Welcome to Episode #7, the final post in our series, and I’ll be honest — not a lot of thought went into our original writing prompt:
- Develop a 7-part blog series exploring topics at the intersection of a retirement advice briefing and the film Mary Poppins
Which, naturally, raises a few questions.
Question #1: Why write a blog?
The honest answer is a bit embarrassing. It’s a cliché — but
no less true — that a man accustomed to having a voice at work may feel a
certain void upon retirement. Where has his audience gone? When he speaks, who
will listen? The cat?
To be fair, my cat does listen. Truly. She just tends to
disbelieve what I say and rarely does what I ask. Then again, that’s not
noticeably different from my experiences at work. In that sense, the transition
may have been smoother for me than for others.
Still, I thought it prudent to take up writing as a
short-term hobby. It seemed to offer several benefits: a way to fill the
voice-shaped void, a bit of mental exercise, and a perfectly reasonable excuse
to remain inside my air-conditioned house rather than outside painting the
patio beneath a hot summer sun.
Question #2: Why “7”?
Because I hate olives.
Years ago, someone told me that the secret to liking
something was to try it seven times. “Don’t like olives?” they said. “Just eat
seven of ’em — you’ll learn to love ’em.”
Has it worked? I wouldn’t know. I never made it past olive
number one.
Question #3: Was there really a retirement advice
briefing?
Yes. It was one of the few personal items I packed up in
those final days at the company. Surprising, really, how little remained in the
office by then — after all, I had been with the company a good many years, as
was my father before me. What was left could fit in a single box: a few framed
family photographs, some undeserved awards for services rendered (but long
since forgotten), the retirement briefing itself, and a cryptic piece of
artwork I ought to explain to you someday, if ever I get the chance.
Question #4: Why Mary Poppins?
Ah, here’s my chance — let me describe the artwork that hung
on my office wall. It’s one of a kind, custom-made, and was given to me as a
gift several years ago. It’s not a poster, nor a painting, nor a photograph. I
suppose you’d call it a screened fabric print; to my eye, it most closely
resembles a Marüshka.
Do you remember Marüshkas? You might, if you were decorating
college housing on the cheap in the mid-1980s. As a freshman, if you were male,
your dorm room might have featured a poster of Farrah Fawcett or a Ferrari
Testarossa. (If you were female, I don’t recall how you decorated — we weren’t
allowed to visit very often, and when we did, the décor was the last thing on
our minds.) But once you graduated to apartment living, a Marüshka on the wall
lent a subtle, classy ambience. It marked you as someone with taste and
savoir-faire.
Anyway, here’s a photograph of the 16x20” screened print that hung in my office:
Recognize it? I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t. It’s drawn
from a scene near the end of Walt Disney’s Mary Poppins. It features
George Banks, the children’s father, walking slowly through London’s evening
streets toward the bank where he works. He knows his employers are waiting,
ready to sack him the moment he arrives.
It may seem counterintuitive, but I’ve always found that
scene oddly inspirational.
On my final day at work, as I packed my boxes, I placed the
Mary Poppins print atop the retirement advice briefing — and voilà, the genesis
of this blog revealed itself.
Question #5: Does anything really exist at the
intersection of Mary Poppins and the retirement briefing?
Not so’s you’d notice. If you’re a fan of Venn diagrams, you
might find that the intersection here is a null set. I should probably disclose
that the retirement briefing I quote in the blog bears little resemblance to
the actual packet I carried home on my last day at work. You undoubtedly
guessed as much.
As for the film, its contributions to the blog are mostly
limited to quotes — some explicitly referenced, others quietly echoed. The
epigraphs for each post (save this last one) are all drawn from Mary Poppins
and attributed accordingly. Less obviously, the titles for each post (save the
second) are all lines spoken by George Banks. Scattered throughout the body of
each entry are a few additional quotes that ardent Poppins fans might
recognize. I don’t call attention to them for a simple reason: if readers are
fans, they’ll spot the quotes themselves; if they’re not, they’d likely be
annoyed by the attribution. In some cases, the quotes may even predate the
film.
Let me offer an example. Suppose you come across the line,
“A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” If you’re a fan of Mary Poppins,
you might recall the scene where Mary admires a potted plant she’s just pulled
from her carpet bag. Or perhaps you recognize it as the opening line of Keats’s
Endymion, published in 1818. Maybe you think of both. Or neither.
There’s no wrong answer. As with much in life, a blog will grant you as much
meaning as you’re willing to give it.
The careful reader will have noticed that today’s epigraph
comes not from Mary Poppins, but from the 1987 film The Princess
Bride, of which I’m a devoted fan. I’ve conducted no survey nor performed
any research, but I’d wager that quotes from The Princess Bride are far
more recognizable to today’s readers than those from Mary Poppins. I
know that’s true for me.
In hindsight, had I chosen The Princess Bride as my
writing prompt, my life would undoubtedly have been less painful. Then again,
life is pain. Anyone who says differently is selling something.
Question #6: So, what comes next?
I really don’t know. Do you? Does anybody? The calendar indicates
that I still have two more months before my six-month probationary retirement period
ends, and it’s far too hot to begin painting the patio. I’m sure something will
come to me shortly.
Hey, here’s a great idea for retirees with a little extra
time on their hands — volunteer to be a grocery store chaplain! Not sure what
that is? I can explain.
Imagine you’ve been sent to the store to pick up some bouillon
cubes (if that’s really a thing) for a vegetable chowder. You begin searching
through the aisles of the store, and you’re immediately distracted by the snack
chips. When did Doritos start coming in so many different flavors? Row after
row after row, and that’s even before you get to the Lays section! And Pringles
— the tubes have exhausted all the colors in the visible spectrum! Where will
it all end?
You retreat to the front of the store — you’re going to need a cart. After loading up in the snack aisle, you’re nearly ready to check out when it hits you: you haven’t picked up the one item you were sent for. What was it again? Aargh. You’re going to have to call the Chef de Cuisine (CdC) back at home. How embarrassing.
(dialing)
CdC: Hello!
You: (sheepishly) Hi, it's just me. What-
CdC: (interrupting) Bouillon. Chicken bouillon cubes.
You: Right! Chicken bouillon cubes. Got it. (pausing) Um...
CdC: It comes in a small plastic jar with a blue lid.
You: Okay, I’m on it! See you in about 10 minutes. Love you!
CdC: (interrupting) It will be in the soup aisle, past all the cans of soup.
You: Perfect – thank you! I should be home in 10 minutes or so.
CdC: Oh, and David?
You: Yes?
CdC: We don’t need any more snacks; we have plenty in the house.
You: (ruefully) Right.
CdC: Thank you. Love you!
You: Love you too. Bye!
Ten minutes later, after your fourth pass through the soup
aisle, you realize you’re a broken man. The bouillon must be there — you have
it on good authority, you have no reason to doubt — yet you are utterly
incapable of finding it. It’s true what the catechism says: you are so corrupt
that you are totally unable to do any good. There’s nothing more for it. You’ve
reached the nadir, the point psychologists call the Moment of Maximum Vulnerability.
It’s precisely then that a man in a black blazer and
clerical collar approaches with a smile. (Or a woman in a clerical collar — I’ve
got no problem with that.) She asks, “Can I help you find what you’re looking
for?”
That is a good question. No, that is a great question. It
might be one of the finest questions one being can ask another, and it’s a
perfect line for chaplains to use. There’s really only one way to answer, and
you should know it by now: “I say yes to that.” And then her response — the
words your ears were created to hear — “Let me show you the way.”
Well, that’s a grocery store chaplain for you. It’s probably
not for everybody. But give it some thought.
Last question: Would you recommend writing as a
retirement hobby?
I would. There’s something about the act of writing that
helps you remember your past. And at the rate I’m forgetting things, I need all
the help I can get. I’m not sure I’d do a blog again — maybe a diary? Or if not
that, then perhaps I should at least start writing down grocery lists before
heading to the store, even if it’s for just one item.
Knowing me, it might be a while before I buckle down and
start that diary. So I’ll capture one more favorite retirement memory here
before it slips away. You’re welcome to come along. It takes place on a
pleasant summer evening in the hills above Anceny, Montana — a place as real as
any, and maybe more so than most, even though you won’t find it in Apple Maps.
You’ve been here at least a dozen times as an adult, and
more as a child. To the south, the narrow gravel ribbon of Axtell–Anceny Road
disappears into the green folds of the Flying D Ranch, and beyond them, far in
the distance, the jagged heights of the Spanish Peaks still catch the light. To
the north, the remnants of the afternoon’s thunderclouds drift away — just a
purpling memory on the horizon. Above it all, that famous weightless sky: blue
giving way to crimson, and on the breeze, the ever-present scent of sage. You
know it in your bones — a thing of beauty is a joy forever.
Your breath catches. You ache for those who’ve stood with
you here many times before, but not today. You remember past years — Mom,
laughing with her sisters; Grandma, laughing too, even with eyes and ears
fading, still attuned to a good story; Dad, catching up with the uncles; and
Grandpa, a man of few words, summing it all up with a smile and one soft word:
“Well.”
You miss them, of course. But look around. In the open
garage, cousins help themselves to seconds from the leftover potluck
casseroles. The uncles and aunts are laughing in their semi-circle of stack
chairs on the driveway. The teens have started a volleyball game on one patch
of lawn, while younger children are being introduced to badminton on another.
Siblings are here too, and their children and grandchildren. And your own
family as well — and your heart laughs to see your grandchildren, chins stained
with huckleberry ice cream, never still for a moment, darting from zip line to
chicken coop to swing set, having the time of their young lives.
You take it all in, and you remember every version of
yourself who stood here before. The small grandchild. The teen. The cousin. The
parent. And now, the grandparent.
Well. It is almost too much. It is almost too perfect.
Finally, you look to the east. You’re hoping to see it at
last. You look every time you visit, but you’ve never spotted it yet. As the
shadows climb the hills, you scan their sunlit tops, hoping for a glimpse of
brilliant white and flashing orange. You have it on good authority — you have
no reason to doubt — that an angel with a flaming sword is stationed there.
You’ve never seen him before, and you won’t this year either. You expect you’ll
see him one day. But you realize you’ll probably need someone’s help:
Someone will come up to you and ask, “Can I help you find
what you’re looking for?”
And you’ll turn to see who it is.
And you won’t be surprised that it’s Grandma, her perfect
eyes laughing as she says, “Let me show you the way.”
There now, that’s more than enough for one memory. Thanks for coming along with me.
Well, it’s time to wrap up this blog.
I hope you’ve enjoyed the diversion. It’s been a pleasure
for me. But now it’s time to turn toward other retirement responsibilities — the
ones that don’t write themselves. That patio isn’t going to paint itself, after
all.
Still, there’s time. There’s time.
Spit spot! And off we go.
David
9/2/25
PostScript. Thank you, dear reader, for indulging all my
shenanigans throughout this series. If you’ve made it this far, then forbearance
must be the hallmark of your creed. It is a rare and special friend who listens
— even when you’re not saying anything.
If you have something to say, or even if you don’t, you’re always welcome to reach me at dvd.davidvandyk@gmail.com. I promise to listen either way.