to smell the roses

7/31/2019 To Smell the Roses

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To Smell The Roses

Retirement Lifestyle on a Budget

By Clark LeFleur

Freedom

A relaxed, unhurried lifestyle, filled with all the leisure and amusement one could ever dream of, with

plenty of time and resources to travel, dine, shop for antiques, see and experience new and untried

pleasures, with freedom from worry and debt.

Through the working years, I planned carefully, always keeping that end in sight. There were many

sacrifices, I must admit, but between my first wife and I our cumulative possessions were considerable.

Wed built an enviable middle class lifestyle: stunning two story home in the right neighborhood, two

late model cars in the driveway, a sleek bass boat in the back yard, a vacation home in the mountains.

All on credit, the American Dream.

I had enjoyed the fruits of my labor to their fullest extent. Now our comfortable life had become

routine, a little lackluster. And the interest was compounding beyond my ability to pay while

maintaining the level of lavish spending to which Id become accustomed. Now that my first wife,

Frannie, had grown older and fatter, now that I had accumulated a crushing amount of debt, it was time

to cut loose from the burdensome obligations of my first little family and lifelong consumer binge.

Id known Bobbi since my salad days. She was still youngish, vibrant, and sexually attractive in late

middle age. Id been seeing her on the down low for the last two years or so. She, like me, was at the

end of a long career, on the cusp of retirement with a very attractive pension plan. It was an obvious

choice. I would declare bankruptcy, default on my debts while protecting my pension, and divorce myfirst wife, who would go on to share a small apartment with our two almost-grown children, thus

clearing the pathway to my personal fulfillment and happiness. I would join forces and pool resources

with Bobbi, my true soul mate, someone who shared my values and dreams.

Suddenly, there we were, retired with two ample pensions and two larger-than-average Social Security

checks every month. My bankruptcy days had passed, and Bobbi and I had accumulated almost as much

in ten years as I had in twenty with Frannie. One flawless afternoon in our ostentatious rose garden we

sat, she with her single malt scotch and I with my twelve-year-old bourbon, and pondered our golden

years. As the sun set, we began to discuss the methods and strategies wed learned in our college days

and by which we could sustain an entertaining, stimulating, never ending vacation, one in which wecould travel to all the best places and enjoy all the finer things in life together. And hopefully, to do it,

for the most part, at the lowest possible cost, or better yet, at someone elses expense.

First and foremost, we took stock of the great number of friends, relatives and acquaintances weve

accumulated over the years. Because Bobbi and I had long careers in our chosen fields, we came to

know an impressive number of other professional couples, many of whom had also retired to enjoy

affluent lifestyles in beautiful cottages, bungalows and condominiums in the most picturesque locales


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from coast to coast. Why should these dear friends be deprived of a semi-annual visit from us as we

make our way back and forth across the nation, stopping to smell the roses at every point along the

way? And when we visit, why not leave a little of the happiness we bring with us, in the form of lively,

thought provoking repartee, educating our hosts in the selection of fine wines and old whiskies,

gourmet recipes and vivid descriptions of the remarkable places weve gone to and are going to.

My new wife and I, thanks to Facebook and other social networking websites, have been able to rekindle

friendships with people we havent seen or thought of in years, and in some cases, create new, close

personal relationships with people weve never met in person.

Like generals before a great battle, we have strategically and systematically categorized and sorted

through these names and addresses, that is, potential vacation destinations and stopovers, to create a

comprehensive plan of attack. The centerpiece of our war room is the map of North America, and our

war objective is to travel to the most interesting and temperate locations in this great land of ours,

sleeping in first-rate accommodations, eating the finest food and enjoying the finest liquor and other

pleasures at the lowest possible cost to ourselves.

The Art of Dining and Being a Gracious Guest

Some of our favorite ways to smell the roses while passing the cost of our retirement lifestyle on to

our friends, relatives, and acquaintances are probably the simplest. Over the years, youve probably

overlooked thousands of opportunities to practice these techniques.

When Bobbi and I visit, our hosts, in addition to putting us up in their guest rooms, typically will prepare

a sumptuous meal on the night of our arrival, and the next night as well, but after a couple of nights,

they will tire of preparing and serving us their best dishes and just decide to take us out to dinner. At

least, they figure, they wont have to clear the table and clean up the kitchen while listening to us sit and

go on about other great meals weve enjoyed recently at the homes of other, more affluent friends.

At a restaurant, Bobbi and I will always order different entrees. During the course of the meal, Ill

comment on how delicious and perfectly prepared my dish is, and offer my wife a bite. Shell

enthusiastically take a little morsel from my fork, and proceed to ooh and ah. What a brilliant selection.

Reminds her of something similar we had in San Francisco, New York, oh, where was it?

If, after a few rounds of Let Me Taste Yours, the other couple fails to join in the game by offering a bite

from their plates, Bobbi or I will simply ask, point blank, to sample what theyre having. Most courteousdinner companions will not only eagerly participate, theyll hardly notice a little later when I push back

from the table, placing my hands on my tummy, and announce that this is just too much food and ask

the waiter for a doggie bag, which of course will be kept in the hosts refrigerator at their home until we

depart.

The really essential tactic in our bag of tricks is, of course, getting the other couple to pay for the meal.

Sometimes this is easy. We can usually tell in advance by tell-tale signs of our hosts generosity. For


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example, when we first arrive at their residence, and the upscale master of the house opens the liquor

cabinet with a what would you like? or even a help yourself, it speaks volumes about their capacity

for sharing. By contrast, when guests make the four-hours- from-the interstate, two-lane trek to our

lovely spot in the mountains, we serve what we want them to have, customarily with a long description

and endorsement before the liquor is actually poured or ideally, before the beer bottle is opened. Weve

saved thousands with this simple method alone.

In the restaurant, a silent pause when the waiter asks, one check? often works. For people weve had

dinner with more than once, its sometimes best to chime in and suggest separate checks, but we

consider this outcome a draw at best. A complete victory requires complete commitment to the goal.

This is where teamwork pays off.

My sweetie has a remarkable gift for controlling a conversation. She does this by skillfully employing

what Ive come to call verbal ellipses, that is, endless sentences that others are much too polite to

interrupt. That was the best shrimp scampi weve ever had, it was just her voice trails off, as if there

are just no adequate comparisons. The scampi, as Bobbi recounts, was and is simply the best ever

cooked and served, unquestionably.

Bobbi is a master of the first order in manipulative chit-chat, steering the topic away from subjects that

others may have knowledge of or experience in to subjects in which we can present ourselves as

absolute experts, conducting endless discussions about 401Ks, health care and benefits, and of course

name dropping, fascinating, detailed anecdotes featuring other lucky friends who have hosted and

entertained us in style.

So, after dessert is over and the check is on the table, my darling wife is always ready to create a verbal

smoke screen for me to excuse myself and make a quick trip to the restroom. This absence shouldnt be

too lengthy, lest someone catch on, just long enough for our hosts to decide to go ahead and pick up thetab. The real artistry is in the timing, waiting for our generous friends to offer to pay, putting up a little

resistance- oh, no, we insist, youve been so nice to us - but ultimately giving in and allowing them the

honor. If done properly, theyll even thank us for suggesting such a wonderful eatery and providing

them with such an enjoyable evening.

We exit the restaurant, doggie bag in hand, triumphant, looking forward to spending the balance of the

evening drinking our benefactors liquor and enjoying their ample accommodations. Many hosts will

offer to set their alarm clocks for us, so they can be ready to serve breakfast early in the morning and

even help carry our luggage to the car.

Of course, its important to remember to also accept from your hosts, a parting gift, a little bag of fruit

from their backyard orchard, leftover dessert from your first nights stay, some fine marmalade or salad

dressing from a local tourist attraction, whatever they have. Theyre more than happy to share. Its a

long drive to the next stop, and theres no reason your hosts cant continue to provide after youre on

your way to the next couples idyllic retreat, with its free lodging, meals, and entertainment.


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The California Trip

By carefully dividing our pool of friends into haves and have nots, knowing which couples on our

pushpin map of overnight stays are a good bet for a great dinner, which are real serious drinkers with

good taste in booze, and which friends have the biggest, finest homes, weve perfected the art of fine

dining and being gracious guests. Using our personal network of dear, dear friends as guiding beaconsalong the way in the voyage through our golden years, we keep a close watch and a steady hand at the

wheel to steer a smooth course.

However, in spite of all our best efforts, our retirement lifestyle will occasionally throw us a curve. In

those rare instances, an innocent visit can result in an awkward or embarrassing situation, or a situation

where we are forced to spend our own money, or worse yet, spend it to someone elses benefit.

But, according to ancient Confucian wisdom, or at least according to Linda and Steve, dear, dear friends

who imparted this third hand ancient wisdom to us over dinner one lovely and worthwhile evening in

the Catskills, unfortunate events sometimes turn out to be unexpectedly advantageous for some of the

parties involved. Or something to that effect.

Back in the late summer of 95, just a few months after Bobbi and I were married, the death of Grateful

Dead guitarist Jerry Garcia came as a dramatic blow to the Deadheads, that lunatic fringe subculture of

the baby boomer generation. Nowhere was the impact of that sad event more evident than in the city of

San Francisco, where the Dead had their beginnings in the midsixties. My sweetie and I are proud to

have been a part of that seminal hippie movement, and in fact, we honed many of the techniques

described in this volume right there in the heart of the cultural revolution, near the corner of Haight and

Ashbury.

Although we were gainfully employed at the time, with real jobs, and in actuality, only participated ashippies on weekends and days off, we had scores of contacts and connections in the new alternative

lifestyle community. For us, having long hair and wearing the colorful clothes and beads was the best

way to score invitations to parties, free spare tickets to the Fillmore, and basically whatever

countercultural fun and diversion was available at no charge.

We learned, for example, the fine art of obtaining cheap marijuana and offering joints and pipe loads of

bunk weed to our companions as a way of gaining access to their stashes of good shit. At many a

party or concert or afternoon at the park, Bobbi, with great fanfare, would roll a dry, seedy, Mexican

number while I extolled the virtues of what both of us knew to be inferior quality stuff. After the dope

had been passed around a few times, someone would invariably break out the Acapulco Gold or

Columbian, just to show us novices what the real thing was like. That reefers okay, but wait til you

taste this

We also learned that our stoned companions had limited attention spans and very short memories.

Frequently, I was able to swap one of our roaches for one of the potent ones right under everyones

nose. With the same deft slight-of-hand I put to good use in friendly poker games with my straighter


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friends, Id put out the good joint and pocket it for later while passing on the low grade stuff to

unsuspecting beatniks who were too high to know the difference.

Often, wed smoke entire bags of otherhippies dope and take a gracious bow for getting everyone high

and all the good vibes wed generously shared with our brothers and sisters. I cant begin to count the

number of times someone would profusely thank us for turning them on with their own pot . Awesomejib, dude Youre welcome, man.

But back to the nineties. When the memorial concert for Jerry in Golden Gate Park was announced,

Bobbi and I made one of our first cross country trips as a retired couple. We received an invitation from

a couple we knew from the old days to come out, stay a few days, and celebrate the life of the great

hippie forefather.

Bill and Susan had moved up in the world from their humble days sharing a fleabag crash pad with six

other deadbeats on Pooneil. Bill had since gotten his MBA and made a killing in the stock market,

retiring at an early age to a beautiful hillside home in Marin County. When we got the call, we

immediately recognized the opportunity to vacation on the west coast with style. Not to mention all the

great weed they surely kept in stock. We arrived the day before the big event and took a quick side trip

through the city to see how the old neighborhood had changed. We circled for what seemed like an

hour before we parked and got out of the car to take a short walk down to the meadow in Golden Gate

Park where wed seen the Dead and the Airplane play, free of course, so many times.

To say it was hot that sweltering August afternoon would be a drastic understatement. We soon found

ourselves in a tent city of mostly second generation hipsters. There were thousands there already,

staking out their camping and partying spots for what would surely be the greatest hippie reunion of the

decade, or possibly, all time, man. A steady stream of psychedelic music issued from the public address

system.

There was a hint of the old carnival atmosphere from the sixties, but the tinge of shock and sadness was

palpable. The running, skipping, carefree whirling dervishes of old were now just a large, sweaty mass of

strangers. There were many people there closer to our age, but no one we recognized. A whiff of pot

smoke, a topless young nubile here and there, but by and large, the vibe had changed.

We sat near a small group of young stoners who were passing around a pipe of what appeared to be

dark, oily hashish. Bobbing our heads and pretending to listen to whatever noise was coming from the

stage, we attempted to make it clear that we were, indeed, groovy folks, but no one offered us so much

as a toke. My hand-tooled custom cowboy boots and Bobbis prized turquoise and silver necklace

seemed to scream not cool to these imitators, these phony hippy types with their torn jeans and

tattoos.

We got up and moved several times, trying to find just the right spot, always seeking out groups where

weed was being smoked openly, but we didnt feel quitewelcome. We elicited a similar uncomfortable

response from each little clique of unwashed, faded, and raggedly dressed potheads we approached, as

if they knew we didnt quite belong. Some would finally, after many passes, offer us a hit from a damp,


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brown roach of skunky smelling weed, but most would avert their eyes from us as they bobbed and

weaved in their peculiar and ungainly tribal hippie dance.

Aside from the unbearable temperature and humidity in the meadow, aside from the stench of

hitchhiking, van dwelling, mostly unemployed and unemployable vagabonds, there was also the

pervasive cloud of grief and mourning. These people were serious. It was unreal. I mean, after all, Garciawas a pretty good guitar player, and it was sad he was gone, but why should we allow that negativity to

affect our good times? This memorial thing is kind of a bummer, and besides, its hot.

So we headed up to Bill and Susans place in Marin County, where we knewwed find air conditioning,

hot showers, clean thousand- thread -count linen sheets and plenty of good wine and weed.

Of Dogs and Fine Footwear

Bill and Susan met us in the driveway of their fantastic Mill Valley home, built into a hillside overlooking

Richardson Bay. An architectural marvel: three levels, four bedrooms, each with its own veranda. We

came to the right place, I mused. Susan knelt by an adorable little Lhasa Apso, who was barking and

wagging its tail with delight as we pulled up. Even the puppy was glad to see us.

Susan looked a little older, but none the worse for wear, as they say. Her now giant, low slung breasts

pushed into my midsection as we embraced. Dear, dear friends. Bill, in turn, hugged my sweetie for a

long and tender moment. It had been over twenty years. It seemed almost like we were a real family,

reuniting after a long separation.

We of course were feted with the most wonderful vegan supper weve ever had, sweet potato fritters

and black beans, followed by a scrumptious avocado salad. Then, absinthe over sugar cubes, and aquiet, dreamless night of luxuriant rest in climate controlled comfort.

The next day, Bobbi woke up, feeling a little more ill than usual. She even thought for a moment she

might have had a heat stroke in the park. I asked her what she wanted to do about the memorial. I

dont think I can handle it. You wouldnt want to have to take me to a hospital, would you?

Bobbi and I decided that it was just too hot for a funeral. We explained to Bill and Susan, it was just

sohot. We would be going into Sausalito for lunch. Wouldnt they rather come with us? Or maybe we

could go in your car? You know where the best places are, I said, grasping the back of his upper arm

affectionately. Show us around. Bill, who never much cared for the Dead, liked the idea.

I had a marvelous braised bison chop, fresh kale and sourdough bread for lunch at the Caf Toothsum.

My sweetie had the cucumber salad with salmon. Bill and Susan had the same, ordered espresso, then

picked up the tab. What a great couple.


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We got back into Mill Valley mid-afternoon. The weather, as one would expect from one of the most

beautiful, eclectic and exclusive areas on the West Coast, was perfect. Bill and Susan strolled off down

the street, hand in hand. Take your time. Well be back in a few, Bill called over his shoulder. We knew

something was up. They had something special in mind. Bobbi and I half expected an expensive gift,

purchased on impulse, something they knew we would cherish. Thats the kind of friends they were.

Marin County can be a real shopping paradise for anyone who appreciates and loves really fine jewelry,

clothing, and footwear. There are hundreds of shops and stores with unique, one-of-a- kind dresses,

long silk scarves, big silver earrings, and real pearls. Places where women and men of taste and means

are treated like the special people they are.

Bobbi and I walked into an incredible shoe shop named TaDas. There was a little atrium with a fountain

and a wrought iron bench in the center of the store. Birds splashed and sang as very well-maintained

Northern California women perused the stacks and consulted with one another over shoes, shoes, and

more shoes. A saleswoman approached Bobbi and it was all over. I sat down, stoned and resigned to a

long wait. Bill had the good shit, no mistaking that.

I waited for two hours and fifteen minutes. I stepped out and wandered down the little shady walkways

between the shops, gazing into the attractive, professionally decorated windows. Everything a man of

refinement could want: pipes of every imaginable kind, fine kangaroo-skin tobacco pouches, gold-plated

hip flasks ready for monogramming. And the clothes. It was mind-boggling. I came very close to buying a

black suede vest that made me look like a silver- haired Maverick in the fitting room mirror. Remember

James Garner? I pointed out a small stitching error in the lining to the cashier, but there was no

negotiating on the price. I ended up getting a pair of fine Italian loafers at the shop across the street.

It was another hour before Bobbi had finally talked herself into just the right pair of Bolivian leather

sandals, and she emerged from the shop, three hundred dollars lighter. We met up with Bill and Susan,who we learned had gone to a local antique place to look at a vintage Victrola theyd discovered on

Craiglist. They ended up buying a silver and jade tea service instead. For a second, we held our breath.

Could it be a gift for us? No, false alarm.

We compared our treasures, complimenting each other on our good taste and congratulating ourselves

for the excellent deals we got, then climbed in Bills Mercedes M-Class SUV to ride back up to their

place, with Jefferson Airplanes Crown of Creation playing at a comfortable, age-appropriate volume

level from the twelve-speaker sound system. The day had been a truly fulfilling, almost spiritual ,

shopping experience, Bay Area style.

As a host, Bill didnt disappoint. His wine cellar was well-stocked with fine California wines. He and his

soul mate had all the time in the world to sit and drink a few bottles with us. I took a long, deep drag

from Bills colorful blown glass bong. AhCalifornia Sinsemilla. Fuck Garcia, I said silently to myself,

this is where its at. I wasnt listening to Bill or Susan or even my sweetie. Their conversation was just

pleasant noise, background music for a very exquisite and expensive cannabis and cabernet high. I could

barely make out what was being said. Something about Bills collection of old 78s. Blah blah. Then, the


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subject changed, and my ears picked up when I realized the girls were talking about me, or at least me

before I married Frannie and moved to the Gulf Coast in the seventies.

Oh, those were the days. Susan shook her head and laughed, looking at Bobbi and then smiling into

my eyes. Man, you used to cut an impressive figure with your Ray-Bans and sideburns, flying up 101 in

that Triumph Spitfire. Good times.

My mind submerged itself in the liquid warmth of that memory. That was me, young and virile, and my

first sports car, the Mk3 . And I was rather impressive looking, snappily dressed in my designer bell

bottoms, compared to most of my low rent hippie friends who didnt or wouldnt work. It was good to

be a productive member of society. I had a promising career as an assistant fashion magazine editor, I

could take chicks to lunch, I could have steak. I didnt have to share an apartment with a bunch of

almost- grown children who never chipped in for the phone bill and ate all my food out of the

refrigerator.

Well Bobbi, Bill said, voice brimming with true admiration for the score of the day, your taste in shoes

is as impeccable as always. I am impressed, he continued, and what a great price.

Puki, unbeknownst to us, also had great taste in fine footwear. While we laughed and reminisced under

the California stars, Susans prized Lhasa Apso was quietly at work, sneaking into the guestroom to have

a go at the genuine leather chew toys that lay irresistibly on the floor, between our luggage and the

canopy bed.

At first, we didnt recognize what Puki had in her mouth when she came running out on the veranda,

growling playfully as she chewed the delicate heel of a very expensive sandal. The feisty little Lhasa

wagged her tail with delight, slinging the wet leather lump around, teasing and hoping to entice

someone into a game of keepaway. Cute dog.

Susan chased Puki into the house and grabbed the mangled sandal. Im so sorry. I cant believe she did

this. Bad girl! She held out the irreparable, tooth marked Bolivian leather flip flop. The woods on the

hillside became suddenly quiet. Not even a cricket chirped as we stared, dumfounded, at Pukis

handiwork.

Oh, no! my sweetie cried out in horror.

Bobbis deep blue eyes began to well up. Oh, I was so stupid to leave that door open. Look at them

now. Theyre ruined. They were just the bestsandals Ive ever bought. Now Susans eyes began to well

up. Bobbi continued. I just cant afford another pairand they would have gone so well with themaroon scarf I bought today at Patchoulies

I spoke up now, sensing my cue. Bobbi, I scolded, let me remind you that we are on a fixed income as

of September first. Youve got to be more careful. My sweet girl was sobbing now. I had never been

prouder of her intuitive skills. She held her hands up to her face, as if ashamed of her pathetic display. I

could see her peeking through her fingers as she sniffed, Its not Pukis fault.


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Susan, sympathetic soul that she was, seemed truly moved by Bobbis tears, and at the same moment,

mortified at appearing to be such a negligent hostess. Finally, a wave of inspiration rolled over her.

There was only one way to make this right. She offered to pay for the sandals. In fact, if wed consider

staying another day or two, shed go with Bobbi down into Mill Valley to TaDas and buy her a new pair.

What were friends for, after all?

The Ass Burger Twins

Bill and Susan remained our faithful friends for years after that visit. We recently heard, via an email

from another old friend from the old days, that Bill had lost everything in the mortgage- backed

derivatives game a couple of years ago. We havent been to see them in awhile.

Other new and interesting people have come into our lives since. We met one memorable pair through

a famous social networking site. Isnt it funny how fate works, how certain personality types are drawn

to one another through mutual friends, preferences, likes and dislikes? God bless you, Mr. Zuckerberg.You have truly changed the world.

DAngelo and Dick became our favorite hosts in Vicksburg, a great place to pick up some silver queen

corn when youre coming down from Memphis in early July. We had just spent a fabulous week at Ray

and Renaldos houseboat. They were also a delightful gay couple, and we always looked forward to

seeing them, maybe even staying at their place for a night or two before heading out to points west.

This trip, as I recall, we were on our way to Austin for real Texas Chili and some horseback riding at the

ranch home of Jim and Frances, two of our oldest and dearest. We would stop over at DAngelo and

Dicks place to perhaps sample a little fresh- baked pumpernickel and share some gossip from our

Memphis stay.

DAngelo was an artist, proficient and prodigious in charcoal sketches and water color; he played

classical pieces on his enormous French horn and would conduct sances and read tarot cards. He had

also authored two horror novels about gay zombies or something. Dick was an executive with a chicken

processing company. The important thing was that DAngelo seemed to really, sincerely enjoy

impressing us. We had the verbal faculties to make him feel like the genius he obviously was. In addition

to his other fascinating creative works and projects, DAngelo was, naturally, a marvelous chef and

bread baker and we always enjoyed his cooking and baking when we were in town. So creative.

Dick, on the other hand, merely tolerated us. Wed always thank him for being such a gracious host after

spending a weekend enjoying DAngelos incredible meals. We always asked about his mother when we

departed and made every sort of overture to express our deep affection for him and DAngelo.

One occasion in particular springs to mind. We were innocently sitting in their living room, enjoying the

extensive collection of vintage Shaker furniture, chatting with DAngelo, when Dick came in from work.

We asked about his day at the office and he just grumbled and headed up the stairs. What truly gay man

would do such a thing? Where one would normally expect an exaggerated, dramatic and entertaining


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revisiting of the days frustrations, Dick was sparing of words and withdrawn. What bad form in front of

guests. How rude.

We used to think he simply didnt like people. It wasnt us, specifically. He just acted like he didnt want

guests. Not even guests with spell-binding stories of houseboat life on the Mississippi, and our other,

more flamboyant gay friends who simply adored antiquing and clubbing until dawn. Oh, the money Rayand Renaldo could burn through in a night on the town. Great people, we just loved them.

But Dick was determinedly impervious to our charm and finesse. It became imperative that we get to

the bottom of his dislike, that is, it became necessary to play one off against the other in a little game

we sometimes entertain ourselves with, one weve come to call Why Arent You Nice to My Friends? A

well-placed question or comment, usually posed to the wife or passive partner, could serve to divert the

attention and change the subject when an irritated husband or breadwinner appeared to have had

enough of us. This could pay off in a number of ways; hopefully in this case, guaranteeing our future

reservations at DAngelo and Dicks Free Bed and Breakfast.

Bobbi approached DAngelo in a discrete girl-to-girl moment before brunch one morning and quietly

asked, with great concern, Whats wrong with Dick? He seems to be depressed about something. Is

there something we can do? Can we help?

Thats when we learned about Dicks ongoing struggle with something called Aspergers Syndrome.

DAngelo explained that Dick suffered from an unusual malady that prevented him from reading social

cues from others. DAngelo continued, People with Aspergers appear to be insensitive towards other

peoples feelings and unable to read between the lines. They dont seem to be willing in sharing

experiences or interests with people close to them. They dont pick up on nonverbal communication and

they lack a sense of what is socially appropriate to do.

In effect, he didnt give a fuck about anyone but Dick and never bothered to concern himself with other

peoples feelings, but it wasnt his fault. It was a disease. Bobbis heart ached for DAngelo and Dick and

Dicks tragic condition. She listened to a detailed list of all the symptoms, understanding at last that Dick

didnt dislike us or having us as house guests on both legs of our annual summer trip to San Miguel. He

was simply a sick man, and needed our sympathy more than anything.

We left the next morning for Austin, pausing just long enough in their enormous, country blue kitchen

with striking marble counter tops and shining copper pans, to fill our two-quart travel thermos with

some fine, Kona coffee Dick had brought home from a recent business trip to Oahu.

Last year, we dropped in on DAngelo and Dick, not knowing it would be for the last time. Our formerly

congenial and generous host met us at the door, clad only in a silk dressing gown. I made a mental note.

That would make an excellent Fathers Day present for me. I must remember to leave a few Niemann

Marcus catalogues scattered around the house, opened to the robes with colors and prices

conspicuously circled.


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DAngelo, visibly agitated, informed us that Dick was home sick from work, upstairs in bed, and hed

barely had time to bathe, shave and prepare for guests in the two hours between our phone call just

outside of Smedes, Mississippi and the time we arrived, strategically, as was our habit, in the late

afternoon, a little before dinner time.

We sat rather awkwardly in their well-appointed den as DAngelo poured a plain Earle Grey for Bobbi. I,of course, inquired if there might be some of that fine Kona coffee available.

Unfortunately, there wasnt any in the cupboard. Dick wouldnt be making another trip to Hawaii until

January. I settled for some brandy I spied on the counter at the wet bar.

I suppose we do have something to snack on, DAngelo pondered, things have been so hectic lately.

My new novel is taking forever to finish. Dick and I have decided we must simplify.

We of course agreed. Too many obligations simply wear a person down. I began to steer the

conversation into the story of my successful bankruptcy maneuver and subsequent tidy profit from the

sale of Bobbis home at the top of the market, but our host appeared to be really worn down andburned out, and Bobbi cast a warning glare at me when DAngelo went into the kitchen to rustle up a

snack for us. Better not push it, dear. My sweetie and I were at least as exhausted as our host. It had

been a long, dogleg trip from Memphis, zigzagging down the back roads, looking for yard sales and

bargains in nearly- abandoned areas where the textile mills and factories were now shuttered. We had

stopped at several roadside vegetable stands and flea markets and all wed eaten was the overpriced

bowl of red beans that we shared at a soul food diner in the bowels of Mississippi.

The weather worn and rusted sign out front identified the place as Babes Bar -B-Q and it wouldnt

have been our first choice, frankly. They thought a lot of their food, and the prices were way out of line.

So we sat, next to a gigantic cotton field on the edge of some depressing little southern ghost town, andordered the lowest priced item on the menu, anticipating a hardy repast that evening at Chef

DAngelos.

Clattering noises spilled from the kitchen. Minutes passed like hours until, finally, DAngelo emerged

with a large silver tray. Crackers and cheese. Im afraid we have nothing else to offer you, DAngelo

explained, its so hard to grocery shop when Dicks being a bitch. Ive had to wait on him hand and foot.

So well have to simplify. Im sure you understand.

Bobbi was almost embarrassed to ask if we might wash and dry a few clothes while we were there. Our

normally charitable host gave us a blank look, answering that the washer and dryer were out of order,

and that they had been waiting on the repairman from Sears for weeks now.

After a sleeve of saltines and a few slices of provolone, we made our fond goodbyes and expressed our

hope that Dick would be feeling better soon. We parted amicably at the front door. DAngelo promised

he would write soon, closing the door behind him. As we drove the winding gravel path through the

elaborate topiary that graced their well-manicured property, just before we reached the road, we were

surprised to see Dick, apparently recovering nicely and weeding a bed of day lilies around the mailbox.


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arent doing so well. I would certainly be remiss if I didnt take a moment to tell you about Jean Alene

Gopher, who worked with Bobbi at the dominant Nashville newspaper back in the eighties.

Jean Alene was an excellent investigative reporter whod been actively involved in uncovering a number

of high profile corruption cases and various scandals during her long career. She received numerous

awards from the Press Club, and was highly regarded for her dedication and integrity as a journalist.

When the paper was absorbed by a media conglomerate and the political landscape shifted, Jeans

determination and hard work for mediocre pay were rewarded with termination. After a couple of years

of unemployment benefits, food stamps, and alcohol-fueled despondency, she was finally able to get

back on her feet, so to speak, when she was hired as an assistant public relations director for a local

university. Jean was even able to buy a home, albeit in an aging, sort of run down subdivision outside

the city, where shes lived for the last decade with her drug-addicted, neer-do-well grown son.

Jean Alene is of course always delighted to put us up for an evening when were on the road and passing

through. Bobbi and I are usually tired and burned out after the tedious, winding drive from our

mountain cottage, and Jeans place is perfectly positioned for quick access to three interstates. Whether

were heading down to West Palm Beach for four star dining at Rubios South or out to vacation at Joe

and Karens fabulous showplace near Yellowstone, we can always count on Jean Alene for a nights

lodging.

Our dear, dear friend is certainly an accommodating hostess, but the visit can be a little depressing in

the light of her lack of decorating skills and general disregard for housekeeping. Three times a year, we

come through the front door to find the same beaten up dining room table and mismatched chairs shes

had since 1978, accented by scuffed, dull white walls and stained , harvest gold shag carpet inherited

from the previous homeowners. I dont believe it has been vacuumed since Jean moved in. Nonetheless,

the rates are reasonable, and besides, were typically off to an early start in the morning after a plate ofEggos and a lukewarm shower in the avocado green guest bathroom.

Being an avid and expert gardener, I always find it particularly annoying to sit on the threadbare sofa in

her den and look out the sliding glass doors to see the wilted and dried houseplants on Jeans concrete

patio. She just doesnt seem to appreciate that they must be watered, fertilized, and brought inside

during the freezing autumn and winter months. Generous soul that I am, I thought it might be nice to

bring a gift on our last overnight stay.

Bobbi and I are, if nothing, savvy and thrifty in our gift giving, and always cognizant of an opportunity to

show off our green thumbs. In the spring, we shop the local nurseries and garden club fundraisers for

vegetable and bedding plants and such. With a little effort, were able to get some pretty good deals on

Marigolds, Impatiens, Pansies, and seasonal decorative foliage. In addition, were always on the lookout

for clay and ceramic flower pots at yard sales and occasionally, free on the side of the road when

neighbors are cleaning out their garages and basements.

Last April, we stopped at Jean Alenes on our way to the coast and brought a little surprise with us: a

two gallon clay flower pot pre planted with Super Elfins in a lovely variety of colors. Wed purchased


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over twenty flats at a Kentucky nursery having a going-out-of-business sale, and having filled every

empty space in our luxuriant front yard with the shade-tolerant annuals, we decided it was time to share

our extensive gardening knowledge with our dear, dear friend in Tennessee.

After arriving and downing a couple of highballs, Bobbi announced that we had something special for

her in the back of our Subaru wagon. I exhorted Jeans son Michael to get up off the couch and help mecarry it in. I think our hostess was a little disappointed, to tell the truth, perhaps expecting a couple of

bottles of the Wild Turkey 101 we always enjoyed when visiting, but she was gracious in accepting our

little gift, along with the prerequisite instructions.

Now Jean, I began, in my best professorial tone, too much sun will wither this plant so fast it will

make you cry. Do give it a shady spot that gets half a day or less of full sun - preferably morning sun.

And most importantly, you have to water them. If you let Impatiens dry out too much they will wither

quickly and die. One negligent day will do it. Make sure these plants have a moist soil at all times.

Mulch is a must. You do have mulch, dont you?

Jean gave me a blank look. The plants would be dead in a week. I resolved however to help her spruce

up her home and thereby improve her lot in life. God knows she could use the help. I would remember

to bring up the gift each time we visited Jean Alene in the future. I might even bring a sandwich bag of

my special homemade compost and demonstrate its proper usage.

After Michael had positioned the container on the patio, under my expert supervision of course, I looked

around at the other horticultural tragedies and accumulated household junk and noticed something Id

never seen before on previous visits. There in the corner by the door, covered in cobwebs and half

obscured by a torn bag of cat food, I spied what appeared to be an ancient three legged milking stool.

Jean, I said, with a hint of reproach, are you going to just let that rot out here?

That old thing? You can have it, if you want it, Jean offered. Just more junk Dad left me. Seriously,

take it, with my blessings.

I picked up the dusty object and examined it with a critical eye. The round, irregular legs tightly joined

the seat bottom without fasteners of any sort. The seat itself had a smooth, time worn patina from

years of hard use. From the looks of it, the stool was hand crafted in the hills of Tennessee and at least

a hundred years old.

Jean was giving it to me. Still, I felt it was important not to jump too quickly. A lifetime of negotiating

experience demanded that I hold back a little. Its not enough to simply come out on top. The otherparty must feel that youre doing them a favor.

Well, I dont know, I countered, with a practiced air of uncertainty and reluctance, Bobbi, what do

you think?


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My Sweetie, at the top of her game, echoed my hesitance. Its awfully dirty. I just vacuumed the carpet

in the Subaru, but I guess we can make it fit. Jean, do you have a garbage bag or something we can put

down first?

We had the stool appraised the next day by an antique dealer in Nashville. It was indeed over a century

old and worth between two and three hundred dollars, maybe more at auction. We love Jean Alene. Shetruly is a dear, dear friend. Kind and generous to a fault, as they say. Maybe Ill bring a whole bag of

mulch when we drop by in September, on our way to the Rockies.

An Old Fashioned Christmas

During the long Kentucky winter, my sweetie and I prefer to hunker down at home and enjoy the

incredible snowy vista from our comfortable retreat in the mountains. Theres nothing quite like the

holidays here, and we love to spend a little time with our extended family, as we take a break from our

touring and visiting to do a little entertaining of our own.

Bobbi and I each have a daughter and a son from previous marriages. My daughter Julia has been

divorced and remarried a number of times, has three boys, ages eleven to sixteen, and Bobbis son is the

divorced father of a thirteen year old boy. My son, Clark Jr., has never been married and has no children,

while Bobbis daughter Peggy is married to a man with three daughters of his own, all teenagers.

So a little quick math tells you that our extended family obligations can entail considerable expense for

the holidays, with a minimum of twenty one Christmas gifts to purchase every year. Bobbi is obligated to

buy gifts for, first of all, ourselves, Bobbis five brothers and sisters, our four adult children and their

three spouses, four grandchildren, and three additional grandchildren-in-law.

When Bobbis daughter Peggy married Cliff, it was immediately apparent to me that his three children

were going to cost us, because in addition to the annual Christmas outlay, there were three more

inconvenient birthdays to deal with each year. Prudently, at their wedding reception, I made the case to

Bobbi that wed have to be strategic in our gifting to avoid overspending on presents, always a potential

pitfall when maintaining a retirement lifestyle on a budget.

When I was married to Frannie and our kids were little, we, like so many of our contemporaries, were

caught up in the annual cycle of finding out what they wanted for Christmas, and to the best of our

ability, going out and buying it. Among our friends and neighbors, it would have been shameful to

appear like there was anything we couldnt afford. Our children were status symbols in and ofthemselves. If the neighbors daughter had several Barbies and Kens with extensive wardrobes, my

daughter Julia would have to have a comparable collection, and her Barbies would have Dream Houses

and Sports Cars as well. If the neighbors son had a Daisy air rifle, Clark Jr. would have a Crossman pellet

gun, and so on. Even in the seventies, brand names and fads were the penultimate expression of a

childs social position at school and in the neighborhood.


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As weve moved into our golden years, weve grown past much of that. While Bobbi and I appreciate

and use modern technology, particularly the iPhone, the iPad, the Garmin, and so forth, we know that

young people these days tend to be spoiled and self-serving, in part because of these same kinds of

devices and conveniences. Therefore, weve adopted a policy of giving our grandchildren simpler, more

traditional gifts for the holidays.

Theres no reason why any twelve year old expecting an Mp3 player or an iTunes gift card shouldnt be

perfectly happy with a kite or a wooden penny whistle, especially one purchased at an arts and crafts

fair on one of our annual visits to Joe and Lindas stunning home in the Hamptons. After all, learning to

fly a kite is a lost art, and a kite, of course, can be usually be had for less than ten dollars. And as a

bonus, the gift can be presented along with a lengthy monologue detailing the many ways life was

better in Grandpas day.

Bobbi and I are always vigilant on our shopping excursions, looking for bargains and ways to cut costs

everywhere we go. One example stands out in my mind as one of the best Christmas gift purchases

weve ever made. We were in one of those discount salvage stores, I guess it was about ten years ago,

and we were perusing the name brand sweaters and overcoats for ourselves, some with water stains,

some smelling of smoke, but most items only requiring a good dry cleaning. After Bobbi had selected

some really fine winter garments, on our way to the checkout counter we passed by a stack of crushed

and water damaged cartons.

We called one of the stock boys over to pull down a case from the top of the pile marked simply

books. Upon opening the box, we were pleased to discover a selection of coloring books, not the

movie merchandising or superhero stuff that you find at Walmart, usually marked up beyond reason,

but nice, generic coloring books with pictures of nice, generic dolls and animals and so on. We had the

boy bring the case to the counter, where the clerk did a quick price check. Five dollars for the case.

Maintaining my best poker face, I pointed out the damage to the box and asked if there might be some

additional discount. After calling over the store manager, whod dealt with us before, we were able to

get the price down an additional dollar, and we walked out of the store with two dozen perfectly good

coloring books for a little under twenty cents apiece, tax included. And, just our luck, there were three

different editions, perfect for three boys, the oldest of whom would be five that year.

At that time, our state had a one day tax holiday in late summer for school and educational supplies, and

after successfully arguing with the department store checkout girl that a couple of genuine cowhide Cole

Haan dress belts, at forty percent off, were in fact school supplies, we were able to pick up a number of

great bargains, including three boxes of 64 Crayolas at a reasonable price.

Needless to say, it was a great Christmas for us that year. We came in well under budget, and as matter

of fact, we came in under budget, at least for grandchildrens presents, for the next th ree Christmases,

by cleverly planning to give each grandchild a different coloring book each year. By the fourth year, only

the oldest child showed any sign of suspecting that hed gotten this present before.


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One of the finest family gatherings weve ever had was just this past year, when all of the children,

grandchildren, and Cliffs daughters came to our home in the mountains. With great fanfare, as all the

children circled about, I lit the yule log in our rustic stone hearth, being particularly careful not to build

too big a fire at once. No need to be wasteful. We still had about half a cord of cut, delivered, and

stacked hardwood out back, and wed been very frugal since purchasing the load the previous February.

A couple of the girls remarked that it was cold in the house, and without missing a beat, Bobbi explained

that she and I preferred that way; we slept better with the temperature hovering around sixty in the

master bedroom. If youre cold, leave your coats on. Weve had a little family traditio n for quite a few

years. We always have Julia, along with her current spouse, and Peggy and Cliff and his horde, bring

their respective trunk loads of gifts to our home for opening on Christmas morning. This makes

everything particularly festive, and for my sweetie and I, particularly cost effective. With my red satin

Santa Claus hat, festooned with fresh holly each year and stylishly cocked to one side, I hand out the

gaily wrapped presents from under the tree, taking the implied credit for giving each gift, even the

expensive Spiderman and Star Wars junk that Cliff typically purchases for Julias boys.

Thanks, Grandpa!

Oh no, it wasnt me, I insist with a wink, thank Santa Claus.

This season was unusually merry for me, in that I had finally won an ongoing dispute with Bobbi about

buying presents for Peggys stepchildren. The three girls were, to say the least, rude at the dinner table,

and everywhere else for that matter. In past years, theyd been visibly ungrateful when opening their

presents from us, never failing to point out that their nearly identical sweaters were the wrong size, or

smelled like smoke, or some other complaint.

After Thanksgiving dinner at Cliffs modest tract house, Bobbi had discretely broached the subject withher daughter, explaining that it was hard picking things out for the girls, not knowing their sizes or what

they liked, and so forth. We would prefer to give her a check so she could do the shopping herself. Peggy

graciously accepted this generous gesture, and we were able to check off three names from our list with

a stroke of Bobbis Montblanc fountain pen to the tune of thirty five dollars.

Of course, Peggy and Cliff, barely scraping along on his humble postmans salary, always remembered to

be especially generous to my grandchildren. It was all I could do some years to contain my chagrin at

being upstaged when Julias boys opened the costly, trendy toys that were just what they asked Santa

for.

The highlight of the day was of course the opening of the final present, an honor, as always, reserved for

my sweetie. Over the years, weve attempted to adopt a theme for our gift giving at the holidays. In the

past, weve done sweaters, scarves, and jewelry for all the LeFleur women. During the year, my sweetie

and I are always vigilant, occasionally scoring some very attractive deals in bargain bin earrings and

bracelets for the girls. Bobbis Christmas present would be in keeping with the theme; if the girls got

jewelry, shed get jewelry. Hers, it goes without saying, would always be the most exquisite.


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husband Mike and couple of the grandsons chuckled politely, while Sue, one of Peggys stepdaughters,

rolled her eyes. I pretended not to notice. It was my standard dinner table joke and I knew it was a little

corny. Just another way of letting our guests know that we expected a little gratitude for the effort and

expense wed gone to on their behalf.

All told, there had been quite a bit of effort and expense. Peggy had gotten up in the middle of the nightto start the turkey she and Cliff brought, along with the mincemeat pie. Julia had purchased the yams at

a roadside vegetable stand in Tennessee, and Clark Jr. had bagged the ducks on a hunting trip in

Wisconsin.

Not to suggest that we didnt do more than our fair share. Bobbi prepared her traditional cranberry

salad in the Tupperware mold Julia and her second husband had given us a few years back. The

cranberries, of course, came to us FedEx from our friends Jake and Cindy in Hyannis Port. We served a

fine box Chablis with the meal.

And of course, everyone had traveled a considerable distance to get to our lovely mountain residence.

Julia and Mike were on the road for three days and had to book two motel rooms for two nights for the

kids and themselves. Too bad they havent developed a talent for networking. Bobbi and I have

accumulated, by my last count, six dear, dear retired couples who live along the route Mike and Julia

took to get to our place. A little careful planning and strategizing, and they could have made the trip in

true LeFleur style, with free lodging and meals.

At any rate, expensive or not, it was quite a spread. The turkey was delicious, the ducks perfectly

roasted, the yams and pie were just wonderful. Everyone at least tasted the lutefisk. But the star

attraction, as always, was the cranberry salad mold. It seemed to dominate the conversation for the

whole meal. Even Bridgette, Peggys usually finicky younger daughter, loved it and asked for more.

Bobbi, the consummate grandmother, expressed a little concern about the childs weight issues, andjudiciously measured out a second helping. Peggy gently cautioned the child under her breath, Thats

enough, Bridgette.

After almost half the turkey and all of one of the ducks had been consumed, and everyone appeared to

be sated, we declared dinner to be officially over and cleared the table, relishing the thought of all the

leftovers, the duck empanadas, the yams, the turkey and cranberry sandwiches my sweetie and I were

going to enjoy in the coming week. Yes, we love having family for the holidays.

I guess my favorite part of the celebration will always be the second half of Christmas Day, when all the

paper and refuse have been cleared away, all the penny whistles carefully separated and stashed in bags

for the road home, along with the labels, identifying the presents from Grandpa and Bubbi. Most of

the name brand and high tech toys have been fought over, damaged, or broken outright, almost always

a vindication of the frugal shopping and gifting skills Bobbi and I have honed over the years.


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to smell the roses

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