2015 Part 1

I think it's time to start a new ADIP tradition - an annual "year in review" post. Something to tie up the old year and tuck it neatly in the drawer. Making space for all that fun waiting in the new year.

And, there's another good reason for doing this. During my work life, especially after 1991 when I left the IRS Collection Division and went to the Quality Office, the question I most heard from others was "Just what do you do, Mr. Burk?" I always felt that the question was posed in a tone that was really asking, "Do you actually do anything, Mr. Burk?"

I learned early in my IRS career that looking busy, important and concerned was just as useful (if not more so) than actually being any of those things. So my response to this thorny question was usually something like "I could tell you, but I'd need a slide presentation and a laser pointer." Then I would quickly duck into my office and fake being on a conference call until the inquirer tired of waiting for me and moved on. Sometimes, you just have to outlast hardships.

So, as an effort to be more forthcoming about "what I really do" in retirement, what better medium to employ than the blog. So here goes. It'll likely take more than one post to cover the great breadth of my productive goings on over the last year. Ergo, the Part 1.

January

For many years (since the mid-90's I would guess) Nancy and I and the kids have spent a couple of weeks in Florida over the holidays. We would visit my parents, see friends, often drop by a Disney resort for awhile, and generally recharge for the new year. Things haven't changed much since retirement other than we now only pack for two. Last January, after spending New Year's with our friends the Dyles on Captiva Island, we headed over to Disney's Bay Lake Tower for a couple of days with my mother Dolores and sister Wendy. Here are a few shots from The Happiest Place on Earth. First, of my mother and me continuing the family cribbage tradition (see previous post Hanging with the Ps).

Next, a shot of me, Mom and Wendy sitting on the Bay Lake Tower dock, waiting for a boat ride to the Magic Kingdom.

And my Bride and I enjoying the bus ride to Disney's Market Place.

Here's a final shot of my computer-savvy mother checking her laptop for emails from the grand kids or any updates on Tiger bull pen signings.

Upon returning to Michigan in mid-January, Nancy and I headed up to Wiser Times to check things out. First, a shot of the new garage taking shape, right there in the midst of winter (see previous post The Barn).

Wiser Times is a fun place in the winter. There aren't many people around (read none), and the main entertainment is watching the lake thaw by lunch and refreeze by happy hour. But you have to like peace and quiet to really enjoy it. Here's a shot of the house in winter,

and winter, from the house.

Late in January, we rescued this little darling from the K-9 Stray Rescue League.

We named her Coco. It took about 30 minutes for her to work her way into the heart of this family, as shown in this shot from the day we picked her up.

The month ended with a session of our Music Night Federation tech team, which meets between each of our musical evenings to burn and package the collections from the previous event (see previous post Music Night). It's a crack squad, with everyone coming to The Lab prepared to perform their various functions with a high degree of skill. Here's a shot of the key players - myself, Quinton "Graphics" Anderson, and Jim "Disc Man" Wyatt.

And a shot of me fulfilling my primary function (the same basic role that earned me all of those rude questions from my IRS coworkers).

February

February was a slower-paced month, but it had its moments. It started with a big snow storm rivaling the blows of 2014. Here I am with my arsenal of snow tools, fresh from a victory round.

Coco continued to charm us with her playful personality. This was an early sighting of what we now call her "dead mouse" position.

And a couple more typical poses.

I'm getting the idea that this dog fits my personality just right. But she likes activity, too, especially around her 4:00 pre-dinner frenzy period. Here's a shot of Coco and her main caregiver enjoying a winter walk on the beach. She loves the snow (Coco, not the caregiver).

One development that was less charming than our new puppy was a semi-frozen pipe in our attic. It didn't turn out too badly, as the application of some heat tape and cleaning out the faucet filter solved the problem. But crawling through umpteen inches of insulation in the unheated attic while toting the necessary tools and supplies, in fairly close quarters, was a more demanding chore than I have become accustomed to. Here's a rare pic of me in full Mr. Fix-it mode.

March

In March we headed back to Florida, as is our way. This time we had a rare passenger - Coco. My mother wanted to meet her, so along she came. Here she is in her travel suite.

Coco turned out to be an excellent rider, snoozing in her cozy nest with out a whimper or growl during the entire 1200 mile trek. Unfortunately, Coco didn't make it to Disney, our ultimate destination this trip. Instead she spent a few days at Happy Tails, the Florida kennel that services her Uncle Baxter, my mother's Boston terrier.

Shed of the dogs, the family headed over for a stay at Disney's Bay Lake Tower, the Vacation Club facility near the Contemporary Resort. Most of our theme park time was spent at the Magic Kingdom as my grandchildren Leili and Cyrus were in tow. Here's a shot of us in line for Thunder Mountain. At Disney, enjoying yourself in line is a critical skill.

After several hours cruising the park, we headed back for a dip in the Bay Lake Tower pool, the grand kids favorite venue of the whole visit.

We returned to the park later that day, hitting the new Fantasy Land area until we couldn't take it anymore. Here's a shot of the big kids on Dumbo, always a crowd pleaser.

We ended the trip to Disney with a party in the room, enjoying one of the family's favorite dishes, homemade tacos.

We closed with the customary family photo, this one covering four generations. In front from left to right is Cyrus, Ted, Leili, Dolores and sister Wendy. Behind is myself, Christy, Nancy, sister Cindy, Cathy and Matt.

We finished up this visit to the Sunshine State with a few days on Captiva Island with our friends the Dyles and the Wyatts. Here is a shot of Dave (on the left) and Jim, manning the BBQ.

And a shot of the group, from left to right yours truly, Robyn, Jim, Nancy, Dave and Mary.

April

April saw us back at our homesteads, recovering from the cold weather. Coco continued her adjustment to life with the Burks, as this shot of her helping with the annual cottage leaf burning shows,

as well as this pic of her helping with a texting problem on my so-last-century, slide-out-keyboard dumb phone.

The high point of the month was traveling to Austin for the wedding of our dear friends Sue Gallego and Jesse Villegas. I was honored to have prepared and delivered the music for the wedding and the reception, with generous input from the musically-enlightened happy couple of course. Here is a shot of Sue and Jesse walking down the aisle. Well, actually, it was a garden walkway.

And taking their vows in this beautiful hillside outdoor chapel.

The reception was held a couple of days later at Sue and Jesse's home. Here's a pic of Sue (in front) visiting at our table of good friends, from left to right around the back Leah (daughter of Jan and Miguel Rodriguez), Miguel, Gary and Dawn Hill, Nancy and Jan. A very good time was had by all.

What is not pictured here is that shortly after this photo was taken, Sue and Jesse arranged to have a hail storm completely blow down the tent canopies on the deck, forcing the party goers to run for cover. But with the help of my trusty iTunes library and the couple's new Boom Bucket (a stand alone speaker system that was our little groups' wedding present to the newlyweds), we were able to continue the party on into the night indoors (the house stereo that had been re-wired out to the deck for the gathering was totally trashed by the hail). It was a night to remember.

On a less amorous note, I did have another run in with a household issue that required the use of tools. When we tried to install the new stove we bought for the cottage, we discovered that the new stove had no recess in its rear panel to accommodate the roughly 3" by 6" 220 volt plug box hanging out of the wall at the rear of the stove cavity. To fit the stove into its rightful place, I had to attack the wall with a hammer and chisel and carve out a recess in the wall to house the plug box. Here are some shots of the before and after. Surprisingly, it turned out well without any need of medical supplies.

The great plug caper, as we call it in the family, was quickly followed by the great stove hood caper, which also required me to exceed expectations. The new stove, now nested neatly in its niche, was begging for an upgrade to the unattractive, dingy black, thrift-store-grade stove hood. So, breaking with tradition, I leapt into the breach, actually read some instructions, and wrestled that tricky little devil into place. Here's the proof.

April also saw the completion of our new barn, including the inside construction of the bonus room, which we have dubbed "the loft". Here's a final shot for April of Nancy and I having our first Wiser's happy hour in our new digs. So glad it was finally done.

Well, that's quite enough for 2015 Part 1. And for those of you who have actually wondered just what Mr. Burk does, you now know what a busy little fellow I can be, when I'm not careful. I need to work on that.

Part 2 coming soon.

Family Business

First, a disclaimer. I love my family. All of them. Even the ones whose perspectives on life I don't really understand. I'm proud of most of them, and I try not to judge any of them. But I've learned a few new things about being family since my transformation to "idle savant".

It's often said that you can choose your friends but you can't choose your family. Eh, maybe. That may have been true years ago, when multiple generations often lived under one roof and people didn't get out or away from each other much. 

What I've found in our highly mobile and geographically dispersed families of today is that despite the fact that we can't choose family, we can and do pick and choose the family members we spend time with and look after, much the same as we do with our friends. So with one exception, I view family and close friends pretty much in the same light. That one exception is that if you decide to sever relations with a family member, there can be a lot of estate planning paperwork involved.

Another condition I've noticed is that aside from outward appearances (your mother’s nose, your father’s hairline), it’s often hard to believe that kids of the same family are from a common gene pool. I’m talking widely disparate interests, inclinations, beliefs and behaviors. Perhaps it’s the result of living in such an open and electronically connected society. The forces that influence each of us seem to be less clear and quite unpredictable, from an early age.   

So during this emeritus period of enlightenment, I have refined my position on "nature versus nurture".  My current thinking is that genetics, while likely determining an individual's potentials (intellectual, physical, emotional), is way less important than environment. This is mainly because the vast majority of us (yes, I'm speaking mainly of and for myself here) achieve far below our genetic limits. Rather, what we decide to try and find the will to see through to conclusion has much greater impact on our lives and those around us than anything encoded within our genes. 

Thus, while families can be said to give us our basic biological framework that defines the limits of our potential, how we each develop and navigate that potential is largely up to us. Not to say that individuals may not face obstacles in achieving their goals or, in some cases, just getting through the day. They certainly can and do. And some of those obstacles would undo the best of us.

But I’ve come to believe that for most of us, where we are today is due more to our choices than our origins. And tomorrow, we each have to make more choices (these days mine seem mostly to do with which meds to take at which meal and do I want my next specialist appointment in the morning or afternoon). The downside for me, unfortunately, is that having come around to this point of view I can no longer blame my shortcomings on my forefathers or on some cosmic particle that may have maliciously rearranged my chromosomes.  

One final thought on families. The idea of passing things down from one generation to the next seems to be gradually fading way. We all have stuff, sometimes a lot of stuff, from past generations that future generations may not have much interest in. I’m talking antique furniture, silver, china, crystal, collectible figurines, jewelry, wind-up clocks, art, old photographs – you get the idea.

Now I’m sure that some of our kids do value these items, want them, and will when the time comes give them nice homes. But today’s lifestyle is much less formal than that of our ancestors. Fancy dinners and formal family gatherings are few and far between, and for the most part have been replaced by family rooms full of Doritos and designer beer. Dragging out the Lenox and the flatware has given way to Chinet and finger food.

Don’t get me wrong. I love modern informality, and I don’t mind that the flat screen television has replaced the oak dining table as the center of family gatherings. I just think we have a lot more stuff from our own and previous generations that will have a hard time relocating when we take our turns in assisted living. I’m especially worried about my collections of laser disks and cassette tapes.

Grosse Pointe Charles

The Barn

I've been absent from the blogosphere for the last few weeks, heavily engaged in but not finding time to write about eminently blogable events - a trip to Florida, the annual Burk family picnic, hosting Floridians and Texans at Wiser Times, the 28th edition of the Spinner Invitational, another trip to Florida, and my 50th year high school reunion. During this time I've had very little time in front of my keyboard. And what I did have I indulgently used to rest my brain through one of my favorite activities - looking for more cowboy/dinosaur movies on ebay.

But finally, I've dropped out of warp drive and slowed to half-impulse, so it's time to catch up on a few things that need to be documented for posterity. Let's start with this way overdue item - The Barn.

When Nancy and I first acquired Wiser Times in 2005, it had two outbuildings. Both were extremely tired storage sheds. The first was in such bad shape that we had it torn down in the first few weeks. It was a roughly 8' by 10' wooden mini-barn that stood on the slab on the road side of the cottage now occupied by our grill-area picnic table. And as far as I can tell from a search of our extensive photo archives, we have no picture of this ailing structure (in this shutterbug-happy family, that's quite an affirmation of disregard).

The second outbuilding fared somewhat better. It was a rusted steel shed on a partially disintegrated plywood platform nested discreetly in the stand of pine trees between US 23 and the back of the cottage. Here is a shot from 2007 of this fixer-upper and its humble owner.

Note the fact that the door opening is approximately eight inches lower than the top of my head. This unfortunate fact dis-endeared me even further from this wretched assembly of sharp edges, exposed metal screw tips, splintered flooring and twisted metal hangars, most of which hung right about eye-level. The situation was further aggravated by the fact that I had way more stuff crammed into this chipmunk hotel than the designers had likely contemplated. My aging cranium survived frequent trips into the bowels of this man-eater only because I placed (after a number of wounds - slow learner) pieces from an old Styrofoam noodle around the most lethal of the threats.

Despite my rocky relationship with this killer shed, it actually survived for almost ten years. It's only redeeming virtue - that it was there - turned out to be a powerful force. That and the fact that it was going to cost more to replace it than the cash I was laying out for first aid supplies.

The shed even had a rebirth of sorts in 2010. During one of my reorganizing fits (see The Purge) I cleaned a lot of old stuff out of the shed and reinforced the floor a bit. Nancy even gave it a fresh coat of paint. Here's a shot of her handiwork.

This is as good as the old eyesore ever looked, but this minor restoration only postponed the inevitable. The shed was just too small, too flimsy and too full of hazards to accommodate our needs and health care budget as I was still bumping my head on a regular basis during ingress and egress (there was even a rumor that the odd wrinkles and dents in the doors were remnants from an incident involving a large hammer after a particularly painful head banging episode; after binge-watching Forensic Files a few times, I'm pretty sure no one could ever really prove anything).

So last year Nancy and I finally concluded that we needed a new shed. That brings us back to The Barn. We started out by surfing the Web for replacement sheds. Wood. Metal. Plastic. We checked them all out. Nothing really grabbed us. So we expanded our thinking. Perhaps our gazebo builder (a local contractor named Dave) would put up a shed for us. It would be more expensive, probably. But it would be nicer.

We then moved a little toward the edge of the box. We entertain a lot at the cottage. Maybe we could have Dave add a small room at the back of the shed that could accommodate the occasional overnight guest? Sort of a bunkhouse. Yeah. That sounds cool.

Soon we had one foot over the edge. How about a garage? We could make it big enough to house the car and all of the items we were keeping in the shed. Wow. Yeah. Cool. Now you're talkin'.

Then - it was cocktail hour, and we stumbled totally out of the box. After filtering our thoughts through a couple of pre-mixed Wiser's Manhattans, it all became clear. We NEED the garage, the storage space AND a room for overflow company. Sure. What could be better? We should have seen this right from the start. Dave - here we come!

Before you could say "holy building permit", this beauty showed up in our back yard.

Okay. It wasn't quite that fast. First there was the builder's contract, plans, and (oh yeah) a check. Then a couple of two-steps with "Miss Dig" (turns out there are gas lines all over my backyard). The formal courting of the Greenbush Township Zoning Commission followed, and then the best part - removal of the old shed. I asked Dave to be gentle. He was. At the proper time, he and his backhoe took the shed down and relocated it to some secret used shed burial ground out in the great North American forest.

So over the winter we watched the birthing and development of what we now call The Barn. We were able catch most of the work on our roadside security camera which overlooks the work site. Here are some (of the hundreds of) shots of the "rising", just to give you the complete picture.

First, the newly poured slab and footings - 16' by 22'.

The initial framing.

The Barn is pretty tall, owing to above ground footings raising the garage ceiling to 9' and a full 8' ceiling in the bonus room. Considering the second floor joists and the attic space, the whole structure is over 20' high. A nice benefit of this height is a great view from the bonus room windows of the lake.

Next came the exterior walls and roughing in of the bonus room (which is fully insulated on all sides).

Then the roof and the siding and the 3' wide stairway to the bonus room on the north side of the building.

Once the stairway was done, we had the builder finish off the bonus room, which we now refer to as The Loft. Here are some final shots of the completed loft, garage space and surrounding area as they look today.
 

So there you have it. From the top, on our transition from rundown shed to a brand spanking new
barn. In 98 simple steps.

It's good to be back. Talk to you again soon.

Grosse Pointe Charles

The Spinner Invitational - The Beginning

This post is way overdue. As such, I offer my apologies to the Board of Governors, The Executive Council, and to those dedicated souls who have called themselves Spinners for nearly 30 years. To make this right, here is their story.

In the '80s, the IRS was a hotbed of social activity. Sure, we scared the crap out of people just by showing up at their doors, snatched a few pay checks from little old ladies (who are much tougher than you may think), and upon occasion actually seized and sold other people's property to pay off their back taxes. It was an interesting but stressful line of work.

To alleviate this stress, we did many things. Partying was one. After-hours gatherings at local watering holes (I still remember Porter Street Station and the Lindell A.C.), softball games, picnics at Metro Parks, baseball games at Tiger Stadium, big time house parties - all were frequent occurrences. But one of the best team-building, stress-relieving, spiritually renewing activities for many of us were the golf outings. In some ways, they defined the social personality of the then Detroit/Southeast Michigan IRS operation.

These outings were special and very well attended, and for most included extended breakfasts catching up with work friends, 18 holes on a well-manicured course, and a rousing post-golf happy hour capped off with trophy presentations and a banquet approaching medieval gluttony. There was even an organization formed to schedule, administer and track the results of each year's events - the Internal Revenue Service Golf Association (or IRSGA).

At its peak there were five annual events as I recall, spread out from late spring to early fall. The first was the Data Center Open which was put on by a spring golf league sponsored by the old Data Center, a Detroit-based national IRS facility. That was followed by the Can-Am, an event jointly sponsored by the IRS Criminal Investigation Division and Revenue Canada and usually played at a favorite course just out of Windsor, Ontario. Then there was the Bigby, an outing started by and named after a beloved Collection Division Chief, Bill Bigby, and played at a variety of mainly west side courses, usually around mid-summer.

The oldest of all these outings, The Desedlo Open, followed in September. This outing, sponsored by the summer IRS golf league and named for a former Exam Division Chief, was usually played either at the Selfridge Air Force Base course or the Pontiac Country Club, whichever of them would have us at the time (owing to rumored disorderly behavior both on the course and/or at the banquet, the outing was at times banned from both of these courses). The Desedlo also had the distinction of breaking the local golf gender barrier when in 1979 a foursome of women was allowed to play. They were scheduled last off the tee and had to quit after nine holes due to darkness, but nonetheless made history. That foursome was made up of four Collection Division managers - Gloria Jean Boyd, Patty Cooper, Claire Brooks, and (you guessed it) one Nancy Louise LeRoy, who that next spring would become my bride.

This cycle of links revelry was then completed with a very popular scramble (teams of players with different levels of ability competing against each other) sponsored by staffers from the Collection Division and usually played at one of the downriver courses. All in all, each year was a grand golf ride with much fun, camaraderie and informal team building that promoted relations at work among key players from the various IRS divisions.

So what has all this to do with the Spinner Invitational? Everything. Due to some cosmic anomaly, I and my usual playing partners in those days were, shall we say, golf challenged. In previous posts, you've heard me describe my attitude toward golf. I would say that my bosom golf buddies (Al "The Bear" Morrison and Bruce "Sledge" Cooke) were of similar ilk. We loved the outings but were seldom in the running for any prizes, as the competition (unfairly, we felt) rewarded good golfers. But we (and our entry fees) were warmly welcomed by all, despite the character of our play.

Then things changed. It was during the Can-Am of 1988. I remember it vividly to this day. It had been a particularly difficult round of golf, played in brutal heat, that saw an impressive number of golf balls disappear from the confines of our foursome. Understandably, our scores reflected our performance. To add fuel to the fire, our entry fees for this event (and for most other IRSGA outings of that time) had been rising steadily, to of course buy fancier trophies for the good golfers. Suffice it to say, Bear, Sledge and Chico (my sports name - a story for another time) were not in the most gracious of moods.

And then it happened. When the person recording the scores for the tournament (who for purposes of this post will remain nameless) came to our card, he was overcome by the depth of our achievements and blurted out a few disparaging remarks about our (lack of) golfing prowess. And with more than one guffaw. Within earshot of us and several witnesses. We took umbrage. Way.

As we humbly huddled in the corner eating our overpriced, under-cooked steak, rubbing our aching and blistered fingers, lamenting our loss of little white orbs, and soothing our bruised egos, we began to simmer. Then boil. It was one thing to accept that the game we loved would always get the better of us. It was quite another for others who we deemed to be of doubtful lineage, to draw unseemly enjoyment from our plight. So as all oppressed peoples eventually do, we slowly turned our quiet rage into conviction, and vowed to each other never to be hungry for golf recognition again.

Being determined but cautious types, we needed a plan. So early the next week, I and my brother duffers met to begin sorting things out. We decided that for just a little more money and a modicum of effort, we could create our own golf outing. And the reduction in aggravation would be more than worth the investment. We started by picking a course far away from the IRSGA - Bay Valley, just north of Saginaw - and recruited a kindred spirit (Jeff "St. Jeffrey" DeNeen, who was working in the Saginaw IRS office at the time) to fill out our foursome. A couple of weeks later we headed up I-75, and as it turned out, into the future.

We had the best time golfing that day that we could ever remember (except for Jeff, who despite shooting an 86 remembers very little about that day due to a roughly 12-hour bout of Anheuser's Disease). We loved the course, which was challenging for a duffer but interesting and fair. It was a beautiful sunny day, and no one fell out of a cart (despite a fair amount of liquid encouragement - the beer cart girl did well that day). And we each actually had some good holes. Afterwards, we had a great dinner at a local pub and headed out on the 100-mile trip home sun-buzzed, renewed, and content. Now that's what amateur golf should be all about.

We had such a good time that day in 1988, that we decided to do it again sometime. And, we thought some of our other friends just might enjoy it, too. So that fall we formed the Spinner Board of Governors (named after our bowling team) and set about planning a full outing for 1989. But how do you get people interested in a golf tournament 100 miles away from home, that isn't really about golf? At least not about golf in the usual way.

Exclusivity seemed to be one idea that had appeal. Everyone likes to be asked. That's where the invitational part came up. We decided to only invite golfers that, well, we liked, and that generally shared our view of the true role of golf in the bigger picture of life. A little selfish, maybe. But, hey, it was our party (admittedly, this resulted in very small outings the first few years). To give form to this exclusivity, we ordered and mailed engraved invitations to the lucky few who survived the eligibility test.

Another challenge was how to generate a little friendly competition (we were boys, after all) that would give every participant a fair chance to win. So we came up with the now legendary prizes of the Turtle - most shots ending up in a sand trap, the Squirrel - most shots whose flight was affected by a tree (or other substantial golf course flora), and the Duck - the most shots coming to rest in water (non-casual, of course). With the heavy woods, many traps, winding river and ponds found at the Bay Valley course, even invitees with a degree of mastery of the game would have a chance to score one of these special awards.

To cap off the structure of the outing and solidify it as a true tournament, we created the Governor's Trophy. Honoring the Spinner spirit of participation over prowess, this trophy is awarded to the low net score of the day, calculating handicap at 100% of the difference between par and each golfer's average from previous Spinner Invitationals. This calculation represented a bit of a challenge the first couple of years, but with the right attitude and some fuzzy math, we muddled through. This approach to scoring has proved its worth over time as golfers at the middle and high end of the handicap spectrum have won about 80% of the tournaments. And the #1 seed (the golfer with the lowest handicap) has never won (poor babies).

But before I get into how the Invitational has unfolded and evolved through its 27 years, let me close this post and get it to press. That will correct my inexcusable tardiness in sharing the story of the Spinner Invitational's origins with those of you who have supported and/or suffered through it with us all these years. We'll explore the early days of Spinner history, complete with photo documentation, in my next post.

Until then, hit'em straight but watch out for those trees. They're not really 90% air.

Grosse Pointe Charles

Things I've Learned Since Retirement - Part 1

Or - facts of life that have gotten my attention of late. This is only Part 1 because I don't think the learning is over.

In an earlier post - 65 - I shared some observations about how I believe life works. These were derived from 65 years of getting up everyday and facing the world, including nearly 40 years of helping others tidy up personal relationships with their government. And in another post - One Year - I described how my life had changed since retirement, especially in the area of personal fitness. I've experienced nothing since the writing of those posts to change those beliefs. But now, after almost three years of not working for a living (thank you taxpayers of America), a few additional truths have revealed themselves to me. So I thought I'd pass them on.

Nothing is forever. This might seem like an easy one. But I have to admit, I'm really just getting it. I have been blessed with longevity in my life, in many ways. First, I'm in my late 60s, still basically living my life the same way I have since I was in my 20s (or at least my early 30s). The more cynical of you (you know who you are) are probably thinking that's because I was behaving pretty much like a 60 year old even then - avoiding risk, staying between the lines, enjoying the same activities over and over. And you'd be right. But I just think of it as finding my groove early and getting the most out of it.

So up until recently, my working assumption has been that the good friends, the parties, the music, the travel, and the overall good fortune I've enjoyed my whole life would be endless. But with the passing of my father last year, the loss of our troubled but beloved dog Kody in November, and a number of other less weighty events (cottage pine trees keeling over, old cassette tape players giving out, my favorite denim shirts frayed beyond repair) it's finally sinking in that life is more linear than circular, and that the only true constant is change.

But as is my nature, I see the bright side of this realization. And that is how really fortunate I have been in my family and friends all these years, and how thankful I should be for each new event and experience I still have before me. So I'm okay with this new found insight, and looking forward to what comes next.

Recharging time is directly proportional to age. Again, this might be a no-brainer for most. But there's a difference between knowing in general that people slow down with age, and realizing that your fingers won't actually close all the way in the morning until you've been up and around for 10-15 minutes. Fortunately, I don't normally have to grip a golf club or turn an ignition key until after this "re-booting" period has passed.

When I was working, and often running on six hours of sleep, I remember thinking about the good old college days when I could function successfully for several days on as little as four hours of sleep a night (I admit the term "function successfully" is subjective). Now, if I don't get eight hours in the sack I feel old and slow. Okay, I am old and slow. But with enough sleep I'm pretty good at deluding myself into believing everyone else is just in a big rush. And as we all know, delusions are critical to well-being.

I can still independently perform just about every physical task I want (or need) to. But I spend more time prepping (read - trying to avoid), employ prostheses whenever possible, and take more breaks (bathroom and otherwise - recharging takes many forms). But not to worry, as a retiree I have all the time there is, right? And, yes, those yellow senior tees are looking more inviting all the time.

Eventually, we all have chemical dependencies. You just have to have the right ones. Those would be the ones suggested by the array of physicians that usher us into our golden years. This reality came roaring into my consciousness when I had my little chest pain scare last September. It turned out that I had just strained a couple of chest muscles with an aggressive Frisbee toss. But having no prior experience with the discomfort I was feeling, I suspected the worst.

When you walk into an emergency room and utter the words "chest pain", several things happen. One of the more mundane is that somewhere between being thrust onto a gurney and becoming the victim of emergency diagnostic procedures, someone interviews you about your medications. Before this adventure, I thought medications only referred to expensive pharmaceuticals with 15+ letter names. Not to the staff of the Alpena Regional Medical Facility. They wanted to know everything I routinely ingest that comes out of a bottle. Low dose aspirin, One-A-Days, Vitamin D chews, the occasional Tums, "medicinal" alcohol - these ranked equally important in their eyes with the more exotic concoctions available only through prescription.

While I was reciting my list for the technician, I was struck by the number and variety of chemicals I actually do consume on a regular/semi-regular basis. I had never really thought about it in that way, and I had to ask myself why I was taking all this stuff. The answer, of course, was because each of these little chemical miracles makes me feel better. And at least to date, none of them has done me any harm. I've also noticed that upon occasion when I fail to take one of my regular goodies, I don't feel as well.

The net effect of all this pill-popping is that I've become much more aware of how my body works, how best to avoid taxing it beyond its current limits, and what chemicals can provide a little help when needed. So let's hear it for better living through chemistry.

You can never have too much garage. This fear was recently confirmed by my good friend Jeff Reinhart who has more garage than anyone else I know. Many of you know that Nancy and I have just added a one and a half car garage to our cottage in Greenbush. This project started out as an effort to replace our failing shed, and well, sort of got out of hand. (The full story of the new garage will be told at a later date, with pictures.)

But as I was moving all the stuff that used to be in my 10' by 10' shed into my 22' by 16' garage, complete with a second story bedroom, I felt things were just a tad cramped. Then I realized I had also relocated a lot of items previously stored in the cottage closets, the laundry room, and the front yard into the garage. And, yes, there were just a few new tools and garage maintenance devices hanging there on the walls as well. Before I was done, just about every nook and cranny of the new garage was in service as a storage space. And though I am completely happy with my new "barn", I can hear that little voice in my head whispering, "You should have made it just a little bit bigger".  

One car is enough. Now, I admit that my situation has evolved. At one time we had four cars crowding our driveway, each with a different principal driver. Now with the girls gone and me retired, Nancy and I decided to try going with only one car. The experiment began last summer. The logic went something like this. Less money spent on cars could mean more money for toys and fun. Being a boy, this argument for me was intuitive. And as Nancy shares my zeal for fun, she didn't take much convincing.

For us, the adjustment wasn't difficult. First, we are either at the cottage, on the road visiting friends or vacationing down south about half of a typical year. That's all "one-car" time anyway. When we are home, most of our outings are done together. That leaves only errands and the occasional girls or boys event to worry about. Potential conflicts regarding these activities are easily avoided through our regular Monday morning calendar sessions (I know, you're shocked. The Burks having a calendar session?) So basically, we couldn't see paying a few thousand dollars a year for a second car just in case Nancy wanted to go to the market at the same time I needed a haircut.

The trick, of course, is being willing to spend most of your waking hours in the presence (or at least the vicinity) of your spouse. But isn't that why we got married in the first place? To be together constantly? (Pardon me for a few seconds while I go pry my tongue out of my cheek.)

Scoring in golf is optional - perhaps even unwise. An ex-acquaintance of mine once asked, "If you can't get to the green in two, why would you play golf at all?" Obviously this soul was lost. But I have to admit that until the last year or so, I always found myself toting a scorecard, noting each swing, putt and penalty shot, hoping to score just a little bit better than my playing partner or at least better than my last round.

But I've entered a new phase. And while I still upon occasion will be obligated to keep score, it's not why I'm out there. The real beauty of golf is the variety of pleasures that it affords, the very least of which is using only as many shots per hole as someone you never met thinks you should.

First, there is the sheer beauty of most golf courses. Green with all sorts of flora. Deftly integrated into rolling hills, gurgling streams and thickly treed forests. And groomed daily by armies of groundskeepers.

Then there's the exercise value. Walking back and forth across fairways as you tack your way to the green. Slogging through ball-eating brush and cavernous sand traps to track down errant shots. And the deep-knee bends involved with sizing up those three and four putt greens.

But the best part of all is hauling back and crushing that little pill with all your might, driving the ball a full 40-50 yards at a time. It just feels good to purge that festering aggression you've been denying. Even better if you are able to picture the face of a favorite ne'er-do-well on the back side of the ball as you start your downswing. Whew. I get the shakes just thinking about it.

So scoring? Completely optional. And take as many swings as you need to work things out. There are few activities available to me and my peerage as attractive as an afternoon enjoying the multi-dimensional joys of golf.

Well, that's enough sharing for this round. As always, I would like to hear from any of you who have had your own learning experiences in recent months, about the golden years or any other pursuit.
  
Grosse Pointe Charles