal progression: tall prairie grasses with showy panicles, blue asters, and yellow goldenrods brightly shining in the late summer sunlight. But I would not think about those coming days too much, as doing so tends to rush the season, and rushing through the year is what I least wish to do, just as I prefer to take my time reading a good book.
Life, in fact, has been compared to a book—each day, month, year, or season like turning a page—with a definite beginning, middle, and final end. Life also has been compared to a river like the Mississippi, with narrow, energetic, swift-moving headwaters; a long, drawn-out middle section that forms the majority of the river’s length; and the aged, languorous, massive final segment before its end, emptying into the Gulf of Mexico. Either over worn analogy has merit. But I think life is more like a cloud: it forms out of nowhere, grows, changes unpredictably until it no longer resembles what it once was, and finally dissipates back into nothingness once again.
Productive thoughts or pointless day dreaming? Before deciding, my attention was again diverted by a bird. This time a soaring turkey vulture. The mid-day sun created strong rising air thermals, so the vulture gradually circled higher and higher with no obvious effort except subtly adjusting its wings or tail one way or another to maintain stability or to change direction or altitude. The bird flew against a backdrop of blue sky and changing cloud patterns, reminding me of when I first saw a turkey vulture forty-one years earlier along the upper Mississippi River bluffs.
The vulture, of course, is a bird of death, feeding on dead, decaying animals. Its message is the mortality of all life. Yet I find this not a depressing thought. For the bird causes me to recall many beautiful locations where I have watched soaring turkey vultures, from Arizona to Maryland, and what a joy it must be to sail effortlessly upon the winds, among the clouds.
When I looked again at the telephone wires along the road, the bank swallows were gone. Perhaps they were bound for the nearby Illinois River and its backwaters, which undoubtedly offer a richer invertebrate life—fuel for their travels southward—than the insecticide-sprayed corn and soybean fields in the vicinity of my home. They might even share the same air space for a time with the young eagle at Quiver Lake that I am confident fledged only a few weeks before. So I turned back toward the house and prairie, which seemed more of an oasis than ever, and left my mind blank for a while.