I'm Not Going Home

One of the great insights of the 20th Century was Thomas Wolfe’s observation that You Can’t Go Home Again. Much in the vein of Heraclitus’ ancient observation that “you cannot step twice into the same river,” both men recognized that the only true constant in the universe is change. Nothing remains the same. So, when I talk about returning to Colorado it is with the understanding that it is not the same place I left twenty-six years ago. Denver, my birthplace, is certainly not the overgrown cow town it was sixty years ago. Arvada, where I was raised, has been absorbed into the metropolitan area and bears virtually no resemblance to the sleepy little town we moved to in 1955. Suffice it to say that Fort Collins is in Colorado. I’m finding that the process of retirement calls into question many aspects of my life, particularly what I’ve done with it. In earlier posts I explained that the decision to move to Flagstaff, Arizona in 1984 was prompted by my desire to be recognized as my own person instead of just my prominent father’s son. It is not going to be a triumphant return home at the end of this summer. I’ve done many things and can only hope that some of them were done well. Nonetheless, it will be a modest—actually meek—blending into the population of one of the most highly rated cities in the country. I’ll not be lecturing at the university. I’ll not be preaching from any pulpit. I will be hoping that my future neighbors don’t find me too repulsive and may be kind enough to let me recycle their aluminum cans in order to pay health insurance premiums.

Good Timing

I’ve shared with readers before of my conviction that the Universe, as it says in Desiderata, is unfolding as it should. The word ‘hubris’ comes to mind to describe those who think otherwise. I spent the weekend dealing with symptoms that may be attributable to my CML and they continued through yesterday (thereby explaining no post). Even though I am under the relatively close supervision of my doctors, the reason for periodic visits is to see what changes (positive or negative) have occurred with my numbers. As Jack Kevorkian has said, “Everyone is terminal.” I am eagerly looking forward to starting my retirement in Colorado where I know Mary will be nearer to family, and this feeling has been reinforced by the realization that more “sick” days are likely in the future instead of fewer. Finally, I will be so grateful to get away from the insanity of my workplace. My only regret is leaving good friends who are stuck in this bureaucratic nightmare. Yes, the Universe is unfolding as it should, and I thank God for that!

Hot!

A blazing desert sun is keeping Las Vegas toasty today. It really is a dry heat (relative humidity is 7% right now) that would be insufferable in more humid climes. It sounds strange, but I’m going to miss this weather. I haven’t had to shovel the heat once since we moved here fourteen years ago. I remember the movers who unloaded us being rather amused by the sleds we brought from Nebraska, although Mt. Charleston (less than an hour’s drive from the Strip) has winter weather and sports which include a ski slope. I’m hopelessly in love with Colorado, a fact that was reinforced by our recent trip to Telluride. Mary and I look forward to resuming our regular trips to Rocky Mountain National Park (unless we find work, we may have to hitchhike there) and of being near our old Denver stomping grounds. The reality of our new future is slowly but surely sinking in on us which may take some of the sting out of our last summer in Las Vegas.

Day by Day

The day to day details of moving to Colorado are mundane at best, but when combined into a larger picture they become significant. I hadn’t thought of it until right now, but maybe I’ll try Googling “move from Las Vegas to Fort Collins” and see what comes up. Certainly something will. We’re going to stimulate the economy in our own little way by having Pete the handyman make the necessary repairs, by commissioning a realtor to sell the condo, by retaining a lawyer to tell us how to instruct the realtor, and by hiring movers to load and unload all our stuff (Mary is in the process of making sure that no unnecessary stuff migrates with us). I marvel at my ancestors who moved between Ireland and the United States with some regularity. I wish they could be here to help.

Sweet Home, Colorado!

Attending the magical Telluride Bluegrass Festival served to reinforce the reasons we are returning to the Columbine State. Being among a host of kindred minds refreshed and revived the soul while taking some of the sting out of being human. I learned today that Clark County is going after another of its employees, threatening to terminate on the basis of an on-the-job injury. Of course, that’s illegal, and once an attorney enters the picture the county will recant, but you can bet it wouldn’t until the employee retains legal counsel. This is in such stark contrast to the estimated 10,000 souls who congregated for four days of festivities. Anything could be left on your staked out tarp while you went elsewhere and it was still there when you came back. There was not a hint of competition in the pure Colorado air, just a spirit of cooperation that could easily pass for love. The most rejuvenating aspect of the event for me was the realization that people can get along, we can live together in harmony. “But that was only for four days” may say the cynics, but it was evidence enough for me that being intentional about loving one another, one day at a time, can work!

Wish You Were Here!

I think we must be only a step away from heaven right now. Beautiful people. Magnificent scenery. Kick ass music. Forgive my primitive means, but there are current pictures on the Flickr link for your viewing pleasure. We're here for the duration so I may post again before we leave. In the meantime, I'll try to have enough fun for all of you who can't be here.

To Leave You Must First Arrive

Leaving Las Vegas inevitably recalls how we came to be here in the first place. That takes me back to my ministry in The United Methodist Church. As I’ve explained before, I did not follow the ordinary route to ordination, a decision on my part that was never fully accepted by “real” clergy who achieved their standing the traditional way. The net result of this was my being the last one chosen on the proverbial playground of episcopal appointments. In the context of the Nebraska Annual Conference not really knowing what to do with me—the offer to let me start a new congregation was never backed by a firm commitment—an offer from my old friend and mentor in the Desert Southwest Conference was attractive. I suspected that I was being appointed to a discordant senior/associate situation similar to the one I was appointed to in Omaha, but it turned out to be much more vile. As Mary and I recently ate at Blueberry Hill it brought back memories of that night in 1996 when I witnessed the bureaucratic execution of the associate pastor that was already there. It wasn’t so much being caught between a rock and a hard place as it was having nowhere to go. The Nebraska bridge had already been burned and Las Vegas was the only place showing even a hint of interest in me. The story of being the last one chosen through that cruel playground process of picking teams was not fantasy, it was my reality, and I discovered at the age of forty-six it was something I was never going to outgrow.

My Plan for Summer

Slowly but surely the reality of our impending move to Colorado is taking hold of my consciousness. Submitting my letter of retirement was the first big step, and meeting with a realtor this evening seems to be the second milestone. Las Vegas still has the highest foreclosure rate in the nation. That’s bound to affect the sale of our condominium. This is going to be a bittersweet process for me because it seems that we’ve been living the ideal as far as housing is concerned. Hopefully, some prospective buyer will feel the same way about it and the process will go smoothly. In spite of everything that happened here as far as my falling out with the United Methodist Church was concerned, this is still the place where Rachel and Rebecca graduated high school, where Rachel married Steve, and so on. I’m definitely excited about moving to Fort Collins, but there is some nostalgia I need to work my way through this summer.

Incite Author Reports Irregularity

Apparently one thing that is being affected by our countdown to Fort Collins is the regularity of my posting on Incite. If that’s the worst that happens, we may all consider ourselves blessed. There are a number of other things for which we are grateful as the process gets underway. Pete from Pro Handyman has demonstrated his ability to do things around the place that we can’t and, three months before we move, has become a new friend. We hope to extend that friendliness to Keith from Coldwell Banker as we meet with him tomorrow to arrange the sale of our condominium. All this seems a little surreal right now, but the lure of family and the Rocky Mountains will make it alright in the end. I’m trying my best not to manifest the short-timer’s syndrome at work which actually helps the days move by more quickly. This is not to say that I am not pondering each moment and wondering how it will feel to leave Las Vegas after these many years. Right now, my guess is that it’s going to feel very good!

Does It Stay Or Does It Go?

I’m worried. Our impending move has Mary in a throw-away frame of mind and I’m hoping that I don’t get tossed with the rest of the junk. It would be unintentional, I’m sure, but anything unnecessary had better stay out of her way in the days ahead. I’m a keeper (not the noun) and I admit it. I’ve tried to analyze my great reluctance to throw anything away and have concluded it’s inherited (not from Dad). It doesn’t take a lot to irritate my nostalgia, and all my stuff is connected to the past. The unanswerable question is whether the memorabilia recalls the good times, or if it is kept as some sort of alchemy to transform the not-so-good. I’ll give an example. Stuffed inside my old Boy Scout backpack (there’s memory #1) is a lariat that I somehow inherited from Grandpa Hanna (memories to the infinite power). I have never used it, nor do I anticipate I ever will. But on the rare occasions that I run across it my mind is filled with times spent with Grandpa and the Boy Scouts (never at the same time). I know that Mary’s right and that we will have to either arrange for a convoy to transport all the stuff to Colorado, or get rid of it before we move. For everything there is a time to keep and a time to discard. If you happen by our garage and hear some soulful mourning coming from inside, you’ll know it’s just me saying goodbye to my old life and hello to the new.

To Leave Las Vegas, You Must First…

By the time we moved to Las Vegas in July of 1996 we were pretty-well adept at packing and unpacking. Mary and I already had several moves under our belts by the time Rachel and Rebecca joined the family. Courtesy of the United Methodist Church the four of us moved to Omaha, Burwell, and Oakland before coming to Las Vegas. We moved three times while here, each but the last requiring us to stay in short-term housing during the interim. After liberating myself from the appointment process of the UMC we moved into Ironwood which has proven ideal from the moment Rachel spotted it to the present. During our thirty-nine years of marriage Mary and I have never lived longer in one place than Las Vegas. And we’ve never lived in one structure longer than we’ve lived at Ironwood. Since Incite is my therapy, I’m taking this moment to reminisce about our time here to help set the stage for our departure. Once we were accustomed to going through the steps about every three years, so this relocation is extraordinary in that we’ve had the unfettered opportunity to accumulate stuff for over ten years! Mary has told me I will never even miss the stuff she’s getting rid of. If the goal of moving to Colorado was not so enticing it wouldn’t be that hard to call the whole thing off. We won’t, though, because we’re hearing the siren song of a Rocky Mountain high.

Let the Countdown Begin

I did something for the first time in my life today. I submitted a letter of retirement. Working my last day on August 31, I will retire from Clark County effective September 1.

As Mary and I watched Julie & Julia over the weekend, I noted that part of the success of Julie Powell’s blog may have had something to do with it’s goal of preparing all 524 recipes in Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking in a year while blogging about it each day.

I’m certainly hoping that our move to Fort Collins, Colorado, is not going to take a whole year, but for as long as it does take it will provide blog fodder that might, if nothing else, prove entertaining. So, I invite you to come along for the ride and see where we end up three months from now.