Publisher's Page
On the Cusp of Spring
by Debi Orton
This has been an odd winter in the Northeast, unlike any in my memory, and it's inspired an odd set of reflections. We had a little snow in early December, but for the most part, the ground has been bare; the weather too warm to sustain fallen snow for more than a few days. Instead, we got lots of rain and fog. This must be what living in Seattle is like.
Groundhog's Day predicted six more weeks of winter, but here, the groundhogs were already out of their burrows, munching grass that never lost its green tinge. On River Road, the daffodils planted close to my home's foundation were rising, and the beavers were methodically trying to denude our yards of trees.
I spent much of this late winter reading books about writing creative nonfiction. When I sat down recently to consider what I might write about for this issue's Publisher's Page, I thought I might write about what I've discovered. I even jotted down what I'd thought to use as an opening: "What I've noticed over time is that memory presents you with a series of scenes. You are left to determine the relationships between those scenes — or not — as seems best to you. The art of really good creative nonfiction is to report those scenes faithfully and develop meaningful connections between them."
But within days of writing that down, I received news that a neighbor and friend, skiing on Valentine's Day with the ski club at the high school where he teaches, had a horrible accident that is likely to leave him disabled for life. He and his wife are younger than I am, and have raised three wonderful grown children. They were looking forward to the empty nest, to having the freedom to travel and experience new things. I don't think the "new things" they'd been looking forward to have anything to do with the changes their lives will now inevitably undergo.
Hearing about situations like this, especially involving someone you know, are cause for reflection about your own life's course. As a long-time public servant, I'm rapidly approaching eligibility for retirement. Paradoxically, the projects I've been passionate about for years are only now reaching critical mass. What to do? As Joe Strummer sang, "Should I stay or should I go?"
If you'd asked me this morning at 6:00 a.m. if I wanted to retire, I'd have asked you to show me the papers and hand me a pen. My own internal clock doesn't recognize the nine-to-five grind as something that's compatible. There are also other factors pushing me toward retirement. My father died at 49; my mother had to work until 65 to qualify for retirement, by which time she was already disabled. Add to that my friend's unfortunate accident and likely prognosis, and all signs point to retiring while I'm still able to enjoy it.
I've worked since I was fourteen years old, and due to some very good fortune and crafty planning, I can retire with income enough to keep me comfortable. So why wouldn't I retire, take some of those scenes stored in my memory and turn them into artful nonfiction — or, as Tony Maltezos suggests (see Tony's Editor's Corner essay), into authentic fiction?
On the other hand, I've heard from two acquaintances lately who seem to regret having retired. They miss the structure of the work week, miss the companionship of co-workers, the feeling of accomplishment that comes with having done a good day's work. I also know people who seem to have come alive in retirement.
All of which leaves me no closer to a decision. There are ancillary considerations that I won't get into here, but when December comes, I'll probably make a decision based on the landscape at the time. Despite my best intentions, I'm not a planner. Most of the directions in my life have been gifts of intuition, not logic. So far, I like where my instincts have taken me.
In the interim, I'll continue to store memories, so that when time allows, I'll be able to sit down and review them. Hopefully I'll be able to find the connections and the words to articulate their meaning.