The house stood at the top of the T as we drove into Rocky Harbor from Norris Point. A typical Newfoundland house — painted frame, two stories — but with new touches: wide, long windows on the bay side that we could see when we drove onto a gravel path alongside the house, and a Jacuzzi, abutting the house next door but seemingly inaccessible to it. Didn’t make sense.

“Paid the owner to build so close,” Andrew said. “It’s Newfoundland, it’s family, or they share the Jacuzzi.”

I didn’t know which, and it bothered me. One of those silly things you just want to know which assumes more importance than it deserves because you don’t know. Each day as we drove from our commodious B&B, Sugar Hill Inn, into Rocky Harbor on our way to see the fjords in Gros Morne National Park, to catch the ferry to Woody Point, or to buy cookies or eat dinner at Java Jack’s, I looked at the house.

One morning, there was no car in the driveway. “Stop the car, ” I said. “There’s no one home. I’ll go see if the Jacuzzi opens to the second house.” He thought I was nuts. As I was walking up the driveway, an elderly lady stepped out of the house. To cover my embarrassment at having been caught snooping, I smiled and said, “I’m so sorry. I don’t mean to invade your privacy, but I like this house so much, I wanted to see it closer than I can from the road.”

“It’s my son’s,” she said brightly. “Would you like to see it?” And before I could respond, she’d reached back into her open doorway and grabbed a set of keys from a wall hook. I motioned to Andrew to join me, and we toured the house, our hostess supplying commentary on the building of the house, herself, and her family.

Her name is Mrs. Paine. I don’t know how old she is; not young. Her three grown sons have moved to Nova Scotia. She’s a widow, lonely. She’s a native Newfoundlander, but not of the west part of the province, to which she moved more than fifty years ago to marry Mr. Paine, whose “people” come from here and meet each year for a reunion. She has no people here. We stayed as long as seemed polite, thanked her profusely, and took our leave. “When you come back to Newfoundland,” she said in an almost impenetrable accent I’ve come to associate with older Newfoundlanders, “come to visit me.” I said I would.

This is Newfoundland. As much as the gaily-hued houses in St. John’s, icebergs and puffins in a bay called Witless, outport towns with houses perched on rock, and red and white lighthouses dotting the coves, this is Newfoundland: the friendliest people on the planet. We read it in guidebooks. We experience it in the welcoming but never obsequious treatment in hotels and restaurants, in the greetings of people who pass us on the street, who look up from their gardening or laundry to say “welcome,” or who take time to tour us through their art studios even though it is clear we are visiting, not purchasing. The city of Gander is where residents turned out to take travelers stranded on 9/11 into their homes. I know people who landed there that day; they will never forget the hospitality and caring. In Newfoundland, it seems to be an everyday thing, which explains a lot about my friend Eileen, whose “people” hail from there.

Guides to Newfoundland divide the island — called “The Rock” by Canadians — into four regions: the Avalon Peninsula, Eastern, Central, and Western regions. We started out thinking that next time we’d fly into Deer Lake instead of St. John’s and spend our time only in the west, but in each region we visited, we discovered we’d only seen … well, the tip of the iceberg.

For icebergs, go to Trinity in late June, where a berg is as likely to sit outside your kitchen window as it is to break up into bergy bits before your eyes. In fact, go to Trinity for any reason. It is a handsome, sweet town that will steal your heart. It was the location for the Canadian film Random Passage — the film set is a tourist attraction — and The Shipping News (although Annie Proulx set the book in L’Anse Aux Meadows, in the far north west of the island). Make sure to stay at Artisan Inn or one of the other properties owned or managed by Tinika Gow, who will direct you on scenic walks, and dine at her delightful restaurant and gallery. Explore the greenery of Terra Nova National Park. As you’re heading east, stop in Harbour Grace to see the airport from which Amelia Earhart began her ultimately ill-fated transatlantic crossing.

If you spend a few days in St. John’s, consider the charming Bluestone Inn, where Neil will suggest just the right places to dine, including the inventive Restaurant 21, just down the block. Visit The Rooms, a well-designed art gallery, museum, and archives, all dedicated to the history of Newfoundland and Labrador.  Walk along Duckworth and Water Streets and explore the new galleries, among them St. Michael’s Printshop or The Leyton Gallery. You may have to drive back west to Port au Choix to see Ben Ploughman’s folk art, but it’s worth the drive.

People have left The Rock. It’s not an easy life. They leave because of cold winters that last into a short summer, rain, the need to re-invent themselves because of the death of the fishing industry. But people are returning, too. A fierce love of place pervades a substantial literature, and everyone you meet. “Do you like our island?” everyone asks, “and will you return?” Yes, and yes.

ShareThis

One thing I hate is to find myself repeating — or to hear someone else repeating — is some slogan or phrase we’ve heard on TV or in a movie. You know, things like, “Make my day,” or the sarcastic use and tone of the word, “Whatever.” We’ve all done it but I think it shows a certain lack of independent thought, and I kick myself mentally when I fall into the trap.

That said, there is some reality, I believe, behind the concept for some TV commercial where we see, say, Dennis Hopper — looking good at age 72 by way of cosmetic surgery, no doubt — hawking some company’s product by saying something like, “50 is the new 40.” I might still have no idea what the company or service is, but I am struck by the meaning of the phrase.

Here I am in my early 60s now, and not a day goes by that I don’t wonder to myself, “Where did all the time go?” I don’t look or feel like I’m in my 60s. I feel 40. Well, I’ve got a bum knee from bicycling but that could happen to anyone. But here’s my point: I am at the age when my parents were about to retire, and I have no interest in retiring … not soon, and maybe not ever.

Sure, my wife and I talk about how much fun it might be to find a nice place somewhere in Europe to escape the chaos and hostility of the nation’s capital, where we live. But with the dollar in such an incredibly weak and devalued state against just about every currency in the world, including Canada’s (can you imagine that?!!), we can no longer afford our fantasy of living abroad. Even if we could, the thought of just kicking back and doing nothing … i.e., retiring … feels boring, even repugnant. There’s too much to be done!

Besides, maybe Europe can better and more affordably be enjoyed through vacations there, like our annual visit to a remote valley where we hike though the breathtaking natural environment of Switzerland.

This is perhaps the most exciting time of our lives. For me, I am drawing on years of experience and contacts in my consulting practice; I’ve just finished writing a second book, which will be published next January; and I’ve self-taught myself more about today’s exciting online blogosphere than many nerds in Silicon Valley. If it weren’t for the darned knee, I’d be racing around on my Trek bike. But, I remember … that’s what caused the knee issue in the first place.

I keep thinking about a really neat email I received the other day from a young technology developer in Bath, England, who is clearly wise beyond his years. He wrote, “You sound very much like my parents. They have reached what used to be considered retirement age but are both busier than ever and seem very happy with it. My personal belief is that retirement per se is an outdated concept. Perhaps it just changes to undertaking less paid or more non-paid work.”

“Retirement per se is an outdated concept.” Wow, that’s really cool and well said from a young man who made a conscious and smart decision to leave the chaos of London for a different and more satisfying lifestyle in the beautiful English city of Bath. For me, perhaps that is the phrase to live by at this stage of my baby boomer life: retirement is an outdated concept … because it best states precisely how I think, what I am doing, and how I feel.

So, my thanks to Keir, the young man in Bath, for the gift of my new motto to live by. His words are far more in-tune and valid with who we are as baby boomers than anything we might hear on TV or at the movies. Even if Dennis Hopper says it!

ShareThis

To have a peaceful and serene day, one does not have to indulge in hours of meditation and mood altering situations.

Sure, every day brings issues to deal with and challenges to meet. Our list of things to do can be almost any size. Some of us work for a living and some do not. But we all have responsibilities.

Many things we have taken for granted the past few years now are a major cause of stress. Today we are in transition politically, economically, and socially, and are forced to make major changes in our lives and attitudes. But there is some good from all the outside chaos.

We are looking for less expensive ways to enjoy our free time. Some of us are starting to use libraries instead of buying new hardback books when they are hot off the press. We are walking and riding bicycles instead of popping into our cars every time we need something from the store. I think this helps us feel more appreciative in general about our lives.

Most of us follow a ritual of daily activity, depending on our lifestyle. If there were a magic wand that could erase problems and difficulties I would gladly wave it in front of you every day.

Today in our current society we are busier than ever just taking care of details. Computers help us pay our bills, emails take the place of hand-written notes, not to mention iPods, Blackberrys, GPS’s. Fax machines and cell phones, once extraordinary inventions, are just old stuff now. And with all these changes, somehow it takes longer to do some of the most mundane activities.

After spending many hours on the telephone pressing buttons to take care of a billing problem, with luck you may reach a real human being. You think the problem is solved until next month when the error appears once again. What about the cancellation notice of your insurance for no reason? What about the faulty merchandise you are trying to return? It is no wonder many of us feel frazzled at the end of the day.

So what is the solution to all this craziness we are experiencing in our lives?

First, give yourself five minutes to meditate. That is all you need; no fancy instructions. Sit quietly and breathe in four counts and out four counts. If there is music in the background, that’s fine but it does not matter. Then take about five minutes to write your intentions for the day. Keep it simple and be sure you can follow them. Then, the most important thing is to write down all the things you are thankful for. This is insulating and reminds you of your wonderful life. If there are some things you wish to happen, write them down too, as if they are already happening.

Wake up and smile, stretch, smell the coffee (or tea), and get out of bed saying to yourself, “Thank you for another wonderful day and opportunity in life.” Finally, remember that when you smile, it takes ten years off your appearance.

ShareThis

When Tim announced he wanted to travel around the country in a converted bus for a year, I gave this profound and potentially life-altering notion all the thoughtful consideration it deserved.

“Why can’t you be like a normal husband with a midlife crisis and have an affair or buy a Corvette? I will never, ever, EVER, not in a million years, live on a bus.”

We’re shrinks, but Tim’s obviously the better one, because something less than a million years later, I shocked us both and agreed to set forth with our two cats who hate each other, a sixty-pound dog who loves licking us all, my 200 shoes – and no agenda. Could this boisterous marriage of polar opposites and their dysfunctional furry family survive (even thrive?) 24/7 in 340 square feet for a year?

Other than the fact that we’re both psychiatrists, I doubt you could find a more disparate pair. I’m a self-proclaimed Long Island princess, grouchy couch potato, and shoe addict. Tim’s an affable, though driven, outdoorsman. I’d never even realized how strange my love of the great indoors was until one February, when I heard Tim talking to a neighbor in our yard. I poked my head out the door to say hello.

“Doreen! It’s nice to see you!” she exclaimed, as if I were a burn victim, finally emerging from the hyperbaric chamber. Tim, of course, couldn’t resist singing out, “Guess it’s six more weeks of winter!”

Although Tim still refuses to divulge how he got me to agree to live on a bus for a year (I shudder to think what he’ll get me to do next), his powers of persuasion didn’t end when we hit the road. Oh, no. Although as a psychiatrist he is very much in tune with unconscious drives, hidden meanings, and deep-seated motivations, he is also a typical guy. And typical guys want to go to nudist resorts. Not being any type of a guy myself, I had always informed him I would never, ever, EVER, not in a million . . . Oh, what’s the use? By now I had clearly lost any semblance of free will. I was, after all, living in a bus. I didn’t stand a chance.

In California, one place seemed particularly promising on the internet, so I called and asked if they were, indeed, clothing optional.

“No,” the lady unequivocally answered.

“Oh. I’m sorry. I must have the wrong information,” I apologized, hoping she didn’t think me some weirdo. But something in her voice made me query further.

“So . . . people don’t walk around naked?” I tried to confirm.

“Oh, yes, they do,” she answered. Is this place English optional, or what?

“Okay . . . but you’re not clothing optional,” I offered slowly, with impeccable pronunciation.

“No, we’re nudist,” she snapped. Well, excuuuuse, me.

“I’m not sure I know the difference,” I conceded. She explained that when inside the park, one is required to be naked. Now I got it. It was the optional, not the clothing, that was the problem with the whole clothing optional thing. Who knew? I proceeded with what I thought was a perfectly reasonable follow-up question.

“Can I wear shoes?” She guffawed, muzzled the phone, and called out to some other nudity-requiring linguiphile, “She wants to know if she can wear shoes!” For those as clueless as I, the answer is yes. I decided she could keep her shod-optional accommodations and found a different park.

As millions of baby boomers have reached middle age, they’ve reflect back on their lives, as well as looked ahead to what retirement will bring. QUEEN OF THE ROAD is my tale about refusing to settle; about choosing the unconventional road with all the misadventures it brings (fire, flood and armed robbery, to name just a few). The marvelous places we visited (in forty-seven states, including Alaska) and delightful people we encountered had a life-changing effect on all the travelers: I became less materialistic (in spite of that never being one of my life goals), Tim’s Type A personality mellowed to a more decidedly manageable B+, and even the pets pulled together.

~~~~

Read about Doreen’s book - click here

[Editor’s postscript: Doreen is one proud woman. Not just because she wound her way through life for a year on a bus, but because her bus was actually featured as the centerfold of Bus Conversions Magazine, thus fulfilling a life-long ambition of becoming a Miss September.]

ShareThis

There has been a strange phenomenon in our otherwise low key little bungalow. We have gone from television sets that are teeny, to only tiny, to friggin’ huge. I was the last holdout in this transition. The aesthetics of the living room are my domain, and I’ve held to a Frazier-like eschewment of anything gaudy. Not only the monstrously humongous TV but the apparatus you put it in. I wasn’t game for a double-D-cup wall unit in my face every time I entered the living room. It took our youngest teenage son to move me past my passé philosophy.

“We need a new TV. This one is too small. ALL my friends have bigger ones.” That last line of reasoning never carried weight with me. I fought him on the size issue too. “Well, I’m sorry if our B-cup television is not good enough for you any more,” I countered with expert motherly guilt.

“Wha—-t?!” he replied, “I, I, I didn’t say it wasn’t good enough. I’d just like to actually see what’s happening. The pictures on my friends’ TVs are amazing.” Then he played the child’s trump card in parent/child disputes of this kind. “You don’t have to get me anything else for Christmas, just this. My gift can be for the whole family.”

The nerve. Also, the effectiveness!

I had to admit I was having a hard time reading the program guide on our small TV from across the room. My husband and I are both using bifocal contacts and glasses now. I guess we were ready for the large print version of television as well.

I realized that I too would like the big boob TV, but I played it coy til I was out doing some casual Saturday shopping with my husband. We had purchased a pair of wool socks at the mall and were wondering what to do next. Well, we could go to Wallie World and just browse at the large screen TVs . . . “Okay!”

This pressed the launch button in my husband. He became a man on a mission. He takes electronics and gadgetry deadly serious, and I, through my innocent suggestion, had released the hounds. He was on the scent now. We were in for a long haul of intense shopping research.

After standing a distance away from several models to compare picture quality/price ratio, we finally settled on one with the sharpest image. Now for the support system. We opted for a minimal unobtrusive design. While choosing the stand, someone from the store informed us that they were out of our carefully chosen TV model. A branch store 30 minutes away had only one in that model. They would hold it for one hour.

We quickly paid for the low profile (but heavy!) stand and loaded it up. We raced to the store that had our TV and sighed in relief when both it and the stand fit in our small Scion. This was obviously meant to be.

The credit card company called us on our way home. There was unusual activity on our card and they were just checking to see if it was really us. Yes, we laughed. Not to worry. Could we verify our purchases of the last two hours? Let’s see: a TV stand, a large screen TV; oh, and a pair of socks. Yes, that’s it. We are two wild and crazy shoppers.

Amidst much flurried rearranging, my husband erected the stand and connected all the different components to their proper ports. We eagerly awaited our son’s return home from a band trip. We played it cool. Half the fun of doing something unexpected is acting as if nothing happened. Watching the joyful look of shock on his face completed our adventure.

The old living room TV has replaced the even older one that was in our bedroom. I just don’t know. It’s looking kind of puny in there in the corner on its small table. Maybe we should check out the ads this weekend. We wouldn’t want to miss out on some large screen deal. They might be having a special on the Pamela Anderson model.

ShareThis