Author Archives: bevbachel

What I Know For Sure

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Older Like many women, I subscribed to O, The Oprah Magazine from its inaugural issue in 2000 to its last two decades later. Along the way, I tore out and saved a four-inch-high stack of articles and ads that has been sitting on an upstairs bookshelf ever since.

That stack included the ad pictured here. It was part of Chico’s 2018 “Growing Bolder Not Older” campaign designed to celebrate women and their desire for style at every age.”

I saved the ad because its headline proclaimed exactly what I expected to be doing as I aged…growing bolder, not older. 

One reason for my optimism was my grandmother, Valeria Szczech. Born in 1902, she lived most of her life on a Benton County farm and died in her sleep at age 92.

In between, she had no choice but to grow bolder. Life circumstances required it. Valeria’s mother had died of a heart attack on Valeria’s wedding day, leaving her partially responsible for several members of her extended family, including a brother who was unable to work due to a heart condition.

Then, in 1952, her husband, my grandfather, died a few weeks after the tractor he was working on exploded, leaving him severely burned on 90% of his body.

Despite his death, Valeria continued to live on the farm, milking cows, feeding chickens, canning vegetables and doing whatever else was needed, thankfully with the help of their son who lived only a farm-field away.

After her son’s too-early death, she sold the farm and moved to the small town of Foley, where she attended mass, made new friends, grew a large garden and provided full-time care for a brother made infirm by a stroke. 

I was in awe of her and her independence and assumed my grandmother’s get-up-and-go—and the get-up-and-go that I thrived on in my 40s and 50s—would continue through my 70s, 80s and even my 90s.

Unfortunately, at 66, I’m already finding that much of that get-up-and-go has gotten up and gone. At least temporarily. And although I do not think of myself as old, and some days not even as older, I am definitely not bolder. Nor do I strive to be.

Yes, I still enjoy meeting friends for coffee or a walk, but I’m no longer willing to drive in rush hour traffic to make it happen. Yes, I still travel, but not as often or as vigorously as I once did. And yes, I still walk, but more often solo in my own neighborhood rather than around the lakes with a friend.

At first, I blamed Covid. After all, where was there to go when nowhere was safe? But while fears of the virus have eased, my desire to go, go, go has not returned. Instead, I’m content being at home, purging files, clearing clutter, organizing cupboards and completing projects.

Does that make me less bold? Perhaps, but in keeping with one of Oprah’s signature phrases, “what I know for sure” is that I am growing older…and for that I am truly grateful.

Saying Goodbye to My Books

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In preparation for a someday move, I’ve been parting with my books. Hundreds of them over the past three years. Most have been collecting dust for decades (I bought my house in 1989), while others are recent additions. Some are quick reads I started and finished while drinking a cup of coffee, while others took me more than a year to make my way through.

Many are still on my “to read” list while others have been read and reread, by me and by the family and friends I’ve shared them with. Some were gifts, though most were bought by me at local bookstores or while traveling.

One reason I have so many books is because the upstairs of my house, which once belonged to the owners of a local used bookstore, is a 45- by 15-foot half-story lined with—no surprise—bookshelves, 150 linear feet of them, plus three standalone bookcases.

Although I’ve loved owning my books, some of which date back to my years as a college English major, now that I’m on Medicare and beginning to think of moving, it’s time to let them go.

But parting isn’t easy, in large part because I still treasure the stories they told, the memories they hold and the lessons they taught. There are books about saints that I read while in Catholic grade school, and books about the sea I read while in Florida on family vacations. There are books I used to motivate myself, and others I turned to for solace after the deaths of my parents.

There’s a shelf of books that include autographs from people I admire and heartfelt messages from people who love me. There’s even one shelf dedicated to books written by people I know, and whom you may know as well: Marly Cornell, Kate DiCamillo and Cathy Madison to name a few. Plus, books by Natalie Goldberg, Mary Carroll Moore and others from whom I’ve taken a Loft class or gotten to know because of a writing workshop.        

Just seeing the books brings back a flood of memories of the books themselves—the characters, the settings, the twists and turns of their plots—as well as where I was when I read them: while packed in the car with my parents and four younger sisters on our way to Florida for a family vacation, while taking college English classes, while flying to China, while spending a month on a Panama beach, while sitting bedside during my father’s final hours.

Others such as How to Forgive When You Don’t Know How and Living Proof: Telling Your Story to Make a Difference home in on my desire to be a better person and to advocate for causes I care about.

And, no surprise to anyone who knows me, there are also dozens of self-help books, many of which inspired me to write my own book, What Do You Really Want? How to Set a Goal and Go for It, A Guide for Teens.

While I’ve treasured all my books, I’ve recently begun sending them back out into the world. I’ve donated hundreds to Rain Taxi, a local non-profit that sponsors the annual Twin Cities Book Festival, which includes a book sale. I’ve also put dozens in the Little Free Library down the street.

Still others I’ve passed on to family and friends whom I hope will enjoy them—or learn as much from them—as I have. They range from true crime to travel guides, from books by (and about) artists to how-to books on everything from fishing and stargazing to tying knots and learning Spanish.

And because I now do most of my reading on my phone thanks to the Kindle and audiobooks I borrow from the Hennepin County Library, my shelves are becoming empty.

Thankfully I have one thing that will keep my book memories alive: the annual “books I’ve read” lists. I truly treasure these lists and the many fond memories they prompt of the nearly 2,000 books I’ve read since I started keeping track back in 1982.

As author Italo Calvino has written, “Your house, being the place in which you read, can tell us the position books occupy in your life.” And although there are now far fewer books in my house than there were in the past, I hope you will always be able to see the important place they hold in my life.

Why I Need a Retirement Mentor

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Three-plus decades ago, friend and fellow writer Cathy Madison told me something that has stuck with me ever since: that when you’re self-employed, which I have been since my mid-20s, you never really retire, you just wake up one day and realize all of your clients are gone.

That day hasn’t yet come, but I can see it beginning to dawn. Fewer clients, smaller projects. But I’m not complaining. In fact, I’m largely to blame as I now only say yes to projects I can do from anywhere at any time, without having to schedule calls, log on to online meetings or drive across town for in-person ones. 

Several years back, on the advice of a few older colleagues , I decided to test drive my retirement. I spent one Minnesota winter in Panama. I lived with my sister Diane and her family another winter. And one spring I enjoyed six weeks in Paris courtesy of a friend who loaned me her Latin Quarter apartment.

I also found a few retirement mentors. They, of course, include my fellow Word Sisters, all of whom were a bit ahead of me in embracing retirement. They also include Joe Casey, host of the Retirement Wisdom podcast. Not only did I learn a lot from him and his guests, he hired me to write for his blog, giving me the motivation (and a bit of income) to learn more about retirement—the pros and cons, the ups and downs—than I might have had my own.  

Here are a handful of things I’ve learned that might be helpful to you:

  • Retirement is not a one-size-fits-all journey. Some want relaxed days without a schedule while others are actively working through a bucket list.
  • Money matters, but not always as much as you might think. How much money you have can bolster or constrain the size of that journey. What matters more are your own personal tastes, hopes and dreams.
  • Accountability counts. One of the biggest challenges I and many of my fellow retirees face is staying disciplined. Why do today what we can put off until tomorrow? But I’ve learned the hard way that while leaving things until tomorrow may feel good today, there will eventually be a price to pay. Checking in regularly with friends and family can help. So can having a mentor or goal buddy.
  • Your health: here today, gone tomorrow. Although both my parents died when they were 70—my dad a year after a lung cancer diagnosis, my mom in an instant due to a heart attack—I always thought I’d grow old like my grandmother and die in my sleep some years after celebrating my 90th  birthday. However, since turning 65, I’ve experienced a number of health issues, all minor thankfully, but they’ve made me realize I’m just a diagnosis away from something more serious. So now is the time to make the most of my time.   
  • Staying socially active really does matter. After being unplugged since the start of COVID, I have begun reconnecting with friends in person. A visit with a friend at her house two months ago led to having dinner in a restaurant with another friend, and this eve I’m meeting a third friend for a work-related reception followed by a movie.

Retirement is a significant life transition that requires careful planning and consideration. While it can be tempting to go it alone, having a retirement mentor (or several!) can provide numerous benefits. From personalized guidance and experience-based insights to accountability, emotional support and help avoiding common pitfalls, my mentors have become trusted companions on my retirement journey, one my future self will thank me for.

Five Simple Ethics Lessons from NYT’s Kwame Anthony Appiah

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“Advice on life’s trickiest situations and moral dilemmas.”

That’s the promise made by New York Times’ ethicist Kwame Anthony Appiah. I have found his columns immeasurably interesting and packed with ethical dilemmas ranging from “what do I do now that I’ve hidden my trust fund from my wife for 15 years” to “can people claim spots on the beach with empty chairs” to “does my fiancée love me or does he just want citizenship?”

Thanks to Appiah, I’m becoming wise enough to know that while my advice to others is well-intentioned, it may not always be helpful or even all that ethical. Here are five lessons I’ve learned by reading his columns:

Lesson #1: There are no one-size-fits-all solutions
Ethical dilemmas are rarely black and white. What’s right in one situation may not be in another. The columns remind me that ethics is a nuanced field, one with shades of grey. Solutions must be tailored to individual circumstances. Doing so prevents us from adopting a rigid moral framework and encourages us to consider the context and consequences before making decisions.

Lesson #2: Empathy is key
By putting myself in the shoes of those affected by my choices, I develop a deeper, more nuanced understanding of how my choices impact others. This helps me recognize the interconnectedness of human experiences, encouraging me to consider not just my immediate interests, but also the well-being of others who may be impacted by my decisions.

Lesson #3: Balance principles with real-world constraints
The Ethicist columns show that while our ethical values are important, so is our ability to compromise.

Lesson #4: Seek guidance and diverse perspectives
Reading, discussing options and seeking feedback from can expand our understanding and help us see things we might otherwise miss.

Lesson #5 Continually learn and adapt
Ethical thinking is not static; it evolves over time as societal norms change and our understanding of complex issues deepens. It also changes as we age. That’s one reason the Ethicist columns underscore the importance of continuous learning and adaptation based on current events and ongoing self-reflection.

The NYT’s Ethicist columns serve as a guiding light for me. Perhaps they will for you as well.

The Everlasting Charm of Cardboard Boxes

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I’ve never met a cardboard box I didn’t like. As a result, I have a dedicated box closet in my basement. This humble, unfinished space is not just for storing boxes; instead, it’s a testament to being able to find the perfect box only a flight of stairs away.

Each one I’ve saved tells a story and invites me to recall a package delivered, an appliance purchased, a gift received. Each one also awaits its turn as the perfect box in which to return a book, send a present or hold my recycling.  

There’s also a practical reason why I save so many boxes.

Two decades ago, a neighborhood punk broke into my house and stole two TVs, a couple of kitchen appliances, my monitor and a number of other things. In filling out the police report, I was asked to provide pictures of the items as well as their serial numbers. Alas, with the items gone—as well as the boxes they came in—so was proof of my ownership. (And yes, I could start snapping pictures, writing down serial numbers and recycling boxes, but I like seeing visual proof of things I purchased and gifts I received. When shipping a package, I also like knowing I have a closet full of boxes of various dimensions from which I can choose.

Yes, cardboard boxes hold an undeniable magic for me that transcends their seemingly mundane nature. This is especially true since the start of COVID, when I, like many others, opted to order everything from groceries and office supplies to pet food and electronics, rather than test fate by going out to shop.

In a world sometimes obsessed with grandeur and complexity, the cardboard box stands strong in its corrugated simplicity, a reminder of the importance of both form and function and how, when combined, even the ubiquitous cardboard box can be a thing of beauty, a way to do what I’m trying to do more of: celebrate the seemingly mundane.