Alone but still together

Humans are for the most part social creatures.  We crave interaction with people and hugs.  We crave contact.
This has been the most difficult part of the sheltering in place during the Covid-19 pandemic for me.  Zoom and FaceTime have eased some of the feelings of isolation, but the quiet is beginning to affect me.  I live on a busy street.  I miss the school buses that stopped across the street from my home.  I miss the drivers waving at people in their yards.  I miss activity.  Life has certainly slowed down.  I don't see that light at the end of the tunnel, either.  This is going to be life for the foreseeable future.
Walking has helped.  During my two daily walks, I wave at other walkers.  I have met many neighbors.  A neighborhood pod has been established, and we check in one another through texting.  We are trying to stay connected.
I actually emerged from my house for a quick trip to Walgreens today to pick up photos.  It was strange to see Denton's busy streets practically empty.  The scenes reminded me of the Cold War era end-of-the-world movies where there were no people on the streets, and store doors hung halfway in door frames.  Perhaps a tumbleweed would be blowing down a street, adding to the desolation.   Walgreens was quiet.  There were just a few brave shoppers, all wearing face masks, and little conversation.  The check out area had circles on the floor that were spaced six feet apart for distancing.  There was no community of shoppers, only masked people on a quick mission. 

During my walks, I meditate.  One morning, I scolded myself because I was depressed about losing my long term substitute teaching position, about not physically seeing my granddaughters, and missing my usual activities.  I miss my church fellowship.  I miss my gym.  I miss my personal rhythm of life.  My scolding shook me into reality.  The current situation is something that I cannot change.  People have endured far worse than being sheltered with hundreds of tv channels and a Roku and social media.  My groceries have been delivered, I lack for little except a hug, and I can pay my bills.  Why am I depressed?  I thought of my dad who spent forty months as a prisoner-of-war in World War II.  He survived the worst that man can inflict on man.   He told me many times that after his initial "why did this happen?" reaction, he made a decision that he would survive and eventually go home.  He would laugh at my being sad about sheltering in place.
Eight years ago, I participated in the Walk to Emmaus.  It's like a retreat, and the participants are shut off from tv, internet, and phones for three days.  When I found out those rules, I almost pulled out.  My Walk turned out to be a life-changing experience where I accepted the quiet and learned how to listen to God.  I also learned to prioritize.  Most of my life was poured into teaching with the rest dedicated to my family.  There was nothing left for me.  I decided to re-evaluate and became stronger and more settled.  Now my life's priorities are faith and family.  Teaching was my career, but I learned not to allow it to direct my life. 
The Psalm "Be still, and know that I am God"(Psalm 46:10) was my mantra for my Walk and still is.  I don't know why this virus hit us so hard, but maybe it's a message for us to slow down.  "Be still" and think about what is important and what isn't so important.  Maybe we needed an excuse to readjust and hit the reset button.
Try to discover ways to be still and listen.  Our world will be changed by this virus, and it is our mission to assure that the changes are positive.
Be still.  Know that God is with us.  We are not alone.  

The always crowded intersection at University Drive and Carroll in Denton at 5 p.m. 

When it became obvious that a pandemic was on its way to strike the United States, I had no idea what to expect.  I googled articles on preparing for a pandemic and began to prepare.  My insurance shockingly allowed me to refill my maintenance prescriptions early, and I bought some extra canned goods.    I am thankful that food hasn't been a large issue and that the grocery stores are warriors at restocking.  Those cans of soup and turkey chili are not enticing.
This is not the first time that I have stocked for a pending disaster.  When I was in second grade, the U.S. and the former Soviet Union were on the brink of a nuclear showdown.  My mother was panicked and insisted on stocking food.  I asked my dad what would happen if Dallas-Fort Worth was struck by nukes, and his answer was so calming.  He told me, "Georgianne, don't worry about it.  You would never know about it."  For years, I was comforted by the thought that Denton would not be affected by a nuclear attack on our area.  When I was in high school, I remember a discussion in my favorite high school class, American History, about the arms race, and I started to quote my dad.  Then it hit me--we wouldn't know it because we would be vaporized.  Thanks, Dad.
In the 1980s, I lived in Corpus Christi.  The first hurricane warning we had, I stocked up on bottled water (that was when the bottled water was in those huge bottles) and canned meat.  The storm went inland south of Corpus and hit northern Mexico.  That canned tuna and chicken lasted too long.  The second warning eight years later, I packed up, and my daughters and I moved to Denton.
So--I prepared to stock up for coronavirus in the middle of February  There hadn't been any official statements from the government, but I watch the news.  It was obvious that the virus would be here soon, so I made a list of what were the items that I had to have, literally couldn't live without them, and ranked these in priority.
What was first on the list?  Those of you who know me well probably can guess.  Let me explain.
I don't like hot drinks.  I don't like coffee at all, and I can tolerate hot tea in small amounts.  However, I am not caffeine free--far from it.  I drink Diet Dr Pepper.  Yes, there is no period after Dr, and that little known fact is included in the AP Stylebook that I had to memorize in my undergraduate journalism classes.  When I started my affair with DDP, it only came in glass bottles.  Then came the blue cans which transformed into silver cans when I was in grad school.  For decades, this nectar has been provided in its ironic white cans when brownish lettering.
Dr Pepper (all types--diet, vanilla, cherry, etc.) is the offficial drink of Texas.  Texans drink Dr Pepper.  It's ours.  I have always consumed the diet variety even while I was in high school.  My classmates at North Texas just accepted my ever present Diet Dr Pepper that I enjoyed as they drank cups of coffee.  Sometimes, I have difficulty locating my DDP out of state.  I never found any when I was in China ten years ago.  All that was provided was Coke (which is everywhere) and Pepsi.  I do not like Pepsi at all--too sweet.  Same results when I was in the Philippines--just Coke.  Ironically, Japan did have my DDP but in small amounts.  I could find it at 7-11s.  I haven't been to Europe in twenty years, but I never saw a Dr Pepper anywhere.  My daughter found me some DDPs in Montreal and when I visited her when she was working in New Hampshire, she had stocked a few for me. 
The cartoon series "South Park" immortalized Dr Pepper as an "agnostic" drink with this description:  "What flavor is it?  It is neither root beer nor cola.  Nobody is sure what flavor it is, and nobody can be sure."
In the spring of 2018, I attended the American Defenders of Bataan and Corregidor descendants convention in Albuquerque.  The first thing I did when I arrived at the hotel was to check the gift shop to scout the availability of my favorite drink.  Since New Mexico borders Texas, I was hopeful, and I did manage to buy six cans (yes, I cleaned out the store).  The next morning, I was attending a convention session, sipping on my morning DDP, when a woman marched into the room and loudly asked in a Texas accent, "Who bought up all of the Diet Dr Pepper in the gift shop?"  My friends looked at me accusingly, and I put my can on the floor under the table.  The woman spotted me in action, though, and came over.  I offered to give her one of my cans but after introducing ourselves, she deemed us as neighbors because she was from Granbury (Granbury isn't that close to Denton).  She went to a nearby 7-11 to get her DDPs and even brought me back some cans.  That's the friendly Texas way.
My love affair with Diet Dr Pepper has spanned more than fifty years.   I never thought much about it.  Many students gave me 12 packs for Christmas.  People just know and respect my choice, I guess.  It doesn't bother anyone.  You drink coffee, I drink a soft drink.  However, I did learn that it bothered my former spouse.  One of his parting shots at me when he moved out was, "And I never want to see another Diet Dr Pepper ever."  I had to bite my tongue not to reply what I never wanted to see again.  You can guess what I would have said.
I'm ready for quarantine.  I am well stocked.  

I have started and stopped setting up this blog so many times..  Does anyone really care about what I think?  what I am doing?  I guess we'll see.
We'll start with the name of this blog--Moving to Uranus.  Many years ago, I told students about my recurring dream about Uranus (the planet.  There is no double meaning here).  In this dream, I was preparing to retire from teaching.  Texas had mandated that retired teachers must move to Uranus.  Why, I have no idea.  I didn't want to move, but those were the rules.  Ironically, the Uranus in my dreams looked a lot like the house I grew up in.  I also knew that it was indeed Uranus because there was a sign at the planet's airport that stated "Welcome to Uranus." 
I retired four years ago but not really.  After a short break, I began substitute teaching and until the Covid-19 pandemic hit, I was in a classroom almost every day.  It's been a great four years, and I have some unbelievable experiences.  In April 2017, I spent ten days in the Philippines retracing my father's World War II steps from Manila to the various POW camps to the hell ships.  I say that this trip changed my life for many reasons including making several lifelong friendships and motivating me to write about my dad's POW experiences.  The book, "Living in the Shadow of a Hell Ship," will be published by UNT Press in Fall 2020.  I also had the opportunity to travel to Japan in September 2019 as the guest of the Japanese government.  This was through the U.S.-Japan POW Friendship Program.  After a few days in Tokyo and meeting with government officials (and receiving the official POW record of our dads), the participants had the opportunity to travel to our dads' Japanese POW camps.  I rode a bullet train to Sendai.  Sendai is about the same distance from Tokyo as from DFW to Austin, and the trip took 90 minutes.  I haven't made it to Austin in less than five hours in years.  Near Sendai, I visited the Mitsubishi metals mine where my dad was a slave laborer during the last nine months of World War II in 1945.  Mitsubishi officials led the three of us descendants on a private tour of the mine.  My dad's memoirs are so descriptive that I instantly recognized the path that the POWs took to go to work and the mine entrance where he was beaten by a guard for saying colorful language about Tojo. 
Yes, it's been a good retirement--good trips, new experiences, new friends, new accomplishments. 
Then Ash Wednesday 2020 happened.  That morning, I awakened to the sound of water dripping in my house.  Every homeowner's nightmare had happened:  the water heater in the attic was leaking.  I filed my insurance claim, the professionals arrived to dry out the wet carpets and walls in the affected rooms, and adjusters made their proposals.  However,  now we are at Palm Sunday, and nothing has been repaired.  There is no padding under the carpet in my back bedroom/study and living room..  I can't put my study back in place.  I am in suspension.  However, life has stopped for Covid-19, so I will have to wait.
My next blog will discuss Covid-19 and its effects on our lives..  Stay safe, and stay well. 

A student painted this ceiling tile in honor of my dreams several years ago.  It is still displayed in my former classroom at Ryan High in Denton. 

One of the hardest parts of being retired is that a person has to find a new identity.  I taught for 36 years, and I was a teacher.  When I was out and about, former students would come up to me and say hi and thank me for whoever influence I may have had in their lives.  Navigating through the post-retirement world has been a bit easier than I thought it would be, but it should come with an owner's manual.
My first mistake was getting too involved.  I have always worked since college graduation, and I had no idea how to manage free time.  Different organizations and groups began to ask me if I would volunteer and being the easy heart, I would agree.  Soon, I found myself being away from home more than I did when I was teaching.  The more I gave my time, more was asked of me.  Can you help?  Please help.  We need you to help.  Of course I was needed.  I felt good.
Add to that substitute teaching.  I was on the fence about substituting until a former student asked me to fill in for him.  The word quickly got around that I was subbing, and my dance card quickly filled up.  My calendar was booked with subbing and volunteer activities, and I was more tired than I was when I was in the classroom full time.
Time to hit the brakes.
I had three goals when I retired--to lose weight or at least to get into shape, compile my dad's World War II memors, and to clean out the attic.  Guess how many of those goals have been achieved.  You're right.
So the decision was made to prioritize.  What is most important to me?  Honestly, it is nice to get a litttle extra money for a vacation fund, and subbing two days a week brings in a few hundred dollars a month.  If I can do anything, I can teach.  Then, I thought about what the importance question.  I decided very quickly that it's God, dogs, and history (in addition to family, of course), so volunteeering is concentrated on church, the local animal shelter, and docent work for our county historical educational commission.  Life is bit more manageable now.
My Uranus lesson?   Do what makes you happy and fulfilled.  That's a wonderful feeling.

I have been to Uranus.

Before you say, "You are extremely delusional" or "What have you been smoking?"please let me explain.  

Texas public school teachers have to hit a magic number of years of experience plus age to be eligible for retirement.  The year I reached that number, I began to dream that I was on Uranus.  How did I know?  Because the signs at the airport in Uranus stated "Welcome to Uranus."  Through sleep, I learned that retired teachers have an option to move to Uranus and are, in fact, encouraged to do so.

This dream was a reoccurring one.  I began to know when my sleep was taking me to this cold, distant planet.  My daughters would take me to the DFW Airport and say goodbye, and then I would board Air Uranus or some other airline for my flight to that planet.  Soon, I would arrive at my new home.  It was very similar to earth except that the sunlight appeared a little less bright, sort of like looking through a filter.  This was my new home.

I tried to analyze these dreams, but I could find no answer or explanation.  Uranus?  the planet with the unfortunate name, the name that made students laugh.  Your anus? What about MY anus?  Those sort of comments.  Then I had a revelation.

First of all, making the decision to retire was not an easy one for me.  I wrestled with the decision for three years.  Teaching was all that I knew.  I had been in the classroom since I was 24 years old, and my entire life seemed to have been played out there--two children, divorce, passing of parents, graduations, marriages, grandchildren.  Yes, I was frightened to find out what was beyond that door.  When I hit the magic number, these dreams began.  The unknown was terrifying.
My principal advised me that if I weren't sure about retiring, then I shouldn't do it.  I would know when it was the right time.  Sage advice from a man in his early forties,, right?
Retirement is more than signing the forms.  It is preparing for the next chapter.  The journey isn't easy.
It is now almost three years later from when I started to write this.  I am a seasoned resident of Uranus now.

Photos from the Philippines--at Corregidor and at the Hell Ship Memorial

I've been on this journey for three years.  I have gone crazy with volunteering until I realized that I was exhausted and scaled back.  After that, I entered the world of substitute teaching.  I primarily subbed at my two former schools where I had taught and enjoyed being in different classrooms and seeing what various teachers do.  Last  year, I got trapped in a long term (eight month) position, taking over the classes of a teacher on medical leave.  I had never taught the subject before although it was a social studies subject, nor had I taught freshmen.  I was not a happy camper by the time spring rolled around
I have had several adventures the past three years on my Uranus journey.  I spent ten days in the Philippines, traveling my dad's World War II path.  I will finish that path next week when I go to Japan.  I have become very active in the American Defenders of Bataan and Corregidor Memorial Society, have met many new now close friends, and am a national officer.  I have spent more time with my granddaughters and have a beautiful backyard due to my inherited gardening skills from my dad.  If retirement truly is a time of new discoveries, I have done that.
Uranus is not such a bad place.  Yes, at first, it was sort of scary, and I was very hesitant to enter a new world of not teaching (although I have returned, kind of).  I like it.