The Idleness of Retirement

Among the accusations that many soon-to-be retirees hear is the tired old question “What are you going to do to keep busy?” While those making such an inquiry might mean well, the implication of the question is that they believe the old codger about to get his gold watch has little to no life or interests outside of the profession he intends to leave. I was the object of more than a few such inquiries about six years ago when I was anxiously counting down the remaining days of my employment as an archivist for Montana State University. “Nothing,” was my reply to all, “I intend to do nothing,” and I was quickly warned by my interlocutors that such an empty post-retirement existence would drive me insane. I can now confirm from my own vantage point that the dire predictions of my colleagues were grossly exaggerated, but you will have to judge for yourself (if you continue to read this essay) whether or not these are the ravings of a madman. What I have discovered since I left the working world behind is that some things have not changed, and others have changed for the better. I will begin with the former.

I used to walk to work and back every day, a pleasant twenty minute stroll through Bozeman’s historic district lined with beautiful mature trees. I always appreciated this alone

time because it allowed me to examine, in my reverie, any number of things from the books I was reading to the tasks that awaited me at work. Often I was so consumed in my own thoughts that I would arrive at the library front door with no clear memory of what had transpired since I left my house. This situation has not changed for me since I put down the working tools of academia. Starting first in Bisbee, where we moved shortly after retiring, and now in Tucson, I walk anywhere from four to seven miles every morning at dawn. My favorite local path takes me deep into Sabino Canyon, a rocky creek bottom in the center of the Santa Catalina mountains and I usually share the stroll now with friends.

Researching people and events was part of my job responsibilities when processing collections of personal papers and over the years I developed a real skill for ferreting out information on the most obscure characters. This was often the most enjoyable part of my working day, and I continue to practice it now. If not the genealogy of my own family, I often spend hours looking up information on a variety of topics that have caught my interest, including the history of our home, neighborhood, and of course all of Southern Arizona.

Finally, writing and reading were both features of my life in academia, and I managed to add dozens of articles and essays to the tally I was forced to maintain to earn tenure and promotion. Although that sword of Damocles has now been removed from over my head, I still get a great deal of satisfaction from both. Readers of this blog might justifiably question the volume of my literary output after months of silence, but my scribblings these days are mostly handwritten letters and rough drafts of works I intend to publish elsewhere. One of my long term projects is writing a book-length discussion on just how harmful the western myth has been for American Culture, a book which I am sure will require my own financing if it ever appears in print. Reading, too, is something that has declined but not due to any lack of pleasure on my part while so engaged. The simple truth is that my eyes tire easily after about an hour with a book and it takes me longer to finish volumes than I used to. I have rediscovered a fondness for English fiction of the Victorian period, a type of literature that requires time to absorb. I have plenty of time now.

What has changed for the worse for me since retirement? I can honestly say “angst.” If I am not fretting over my own health I am anxious for Jayne’s, and every new ache or pain triggers my concern for us both.

The national political situation is also a crushing worry, with a madman running for president and a myriad of his deluded followers seemingly ready to confront anyone with a bumper sticker that might criticize their Orange God King. None of the aforementioned apprehensions are linked to retirement, however, since I would have had the same headaches had I remained in harness, but now I am free to notice them more without distractions.

Overall I feel I must reassure those kind people who had so much concern for my mental health declining as the years of idleness stack up. Retirement is a blessing to me, and I am so grateful I have had the opportunity to enjoy these years doing whatever we feel like doing, whenever we feel like doing it. Perhaps the single most attractive thing about not working is the feeling I get every Sunday evening, a time when previously I suffered a vague uneasiness about the week to come. Now when the sun sets on the Sabbath, I smile with the realization that tomorrow will be most likely exactly like today, and that is completely fine with me.

Home, again

The last few days in Australia were spent in the Sydney suburb of Rockford with our friends, Blanca and Phillip, who generously opened their homes and hearts to us as we appeared bedraggled and somewhat sick on their doorstep on August 13. They tucked us away in their comfortable guest room and prepared a meal of delicious goat curry, with both extra spicy and normal versions, which settled us in nicely. My own cold was growing worse and Jayne had a few health issues of her own as our three day stay progressed, but in the end we made the flight at the Sydney airport on August 16 without a hitch.

I suppose it would be appropriate to summarize a few observations of Australia for this trip.

1) Australia's road system is, compared to the US, underwhelming. As one of the pricipal ingredients of asphalt pavement is oil, and the fact that Australia has only 0.3 percent of the world's know petroleum reserves, means that many roadways are a bumpy, potholed path at best. Paving in the first place is expensive for any government; maintaining that pavement is also expensive. The terrain and the economics mean that Australian roads are a twisted, winding length of very uneven surfaces. (Don't think this is a chauvanistic American comment, though. One need look no farther than out my own front door in Tucson to see pavement in dismal repair. It was once reported that author Jack Kerouac visited our neighborhood in 1950, and one wag responded to that fact by asserting "He likely drove over the same pavement we have today.")

2) Australia has a critical shortage of salad dressing. Many restaurants serve lettuce, tomato, and other mixed greens with a meal that are entirely without any dressing whatsoever, while others seem to have merely shown these vegetables a photograph of oil and vinegar prior to plopping it on a plate. Ranch dressing, and creamy dressings in general, appear to be unknown in most restaurants.

3) Adequate signage in airport terminals, bus stations, and other public transport facilities is sadly lacking. Aside from the occasional "Way Out" notification, the traveler has little help directing his steps to the proper door.

4) An addiction to sweet barbeque sauce is the bane of Australian hamburgers (along with sliced beets).

5) The average Australian seems to be a rough-hewn, friendly, helpful, and genuinely likeable person.

6) A country that has a national health plan for its citizens, and a responsive legislature, can definetely teach the United States lessons on the practical application of democracy.

I am glad we went. I am glad to have once more experienced this wonderful country and all it has to offer. I am glad we are home.

Back to Gloucester

due to a stroke of good luck (and Jayne's diplomatic inquiry at th Qantas service desk) we were able to leave Brisbane an hour early on a different flight. Odd airline is Qantas; they only fly back and forth to Newcastle two days a week, yet they have several flights on those days. Were I the king of the world, I would have spread out the flights over more days, but obviously that is not in the Qantas rule book. As it is, I have not received a "give us feedback on your recent flight" email from the corporation, which is very good. Like my mama used to preach, "If you can't say anything nice..."

Our last full day with our gracious hosts has been nothing short of a complete delight. Although I have some pretty severe cold symptoms (two Covid tests have proven negative) I was able to participate in several hotly contested dart games, one or two bean bag tossing sessions during a

game with the somewhat unappetitizing name of Cornhole, and simply enjoying a bright, sunshiny day with temperatures in the upper seventies. As sundown approached, I was given the responsibility of building a fire in the outdoor fireplace while Ronald prepared a delicious meal of grilled pork chops, and Jane prepared a pan of scalloped potatoes. And if all this were not enough, shortly after sundown some sort of celebration commenced at a showground just over the hill from the house with a fireworks show that rivaled the last one we witnessed in Tucson on July fourth. It was a great way to cap off our lengthy visit with our gracious hosts, and we are so grateful they were willing to put up with us for all this time and travel. Now we are preparing to leave Gloucester on the train to retun to Sydney for a three night's stay with Blanca and Philip, friends we have met through Blanca's repeated research visits to the Montana State University archives where once I held sway. Their home is quite close to the airport where we will fly back to the USA on Wednesday morning. As much as we have enjoyed this trip I think we are both eager to return to the oven which is Tucson in August and resume our daily routines.

Stranded!

"Stranded, stranded on the toilet bowl,

What can you do when you're stranded,,

An you don't have a roll?",

My indulgent readers will forgive the above schoolyard version of the theme song to the Chuck Conners classic western television show, Branded once I have completed my sad tale, but before I do I must catch you up on what happened to us after arriving in Darwin a few days ago. All will be revealed.

Our happy railroad trip to Australia's top end terminated in the charming city of Darwin, and since I have gotten into the habit of describing these sites by making American comparisons, I will say the city seemed a lot like Hawaii (without the devastating wildfires presently burning). The climate is tropical, and the denizens of the city are just as likely to parade around in swim suits and shorts as they are shirts and jeans. Most of the architecture of the place was new and modern; exactly what you would expect from a place that was nearly wiped out by a cyclone in 1974 and one that endured several raids from the Japanese in World War II. The Northern Territory library is situated in a very attractive building that also serves as the legislative assembly hall, and we were delighted with what we found there. No deep-colored wooden paneling for this place, it was clean and quite modern, with some of the most impressive displays I have seen in any museum. One which described the opening of the Australian outback to touring vehicles featured a stationary bus with screens representing the passing scenery one would have expected while driving along one of the endless red dirt roads leading across the vast landscape. Our hotel accomodations were also in a modern hotel, and quite luxurious since it was a complete apartment with kitchen, bedroom, living room, and even a washer and dryer. We made good use of the latter dealing with our dirty clothes after three days on the train. Although the city has its fair share of homeless, especially of Aboriginal people down on their luck, there were certainly no more than one can see in any American city of equal or greater side. We bought groceries at a nearby store and cooked a delicious steak during our first night in the hotel, and I was even able to gratify my craving for a chicken schitzel on the second day. Finally the view of the ocean was outstanding, observed from a water front park sprinkled with giant fig and banyan trees.

Unfortunately the good times did not last after taking our flight to Brisbane. The limo driver did not appear to take us to the hotel for our one night stay in the city and poor Ronald had to secure a cab

for us after a considerable delay. We did not arrive to the hotel until after sundown, and we were as tired as you can imagine after the three hour, forty-five minute flight. The rooms were again very nice, apartments really, with all the amenities we enjoyed at Darwin, but I was so keyed up by the ordeal I found it difficult to sleep and a real chore getting up to catch another cab back to the airport this morning at nine o'clock. Due to the time change it seemed much, much earlier, and we arrived at the airport bleary-eyed and ready for our flight back to Newcastle for the drive home. Alas, the flight was cancelled, and a substitue has not been scheduled for us until after six this evening. We are, in sort, stranded in this airport with no recompense for our inconvenience beyond a miserly fifteen dollar meal voucher grudgingly provided by the rather unhelpful Qantas staff. That amount of money in this country will get you a cup of barrista coffee, or perhaps a meat pie, and of course airport concessions are much more expensive than the normally expensive prices one would pay in the city. We are making the best of it, as all travelers must, but this ordeal has taxed my own sleepless constitution to the max. I am reminded of a hotel host in Madrid who once told us, "The life of the tourist is hard." True that!

The Katherine Gorge(ous)

The off train experience today was truly remarkable, a long drive from the train station at Katherine to the Nitmiluk National Park where we boarded a river boat for a cruise up through the Katherine Gorge. I have nothing to compare it to since I have never visited the bottom of

the Grand Canyon of Arizona and seen firsthand the steep cliffs descending to the Colorado River, but I imagine it is somewhat similar to this more modest canyon with its swift running channel. Although the watercourse is hundreds of miles from the ocean the river is still home to both fresh and salt water crocodiles, and we saw one of each during the excursion. When the river is low the rocky bed forms a barricade between different levels of the river, but when the rains come the critters can easily breach the natural dams and remain healthy even when the lowering water levels trap them upstream. Our guide was remarkable, a very knowledgeable young woman who both provided the commentary and performed all the duties of a ship captain and shore crew all by herself. During our portageto reach a second boat past one of the rocky barricades the walkway went along side a cliff where some prehistoric Van Gogh painted images of himself and the animals he hunted. At least 10,000 years old, it reminds the visitor of the oft repeated descriptive phrase, "the ancient land", when referring to Australia. The native people who inhabited this place prior to the arrival of the white man in 1788 have left many tangible reminders of their earlier settlement, and this rock art was a great example.

p>The tour was over all too soon and we got back on the bus to return to the train. While boarding the vehicle with all the other geriatric passengers both Jayne and I were reminded of the many tours her mother had taken overseas during the latter part of her life. She always had plenty of pictures of people we never met and that she delighted in telling us about. Do we really become our parents?

On the Ghan

I am typing this entry while seated in the dining car of the mighty Ghan, a luxury passenger train traveling from Adelaide to Darwin right through the center of the continent. As i look out the window and a flat, brush covered countryside reminicent of the mesquite country around Sonoita, Arizona, I am reflecting on how we got here

We left Gloucester last Friday for a drive to the airport at Newcastle. It was a long and winding journey, as is every drive in this country. On the east coast of Australia there is no such thing as a level, straight road, and almost as rare are stretches where the pavement is in good repair. Once we got to the airport we boarded the jet for Adelaide, a two and a half hour flight that actually served a meal of sorts. (American airliners take note: it is of small expense to provide something to your passengers beyond a miserly package of stale pretzels and it goes a long way towards improving the disposition of your customers.) We spent two nights in Adelaide waiting for the train in what was purported to be a five star hotel and took in a few sights, including the Adelaide art museum and the Library of South Australia. The latter was particularly impressive with the standard lofty reading room and interesting exhibits of documents and publications pertaining to Australian history. The downtown area where we stayed is a bit rowdy, though, and during my early morning walk on Saturday I passed crowds of thirty-something revelers who had apparently been at it all night. The trash strewn on the streets from these folks was incredible, and before I returned to the hotel at sunrise an army of street sweepers and leaf blowers were busily cleaning up the mess. It is a never ending job because the same thing happened Sunday morning as well

MUCH LATER: The train passed through miles and miles of outback terrain, with the parched contryside getting drier as we moved north. The brunch in the dining car proved very adequat. I passed on a traditional English breakfast of bacon, sausage, beans, egg, toast and a fried tomato to settle on a chicken breast served on basmati rice. Superior to last night's dinner, I ate it all and eagerly awaited the off train experiences that we signed up for at the beginning of the trip. Jayne and I chose to do the "Explorer" package consisting of several sites in Alice Springs, a city of about 28,000 in the heart of Australia. It was surprising to see civilzation after so many uninhabited miles and we disembarked at the train station to board a passenger bus that took us to the oldest European built site in the Northern Territory: the Alice Spings telegraph station. When my son Benjamin was a young adult he confessed to us that during his childhood he tired of being hauled to "crappy frontier towns" during our family vacations. It is true I overdid it back then, preferring the ambiance of false fronted wooden buidlings lining dusty streets in various western states we traveled through, and that Benjamin could not appreciate my obsessions because he had not grown up watching "Gunsmoke" on television as I did in the early 1960s. The Alice Springs telegraph station was a collection of buildings constructed in

the nineteenth century, a small community built around the only available water source to service the trans-continental telegraph line which parallels the present day route of this railroad from Adelaide to Darwin. The tour guide explained that the first explorers mistakenly thought that a stagnant pond in a dry riverbed was actually the site of a spring, and that the person who located the station named it after the wife of his employer. Unfortunately, Alice never visited the place because she could not bear travel by camel back (the only option in this parched land) and so as a result "Alice Springs" is really niether "Alice" nor a "Spring." This did not stop the locals from erecting a statue at the train station to commemorate the camel journey she never took!

Other stops on the day tour were at a reptile center where an active, chirpy bloke who spoke with machine-gun rapidity told us about fifty times that the dangers to humans from Australia's notorious venomous snakes has been severely exaggerated, but that the danger from salt water crocodiles was certainly very real. I believed him. The last stop on the tour was at the Alice Springs School of the Air, an institution founded in 1951 to provide distance education to isolated outback children by means of a ham radio broadcast. The service continues today via the internet, but it was interesting to think that these people had pioneered the idea of distance learning seventy years before the Covid-19 pandemic.

Today's off train trip will be to Katherine Gorge where we will board a tour boat and sail out among the crocodiles. Should I survivel, I will report the results in my next entry.

The Kindness of Strangers

I am reminded of the line uttered by Blanche DuBois in "A Streetcar Named Desire" for today's essay, primarily because within the last twenty-four hours I have seen the best that the people of this country can offer a traveler. I have also seen some of the most mediocre that the country can offer, but more of that in a minute.

the first incicent happened in Gloucester when i had come to town with ronald on a grocery run. while he was occupied with his business I went up to a streetside ATM machine to get some cash out of our checking account. All was going well with the transaction until the end when the machine said "please take your card,' and it made the mechanical noise to eject the plastic into my waiting hand. unfortunately, the device jammed, and the card was barely visible, just peeking out from the slot. Had I my pocket knife, I would have easily pried the thing forward with no worries, but my thick fingers and very closley trimmed fingernails did not allow a grip on the edge of the card and it suddlenly was sucket into the bowels of the machine, and the transaction canceled. You can imagine my distress, and I was so upset that I did not notice the armored car people who had just pulled up and entered the bank. I followed them in and an officious, nasty woman was unlocking the door to the back end of the machine for the guards. I quickly explianed my plight, but the bank woman was completely unhelpful, assuring me that there was no way she could access the guts of the ATM and that I was out of luck. I quickly turned to the guards and begged them to help me, and a big, brawny fellow listened to my story with no small degree of skepticism. When I told him I was a visiting American and would be severly disadvantaged by losing the card, I could see he was yeilding and finally he asked my name. I not only told him that, but I described my card to the gnat's eyelash, and he turned from me to the machine. As quick as I have written these lines he got the card and handed it to me, after which I warmly clasped his hand and said, "Thank you, mate!" What a great guy!

My second experience was much more pleasant. I have been a member of the Masonic fraternity for over two decades and uring our visit here I noted that the town of Gloucester has an active lodge. Furthermore, I noted that they meet on the first Wednesday of the month, which coinicided with the last day we were going to be in town prior to leaving for our rail adventure. As I result, I showed up at the Gloucester lodge on the night of a full moon with more than a little apprehension of how I would be received. I am fully paid up on my dues to my home lodge in Bozeman, Montana, Gallatin #6, but it has beeen some time since I actually visited a lodge. I was unsure of the grips and passwords necessary to gain admission, but I needn't have worried. The brother who met me at the door was friendly and his inquiries were met by me with the correct responses (well, almost correct). What followed was a fantastic meeting with a group of fine fellows who were excited to be hosting a visiting Yank. In addition to presenting me with a beautiful lapel pin theyalso placed at the Master's table for the post meeting meal. It was a wonderful experience and made me glad that I have continued my association with the fraternity.