To describe something as ferocious conjures up a jungle image of a lion, doesn’t it? Perhaps a tiger. Maybe even a bear. It’s a word you might use in discussing one’s appetite, sexual desire, ambition, a bad case of chiggers or the Santa Ana winds.
It’s often associated with the young. As in those for whom youth is wasted. Or a brave soldier in battle surviving against all odds. Cancer that ravages a body is said to be ferocious in its assault. It is lean. It is strong. It is determined.
Ferocity is a characteristic that’s hard to maintain but when its how I live my life in regard to the love I feel for my husband and my son (and truth be told the loving care that I should apply toward myself as well) it is these moments when I feel incredible, heady, alive. To observe a robin angling for a worm in the grass or the breeze playing through the leaves or the laughter of children or the awe-inspiring human achievement of lift off at Cape Canaveral or the indescribable taste of a perfect peach — these are the moments for me that speak: ferocious. No holds barred. Bam! Life is amazing and good and delicious.
I want me some more of that!
Have you ever watched the sun setting? Which as I understand it is actually the earth turning away so that our glorious sun appears to sink down below the horizon. Some folks love a good sunrise but for my money it is so gratifying, beautiful and almost playful to watch the setting sun. You can see it slip lower and lower – by degrees – and it is an amazing sight to behold. Factor in the incredible colors of the sky — the pinks and reds and golden shimmer, the varying shades of blue and that fabulous hint of turquoise. There’s nothing quite like it.
My father’s sawmill, with its huge sawblade, multiple levers and gears, planers, chains and stacks of lumber, was not exactly a safe haven for kids to play. Most of the time my five sisters and I were scrambling up and down the (sometimes massive) log piles trying to see how far we could go hopping from one log to another without touching the ground — or before one of the logs shifted and then you better move quickly! Despite Mom’s warnings to ‘stay off those logs’ we returned there time and time again.
A softer, more pliable, place for us to play was the sawdust pile behind the sawmill shed. A farm elevator transported the sawdust to a spot out back, hoisting its cargo to the peak of the device and then dropping it to the earth below. Sometimes the sawdust pile grew quite high – and quite irresistible to us girls – perhaps fifteen feet or more in the air. My sisters and I traversed the elevator, grabbed an overhanging tree branch and flung ourselves out and then down into this waste product of our father’s livelihood. Mostly the sawdust was warm and slightly damp but occasionally we’d land or step into a deliciously cool pocket. Funny how some things remain etched in our memories. Feeling that cool sawdust between my toes is something I can conjure up at a moment’s notice. Another sawdust memory is the time I lost a brand new pair of thongs (that’s what we called what now passes today as flip-flops) to the sawdust pile. I searched and I dug and I dug and I searched for a long time but that new pair — our summer shoes, really — was gone forever.
For something a little more dangerous (read: a little more fun) we would sometime sit on top of a plank of lumber and hurtle ourselves down the rails leading from the saw blade to the far end of the building. As Dad cut a log to the prescribed dimensions the board was deposited onto these rails where the hired help then grabbed each one to stack elsewhere in the sawmill shed. We girls would climb onto a board, make sure we were securely situated and then grab the sides of the rails to propel ourselves forward. The ride was never long enough and we thrilled to the speed! Care had to be taken in how one secured oneself to the board however. If you grabbed it too fully with your hand you ran the risk of getting one or more fingers pinched between the board and the rails. Likewise as you reached to grab the sides of the rails to move forward. It’s surprising, really, that all six of us girls survived our childhoods with all our fingers and toes intact.
Wesley and I enjoyed exploring many of Iowa’s parks and recreation areas when he was a little boy. Our weekends were spent camping, hiking and spelunking in northeast Iowa. This photo was taken at Pilot Knob near Forest City.
Travel and discovery with exposure to new places, activities, people and ideas — these things are the heart and core of what makes a person feel alive.
Part of what I want to accomplish with this new blogging adventure is a means of chronicling where I come from, where I’ve been, what envelopes me today and where I want to go in the future, not the least of which is the topic of retirement.
When we’re young we think of retirement as something old people do and it might as well be light years away to our 20-year-old / 30-year-old perspectives. We hit our 40’s and if/when we even start to contemplate retirement we begin to think “Hey, maybe this is something I should start thinking about. Maybe even plan for.” Our perspective morphs into something entirely different than our earlier years. The Big 5-0 rolls around and with it a bit of yearning perhaps or maybe a sense of urgency depending on how well we’ve heeded the admonishments of our financial advisors or parents or other well-meaning kin to save for the future. As for our 60’s let’s just say I’ll leave well enough alone at this point. Twenties, thirties, forties — been there, done that. Fifites? I’m workin’ on it.
The thing that fascinates me is how my perspectives have evolved over time — on many subjects certainly — but on retirement in particular. Work now serves as a means to an end. Strike that, reverse it. That sounds so ominous, doesn’t it, to use the word ‘end’ when we are talking about what many of us hope are our glory years. I prefer a new beginning or the much clichéd next chapter or perhaps reinventing ourselves. In any case, the crucial balance lies between obtaining the means to maintain a fruitful retirement and preserving ourselves well enough so we have the health and wherewithal in which enjoy it.
It’s all in one’s perspective.
Family weekend in a cabin rental in Clear Lake in 2013 where we enjoyed our fresh air view of the lake sipping our beverages of choice and playing games.
Growing up on a sawmill there was rarely a shortage of logs strewn about the place. These little fellas — firewood actually — await a smoky encounter with a fire-pit some cool summer evening. They do, however, evoke fond memories of their larger counterparts (stacked in a bric-a-brac fashion sometimes ten or fifteen feet high) that my five sisters and I used to hop, skip and jump across when we were younger.
To this day passing a semi load of logs on the interstate corrals my attention and that of my mom and siblings as well. Dad died in 2007, a year that marked 50 years in the sawmill business. Clark’s Sawmill was his pride and joy. He loved what he did as did my mom’s dad who was also a sawmill man. Dad told me once that when he went to bed at night he could hardly wait to get up in the morning to go back to work. How does that saying go? Something about doing what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life. That described my dad’s philosophy and love of the sawmill business and, happily, his strong work ethic became his daughters’ approach to work and career as well.