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24May   {My Story} An FOF Abroad
We all have fantasized about picking up, packing up, and moving abroad a la Elizabeth Gilbert in Eat, Pray, Love. Meet one FOF who did just that.

Above: Karen stops to pose in front of the newly-restored boat lagoon at the Plaza de España. (Photo taken this year.)


[Editor's note: The essay below, by FOF Karen McCann, is part of a series of personal blogs from our readers. Have your own story to tell? Email your idea to sara@faboverfifty.com.]

If you’re ever in the mood to reinvent yourself, consider moving abroad. Ten years ago, I was working as a journalist and consultant in Cleveland, Ohio when my husband, Rich, a health care administrator, took early retirement. He continued to do occasional consulting but mostly lived his dream--spending endless days in the garden. As can often happen with retirement fantasies, that dream gradually put him in a rut. With perfect timing, friends invited us to join them in southern Spain. As avid travelers, we preferred more exotic travel destinations (hiking in Bhutan, doing volunteer work in Bosnia), but we decided to go. It was refreshing to vacation without having to worry about scorpions, bandits, unexploded land mines or life-threatening tap water. And, we were charmed and intrigued by Spain, especially the ancient city of Seville. After our first, brief visit, we decided to go back to Seville the next spring for a longer stay. Rich had always wanted to study a foreign language, so we signed up for basic Spanish, which I soon learned is a lot harder to learn when you’re in your 50s but can be mastered if you stick with it.

Left: Karen takes a break with husband, Rich after a long hike in Nepal.
Right: In Thailand, Karen starts across a bridge that she says, "I was fairly sure wouldn't collapse under me."


That spring, we also struck up a friendship with our landlady and her husband, who remain close amigos to this day. Our landlady introduced us to her own friends and family, and through our language school we met other expats of all ages. We quickly amassed a coterie of friends, and it became difficult to leave them when we had to return to the States. We returned to Seville every spring for the following four years, at which point, we began to reassess our priorities. Our consulting gigs back in the States paid well but weren’t very fulfilling. When we ran the numbers, we realized our annual expenditures wouldn’t change much if we moved to Seville. We'd be maintaining two homes, (we wanted to keep a home in the U.S. for visits) but the additional cost of renting an apartment in Seville would be offset by Spain's much lower prices for food, entertainment, transportation, etc. We’d talked about living abroad ever since our first date and now we actually decided to do it.

Not everyone shared my sense of excitement about this decision. Rich’s relatives couldn’t fathom why we’d want to leave the U.S., and my five brothers and sisters, who had been aghast when Rich and I had moved from San Francisco to Cleveland for his job, shrugged it off as another one of our goofy whims. More surprising-–shocking even--was that some of my friends stopped speaking to me the moment they heard I was leaving. They felt abandoned and betrayed. Other friends were marvelous, supportive and helpful in a thousand ways. Still, it was a much rougher sendoff than I’d anticipated.


An Australian acquaintance helped us find an apartment and was one of many expats who gave us support and advice as we settled in. Another acquaintance told us: “Get a one bedroom apartment. Otherwise people will expect to stay with you.” I failed to grasp the wisdom of her advice, until guests started showing up in droves. Seven years later, we’ve had over 100 visitors, some of whom have arrived for the weekend and refused to leave for weeks. Missing family and friends turned out to be far less of a problem than I’d thought.

Left: Karen, at the Feria de Abril (April Fair) with friend Sarah Gemba, wearing the traditional trajes de flamenca, 2010.
Right: Book cover for Karen's upcoming book, Dancing in the Fountain: How to Enjoy Living Abroad.


More challenging was finding enough books to satiate my voracious appetite. Seville’s shops carry a very limited selection of books in English, and I was having a hard time sustaining myself on a literary diet of Stephen King, gushy romances and Charles Dickens. I spent a fortune on Amazon until I discovered a local women’s club with a large English library. The Kindle has also been a godsend. As my language skills improved, I started reading books in Spanish starting with children’s books, such as Harry Potter. Muggles are muggles in any language.


I’ve written a blog and a book (due out in August) about my transition to Seville The book's title, Dancing in the Fountain, comes from one hot night when Rich and I found ourselves sitting on the edge of a large fountain. Dabbling our feet in the cool water, pretty soon we were wading, then dancing in the fountain. An old man passing by growled, “Hey you two, is that any way to behave? You wouldn’t do that back where you come from.” And that’s the whole point. Living overseas, you get to try things you’d never do back home. Rich and I began stagnating as we hit our 50s. Now, we feel more alive then we have in years.
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Karen McCann is a writer, blogger, photographer and painter who has lived in Seville, Spain since 2004. A fourth-generation Californian, she has lived in Virginia, Connecticut, Massachusetts and Ohio, and maintains a cottage in the San Francisco area. Wanderlust has taken her to more than thirty countries, including developing or post-war nations where she and her husband volunteer as consultants to struggling microenterprises. You can download her free booklet “101 Ways to Enjoy Living Abroad,” when you sign up for her website, which includes practical advice for rookie expats.

Images courtesy of Karen McCann, enjoylivingabroad.com
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11April   {My Story} FOF Sallie Buck turns her grief into goodwill.
When FOF Sallie Buck lost her husband suddenly, she found a strength--and a sense of adventure--that she never knew she had.


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[Editor's note: The essay below, by FOF Sallie Buck, is part of a series of personal blogs from our readers. Have your own story to tell? Email your idea to geri@faboverfifty.com.]


When I was in my early 50s, my husband, Graham, was diagnosed with a brain tumor and given just months to live. It came out of nowhere and changed our lives irrevocably. Graham and I had been married for thirty years. We had many similar interests such as music, walking and sailing, so we did a lot together but certainly weren't glued at the hips. I remember when I went back to work part-time as a nurse practitioner, he was concerned that our children would suffer. They didn't--but my responsibility most of my life was the children and home. Graham worked hard to provide us with a good standard of living. It was a fairly traditional marriage by British standards.

In Graham's last few weeks alive, he wrote me a letter and told me only to open it after he passed away. He died ten months after his diagnosis, in September, 2003. It was then that I finally read his note. It said that I was a special person, not just to him, but to many others, and that I still had so much to offer.


He was right--I did still have so much to give. The letter gave me the confidence I needed. I had a good job, but our three children were grown, and I wanted a new challenge while I was still young and fit. I decided I would train in tropical nursing and help in the developing world.


While I was training, I met Joanna Hanks, founder of the Buburi Health Clinic in Kenya. In addition to high rates of malnutrition and HIV/AIDS, this part of Africa has the highest incidence of malaria in the world. More than 60 percent of the clinic’s patients are under five years old, and the majority of them have malaria. One in five will not reach their fifth birthday; many die from preventable conditions. When Joanna told me about the clinic, I decided to spend two months working there.


I became part of Buburi Clinic’s team of dedicated nurses, providing quality and affordable health care to those in need. I remember one Saturday morning, a 3-year-old girl was brought into the clinic by her father. I heard a high-pitched cry (indicative of brain irritation) from the waiting room. A malaria test came out positive--but we didn't have any intramuscular sedatives. Instead, I had to dilute a tablet sedative and give her that. In a developed country I would call for an ambulance, but that is a luxury they don't have. So, we called a motorbike rider to take her to a hospital. We had to give the driver money to take them and the father money for admission charges. The next day I saw the father in the village. He rushed up to thank me and tell me that his daughter had cerebral malaria but was improving. He said he was sure she would have died if we hadn't been there.

I have since visited six times and became a trustee of the charity, Friends of Buburi. The village chief once told me, “It is wonderful that you keep coming back--it is another year our children won’t die of malaria.” It makes me realize how fortunate I am in my own life--to have had three healthy children and grandchildren. I don’t take this for granted anymore.




You really get to know yourself living and working in such primitive conditions. When my husband died, I had spent most of my life as a housewife. I didn’t know who I was. I have found strengths that I had no idea I had and would probably never have known about if he was still alive. I often wonder what he would think of me now.


Read more about Friends of Buburi and their incredible work in Kenya.
18 comments   
03April   {My Story} From City Slicker to Cowgirl
How one FOF went from being an English teacher in Berkeley, California, to being a cowgirl in the Sierra Mountains--in four steps.



[Editor's note: The essay below, by FOF Jane Rosenthal, is part of a series of personal blogs from our readers. Have your own story to tell? Email your idea to geri@faboverfifty.com.]

Step One: Git ‘er Done!
Here’s a definition of a "cowgirl" I pulled from the Cowgirl Hall of Fame in Fort Worth, Texas: "A cowgirl gets up early, decides what she wants to do and does it."

All my adult life I’d wanted to do two things--live in the country and write novels. Not that there was anything wrong with my life as it was. My husband is an internationally-known scientist; we had a lovely home in Berkeley, California; and I had a challenging job in one of the top public schools in the state.

Yet, there was that nagging sense that I was living someone else’s idea of success and not my own.

So, on my fifty-fifth birthday, with my husband’s blessing, I found myself in a funky, double-wide trailer that passes for a real estate office out here in the wilds, plunking down big bucks for a fifty-acre ranch in the Sierra mountains.

My husband and I took a huge gulp and sold the house in Berkeley. For many people it was a classic dream home, and they thought we were crazy. You know what? It's now someone else's dream. I have a new one.

Ladies, I just did it. Simple as that. I didn’t let 'not having a clue' stop me.

Step Two: Sure, you’re scared. So what?
Here’s another bit of the cowgirl creed: A cowgirl might be scared, but she saddles up anyway.

Was I scared? You bet.  I’d just bought a run-down foreman’s cabin that looked like this:


The only builder around was the guy who owned the horse ranch next to mine, and I had one year to turn this place into something livable.

Like this…



If you have something you want to do, now is the time to saddle up and ride.

Step Three:  Give me land, lots of land, and the starry sky above. Don’t fence me in!



About that novel...

Right before I moved up here, I’d signed with an agent to represent me. They later rescinded, because, they said, there is no mass market for the my book because it is set in Mexico City.

In the city I might have moped around and felt defeated. But out here I live with cowgirls who deliver foals in the snow, hack heads off  of rattlesnakes, and pour concrete for the foundation of a house while they’re in labor (true story, I swear). Compared to what they do, I asked myself, “How hard would it be to self-publish?”

So I did--and now, you can read my novel, Palace of the Blue Butterfly, on my blog.

Unless it’s the Ten Commandments, girls, don’t let the rules fence you in.

Step Four: Get in touch with your inner Dale Evans
“Cowgirl is an attitude, really,” said Dale Evans, the Queen of the West.  “A pioneer spirit, a special American brand of courage. The cowgirl faces life head on, lives by her own lights and makes no excuses. Cowgirls take stands. They speak up. They defend the things they hold dear. A cowgirl might be a rancher, or a barrel racer, or a bull rider, or an actress. But she's just as likely to be a checker at the local Winn Dixie, a full-time mother, a banker, an attorney, or an astronaut."

These days, I'm still writing every day, and working on a novel set up here in ranch country. Yes, I have ranch and garden chores. When it snows, the cows need hay. There are always fences to mend and fallen trees to saw into firewood. We heat the house with wood all winter. I also have a big vegetable garden that I will be planting soon. I can and freeze the vegetables and fruit in the summer. In the fall, I plant tons of bulbs. Right now I'm reaping the rewards. I have five hundred tulips blooming and thousands of daffodils in the fields around the house.

Hey, FOFs, we’re all cowgirls, aren’t we?

—————————————————————————————————



.
Jane Rosenthal is an award winning poet, radio journalist, romantic suspense author and educator. Fluent in Spanish, she covered politics and arts in Mexico for Public Radio’s bilingual program California en Revista and went on to teach English and Creative Writing in mostly Spanish- speaking, inner city high schools in Oakland, California. She blogs about her life at allaboutjanesranch.com.
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22February   {My Story} From home designer to…homeless–one FOF’s story

We've all heard "rags to riches" stories, but what about the other way around? FOF Norma Byrd, a successful California interior designer went from decorating multi-million dollar homes to sleeping on friends' couches. It could have been any of us...



[Editor's note: The essay below, by FOF Norma Byrd, is part of a series of personal blogs from our readers. Have your own story to tell? Email your idea to geri@faboverfifty.com.]


When I’d see a homeless person with a hand-scrawled sign standing at an intersection, I wondered “How? Why?”  If you were industrious and conscientious such a thing could never happen to you... right?


Wrong. Three years ago I learned the hard way that it could happen, because it happened to me.


I’m an interior designer and have made a modest living since 1986. I built strong relationships with my clients and even became the president of my local chapter of the ASID (American Society of Interior Designers).


But, in 2000, I embarked on a fast train to disaster. I sold my condo and bought a 1947 vintage house in a lovely San Diego, California neighborhood. I felt I should have a home reflecting my personal design tastes--a showcase of my work that would one day meet my needs for retirement.


My mortgage broker and friends asked if I would be able to handle the stiff payments needed to make my dream home a reality. I was sure that if I couldn’t, I’d simply sell the new house. I never thought it would come to that.


Enter unplanned exigencies. The architect took two years to complete construction plans; the bank took another year to approve and fund the loans. Demolition revealed that the existing foundation and flooring systems couldn’t support the new structure, setting back the whole operation even more. The cost of building and materials rose dramatically; real estate went into decline, and I was running out of funds with the house nowhere near completion. Then, a major client, a successful builder, virtually went out of business, taking my major source of income with him. In desperation, I borrowed heavily against extensive credit card limits and maxed them all out trying to pay subcontractors working on my house.



In September of 2008, I moved into the unfinished house living for months without heat or electricity. I was still clinging to hope that some miracle would save me. In 2009 the unthinkable happened--my dream home and an investment property I had mortgaged for the new construction, both foreclosed.


I have never experienced such wrenching heartbreak in seventy-plus years. I was forced to leave my home, which at the time was only six percent from completion. I had no money, no savings, no investments--nothing left. I sold my SUV, put the rest of my possessions into storage and for the next fifteen months lived with friends. It was tough not to beat myself up for taking on something so monumental and then blowing it completely. There were times over the past three years, I wondered if I’d be joining those homeless people on the street corners, and without friends, maybe I would have.



In October of 2010, I moved from San Diego, where I’d lived for 47 years, to Durango, Colorado. There, with state aid and Social Security, I moved into my own tiny apartment. I’m adjusting. I still hope to get my design business going again, so that I can get back on my own two feet. The venerable adage, “If God leads you to it, he’ll lead you through it,” has never been more true. Life has not given up on me--there’s something good to come, but I have to help make it happen. AND... I WILL SURVIVE!
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06February   {My Story} “I’m recording my first solo album…at 53.”
As a teen, FOF Sheri Nadelman wished she could become a rock star. Most people would say, “dream on.” She did, and, in her 50s, turned that dream into a rockin’ reality.



[Editor's note: The essay below, by FOF Sheri Nadelman, is part of a series of personal blogs from our readers. Have your own story to tell? Email your idea to geri@faboverfifty.com.]

Before the days of American Idol and YouTube, there was little hope that I, a chubby-but-nice-Jewish-girl-from-Brooklyn, would make it as a singer. My dad wanted me to go to college, and my mom wanted me to marry a doctor. My dream was to become a rock star.

When I was 12, my dad got me a guitar, which I learned to play by ear. I sang for anyone who would listen. For the longest time I thought my middle name was “shut up.” No one ever took me seriously, but the truth is that I had a good voice.

At age 19, I mustered up the courage to sing for renowned vocal coach Marty Lawrence, a close family friend. “You’ve definitely got something,” he said--in true Simon Cowell fashion. I started lessons, which eventually lead to a recording contract. The financing fell through, and the album never came to fruition. I was devastated.

I was faced with the choice of pursuing my music career or marrying my boyfriend. I could not do both because his med school training would require us to move frequently--not an ideal situation for a musician trying to make it big.

We married and moved to Hawaii and started a family. When I was three months pregnant, my mom died of a stroke--she was only 46. My daughter was born six months later.



Years later, we settled in Florida and tragedy struck once again, I lost both my dad and my brother. My dad lost a bitter battle to emphysema. My brother died at the age of 40 after complications from gastric bypass surgery. Adding to my grief was the demise of my marriage. It was such an emotional roller coaster, I couldn’t bring myself to pick up the guitar for years.

At 45, I got divorced--I felt unhappy and unfulfilled. My daughter was getting ready to leave for college, and I worried I’d miss her terribly. A girlfriend and my daughter encouraged me to do an open mic night. I got involved in the local music scene and began performing solo at first and then with other musicians in an acoustic band. I never thought I’d marry again, but later that same year, I was swept away by a businessman with an extensive background in music.  He believed in me like no one had before.

At 53 years old, when most women my age are winding down, I am just beginning! I am in the midst of recording my long overdue solo album. I sing lead and play guitar in a popular Tampa Bay area cover band called soulRcoaster. Not only do I get to live my dream--singing everything from Etta James to Lady GaGa--I get to share it with my husband, who is now our soundman! "You can hear Sheri's passion captured in every single note she sings," Bud Snyder, a sound engineer for the Allman Brothers, once told me.  I guess I’m just a late bloomer.
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.
--
For the record (pun intended) I just wrapped up my album “Fate Steps In,” which will be be available on iTunes soon. You can visit her website for more information.
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31January   {My Story} “I am the primary caregiver for my father . . . and I’m lucky.”
When FOF Liz Vogel’s father got Alzheimer's, she became his caretaker. Most would be devastated, here’s why she feels “lucky.”



[Editor's note: The essay below, by FOF Liz Vogel, is part of a series of personal blogs from our readers. Have your own story to tell? Email your idea to geri@faboverfifty.com.]

I have come to realize I am one of the lucky ones. I am the primary caregiver for my father. He lives two miles away in an independent living community, but I see him, or am in touch with him, every day. We lost my Mom three years ago, and since that time I’ve had the true pleasure of getting to know my Dad.

He has navigated his way, with amazing grace, from Mild Cognitive Impairment/Dementia to Alzheimer's over the last three years. When he needed help writing checks, because his handwriting was getting worse, he asked for it. When his balance was declining and I felt his safety was at risk, he was gracious about letting me get a walker for him. When I thought a safety pendant for emergencies was prudent, he agreed. When I told him he had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's, he looked at me, winked, smiled and said, "It is what it is, right? The good news is I probably won't remember tomorrow!"

Not everyone has this experience. Dementia and Alzheimer's can rob us of the person we once knew and replace him or her with a stranger. The man I have come to know in these last few years is filled with compassion, wonderfully dry humor, curiosity, sincere interest in participating with his community, and a deep appreciation for the beauty of the natural world. I suspect I may be seeing the essence of the man versus the father.

As a physician, my father spent his life caring for others. In fact, I think the last three years have been an opportunity for him to take a well deserved rest. But, perhaps because he provided so much to others for years, he understands the role of caregiver and provides me with the freedom to help him when he needs it.​​



I am learning: I don't know what it is like to be 86, but I suspect it's not that much different than being any other age. You want a life filled with opportunities and choices and to be treated as an equal. Every day, my father teaches me how to live and behave with grace, and I hope I do him proud as I wander through these next years.

Liz Vogel is President & CEO of Dots, Inc., and on-line service that connects the dots between the people, communities and information involved in healthy aging and caregiving.  See more at www.trustdots.com.
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10January   {My Story} A widow for four years

One FOF describes the singular and universal experience of losing the love of your life.



[Editor's note: The essay below, by FOF Rosemarie Sussex, is part of a series of personal blogs from our readers. Have your own story to tell? Email your idea to geri@faboverfifty.com.]

I lay on my side of the bed, still unable to move move to the center. I’ve tried but I can’t.

I thought this feeling was unique to me, but I’ve learned from talking to other women who have lost their husbands that this is not unusual. One friend, also a widow, confided in me: “I don’t flush the toilet at night.” I was so shocked since I did the same thing.  We were both afraid that the toilet would overflow in the middle of the night. Then what do you do?

My husband Paul died in 2008. The first three months afterward were the easiest. People were there; the phone rang; I could wallow in the grief and no one expected anything from me. It was winter so it was easy not to go anywhere except work and home.

Then the spring came.

Friends and family wanted to get on with their lives and be happy again. Not that they were forgetting him, just moving on. Well, that was great for them because they had someplace to move too. I didn’t. My life, I learned, was going to stay the same.  No one to eat with at night, to discuss the day’s events, watch television, to sleep with or love with.


Before Paul died, I had a time line after work: Get groceries, come home, cook, set the table, eat dinner etc.  Now I had no clock to follow. I found myself going to the mall after work and walking until I was exhausted; then I would come home and just go to bed. Except for going to work on time, the rest of the day was not accounted for. If I was standing in line at a store, I didn’t care if I had to wait. Where was I going? Who is waiting for me?

Weekends are the worst time of the week. Everyone else seems so excited about Friday coming. For me the days just loom ahead with chores that also seem senseless now. Before, the weekends held promise of fun, family and friends or even just tacking a project in the house. Being together, sometimes even in silence, but together.

Filling out paperwork at the doctor’s office brings on a whole gambit of emotions.Those horrible little boxes: Married, Single, Widowed (and sometime Other--what does that mean!). Changing your “next of kin” to your kids. Taking his name off charges and utilities. It took me three years to put the car insurance in my name. I’m not even sure it was legal not too. I just couldn’t do it.

The first time I was faced with a repair in the house was numbing.  My dryer and hot water heater went at the same time. When the delivery man came to bring the dryer, I burst into tears because I just realized that the gas would have to be shut off to take out the dryer.  Luckily the man was so nice, he disconnected it and reconnected the dryer without a problem. But in my head I just kept thinking “You’re alone-handle it.”

My family is wonderful and I am blessed with 6 grandchildren, but they do not fill the space that the love of my life left. We were married for 38 years and together for 42. We went through so many trying times together. Our last battle was his pancreatic cancer. He handled it like he did life--with strength, humor and song. He had the most beautiful voice and sang with a group. Often he would come right from chemo and go onto a stage and sing lead for hours. I would watch him and want to shout to the audience: “This man has pancreatic cancer and just had chemo!!!!”

It will be 4 years soon, and slowly I’m crawling out of the deep hole that has been my life. What I’ve learned through most of this is that the grief one goes through, although one’s own, is also universal and shared. It is my hope that I can help someone else make this journey.
51 comments   
04January   {My Story} Resolutions of a newly-minted (FOF) bartender


[Editor's note: The essay below, by FOF Cheryl Rich Heisler, is part of a series of personal blogs from our readers. Have your own story to tell? Email your "What I Know Now" idea to geri@faboverfifty.com.]



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By profession, I am the president and founder of a career consulting business for attorneys frustrated by their traditional career options. By formal education, I am one of those self-same attorneys.  But, by avocation, I am what I perhaps should have always been—a mixologist.

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As a career consultant, I get a great deal of satisfaction helping people uncover their passions. But this past year, I decided I hadn't realized one of my own lifelong passions--becoming an expert at making cocktails. I have poignant memories of heart-to-heart talks with my Dad over the tops of chilled martini glasses, and I get a wicked kick out of mixing and matching libations of all flavors and colors to create something new, different and kind-of clever.

However, giving up my day job to pursue this passion wasn't a sacrifice I was willing to make. As an FOF, I realized you can have your cocktail and drink it too. While I continued my career consulting business--meeting clients in the mornings and in the afternoons--I studied for my mixology license. I love the reaction I get when I tell people I passed a second “Bar” exam. It was one of my major highlights of 2011.

But now it is 2012: how will each of us expand our horizons over the year ahead?

The lawyer in me suggests prudence:  plan better, save more.

The career coach in me says add more play, uncover a new passion, take those horseback riding lessons I’ve been thinking about.

And the bartender in me? She says lighten up, life is short.  Have a drink.  Toast to health and happiness and all the unpredictable, wonderful surprises that a New Year can bring.


--


Start the New Year off right with this refreshingly sweet n’ spicy cocktail shot:
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