Hardwick New Year's Weekend

I spent yesterday, New Year's Day, back at the B&B where I live with my fellow teachers.  I was standing at the second floor window, looking out at the vast common and the lop-sided Christmas trees decorated by the Cub Scouts, and I suddenly heard the clomping of oxen.  A wagon full of townspeople, who were being pulled by the oxen, jumped out for a short break at the town cemetery.  It was such a New England moment, despite the warmer weather yesterday.  Later in the day, I walked up to my school where there was a local jazz performance of Christmas songs like "Let it Snow," and the jazz version of the Nutcracker Suite.

After two weeks of strenuous socializing, it felt good to hang out here and come down from all the talking. We're a family of talkers. I don't know about your family, but in my family, we worry about everyone in the family out loud.  i'm a major offender. But  I was part of the topics this year because I managed to screw up an ATM cash request while I was in Georgia, and as a result, I unwillingly "donated" a good bit of money to the woman behind me.  Don't ask; you'll think I'm senile too.  It truly was an easy mistake to make. But I saw the serious look on my daughter, Jen, when I told this story; I've joined the ranks of family members who are worrisome. Alzheimers is setting in?  Nah.

I just think it's a function of traveling alone, which I mostly do, and feeling somewhat overwhelmed by constant change at the airport.  This time it was the new X-ray machines that light you up in the nude, apparently.  It was also the blizzard, which upended my routine with two days of cancellations and uncertainty. Now I can go back to my everyday routine where I don't get rattled and where I don't have to check myself every few minutes for airplace stubs, license or passport, standby receipts, money, credit and debit cards, cell phone, rental car keys and agreements, etc.  Forgive me, but I'm so tired of traveling.  It's worth it, of course, but it's an ordeal.  I feel OCD as I constantly sift through my purse trying to keep all the little pieces, that prove I am me, straight.

My fellow B&B teachers, 22 years old, returned late last night when I was listening to NPR and jazz that must have been from the 40s.  What must they think?  They are sweet young women, though, and treat me like it's normal to live in a B&B with 22 year olds when you are almost retirement age.  They've even seen me in my ratty bathrobe and slippers, sweeping the kitchen with a broom, and I never see them smirk. By the way, NPR is full of stories about the end of Social Security and Medicare.  If that happens while we boomers are moving through "God's waiting room" as one  friend deemed it, many of us are going to have to walk off into the snow when we're really old, if there is any snow at that point in history.