Skipping Stones
by Allan Lönnberg
Retirement?
I am puzzled when people ask me, usually either cheerfully or with a note of concern, how’s retirement. It’s clear they mean life post-Cabrillo, but nevertheless, I find myself second-guessing them. I don’t feel “retired,” that is, somehow withdrawn from what had been my “real,” previous life. Life is just as real to me now as it was before I strolled out of the classroom after finals in Spring 2011. (More real perhaps, considering the unreality of some of the meetings I attended while employed. Smile, breathe, everyone.) Nor was it less real in the years before I—luckily, happily—became a Cabrillo instructor and was working as an archaeologist. It was less real before that, but, then, that was the 60s.
Like any kid with sources of flat water and flat rocks, I used to love skipping stones. With any luck, I could make ten or more skips before gravity overcame inertia and the stone disappeared into the depths. I see my life like that. The stages in my life are the skips—some longer than others, others interrupted by life’s turbulent waters, but the point is that one skip doesn’t “retire” before moving on to the next. The stone just moves on. My tenure (or, to be candid, my lack of it) at Cabrillo—twenty-five years—is certainly the longest skip of all, and that distinction will probably hold, considering my age. One sinks, eventually.
Enough postponing the question: what is it like? Well, it’s wonderful. I have more time devote to yoga and swimming (my wife being the inspiration there, as in so many other things), to cook slow meals, drink good wine, indulge in whatever reading captures my fancy, play bridge (poorly), visit friends, play lawnbowling, volunteer at Kuumbwa Jazz, take hikes. Taken together, these activities might have comprised a composite picture of an ideally imagined retirement, taken before the actual fact. But, now that I’m there, I find that these activities are the drone music, the background hum—all very enjoyable, but without the two driving melodies that cause me to restate the wonderfulness of my present state. Without them, the picture is incomplete. They are my daughter, Anna, along with my granddaughter, Naia, and my writing.
Naia, whose name means either an ancient Greek water nymph, or the Hawaiian word for a spinner dolphin, was born, appropriately, in a water bath at her parents’ home. (Some of you may remember Anna—she was a student at Cabrillo.) My wife, Sigrid, and I were present, and I can tell you the experience of witnessing our daughter give birth was…well, words fail me here. Anyway, they say that bonding takes place quickly, and when I held that little bundle that first night, I instantly became a bonded, sealed, certified and absolutely smitten grandfather. And, that was just the beginning! Now, almost a year and a half later, the joy of seeing her regularly is indescribable. She’s the upper register of the melody, the bright notes, which make my heart skip.
Writing also has its playful elements, but the satisfaction I’ve gotten from it is of a serious, adult kind. I’ve just completed a mystery novel. It takes place on the Central Coast, the upper Carmel Valley and the Ventana Wilderness specifically. I threw in all sorts of arcane bits and pieces that have been tumbling around in my brain for years: natural history, forensic anthropology, the Esselen Indians, water politics. It was more fun and easier to write than I expected, and I’m generally proud of the result even though it has some cheesy moments. I would love to see it published: anyone out there with contacts in the book business? Other projects are taking shape.
That’s about it. This last skip is still in mid-air. When I think back on the previous one, my tenure (non-tenure) at Cabrillo, it is with great affection and a certain nostalgia for the students I had and the friends I made while there, coupled with a tremendous sense of how fortunate I was to be hired—even as a perennial part-timer—knowing how difficult the job market is today. And I have an abiding respect for California’s Community (NOT Junior!) Colleges—may they, Cabrillo included, survive intact and prosper, with their doors open to all. When things get tough, remember: bark more, wag less!
Peace.
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