To Smell The Roses… Retirement Lifestyle on a Budget

By Clark LeFleur

Freedom

A relaxed, unhurried lifestyle, filled with all the leisure and amusement one could ever dream of, with plenty of time and resources to travel, dine, shop for antiques, see and experience new and untried pleasures, with freedom from worry and debt.

Through the working years, I planned carefully, always keeping that end in sight. There were many sacrifices, I must admit, but between my first wife and I our cumulative possessions were considerable. We’d built an enviable middle class lifestyle: stunning two story home in the right neighborhood, two late model cars in the driveway, a sleek bass boat in the back yard, a vacation home in the mountains. All on credit, the American Dream.

I had enjoyed the fruits of my labor to their fullest extent. Now our comfortable life had become routine, a little lackluster. And the interest was compounding beyond my ability to pay while maintaining the level of lavish spending to which I’d become accustomed. Now that my first wife, Frannie, had grown older and fatter, now that I had accumulated a crushing amount of debt, it was time to cut loose from the burdensome obligations of my first little family and lifelong consumer binge.

I’d known Bobbi since my salad days. She was still youngish, vibrant, and sexually attractive in late middle age. I’d been seeing her on the down low for the last two years or so. She, like me, was at the end of a long career, on the cusp of retirement with a very attractive pension plan. It was an obvious choice. I would declare bankruptcy, default on my debts while protecting my pension, and divorce my first wife, who would go on to share a small apartment with our two almost-grown children, thus clearing the pathway to my personal fulfillment and happiness. I would join forces and pool resources with Bobbi, my true soul mate, someone who shared my values and dreams.

Suddenly, there we were, retired with two ample pensions and two larger-than-average Social Security checks every month. My bankruptcy days had passed, and Bobbi and I had accumulated almost as much in ten years as I had in twenty with Frannie. One flawless afternoon in our ostentatious rose garden we sat, she with her twelve-year-old bourbon and I with my single malt scotch, and pondered our golden years. As the sun set, we began to discuss the methods and strategies we’d learned in our college days and by which we could sustain an

entertaining, stimulating, never ending vacation, one in which we could travel to all the best places and enjoy all the finer things in life together. And hopefully, to do it, for the most part, at the lowest possible cost, or better yet, at someone else’s expense.

First and foremost, we took stock of the great number of friends, relatives and acquaintances we’ve accumulated over the years. Because Bobbi and I had long careers in our chosen fields, we came to know an impressive number of other professional couples, many of whom had also retired to enjoy affluent lifestyles in beautiful cottages, bungalows and condominiums in the most picturesque locales from coast to coast. Why should these dear friends be deprived of a semi-annual visit from us as we make our way back and forth across the nation, stopping to smell the roses at every point along the way? And when we visit, why not leave a little of the happiness we bring with us, in the form of lively, thought provoking repartee, educating our hosts in the selection of fine wines and old whiskies, gourmet recipes and vivid descriptions of the remarkable places we’ve gone to and are going to.

My new wife and I, thanks to Facebook and other social networking websites, have been able to rekindle friendships with people we haven’t seen or thought of in years, and in some cases, create new, close personal relationships with people we’ve never met in person.

Like generals before a great battle, we have strategically and systematically categorized and sorted through these names and addresses, that is, potential vacation destinations and stopovers, to create a comprehensive plan of attack. The centerpiece of our war room is the map of North America, and our war objective is to travel to the most interesting and temperate locations in this great land of ours, sleeping in first-rate accommodations, eating the finest food and enjoying the finest liquor and other pleasures at the lowest possible cost to ourselves.

The Art of Dining and Being a Gracious Guest

Some of our favorite ways “to smell the roses” while passing the cost of our retirement lifestyle on to our friends, relatives, and acquaintances are probably the simplest. Over the years, you’ve probably overlooked thousands of opportunities to practice these techniques.

When Bobbi and I visit, our hosts, in addition to putting us up in their guest rooms, typically will prepare a sumptuous meal on the night of our arrival, and the next night as well, but after a couple of nights, they will tire of preparing and serving us their best dishes and just decide to take us out to dinner. At least, they figure, they won’t have to clear the table and clean up the kitchen while listening to us sit and go on about other great meals we’ve enjoyed recently at the homes of other, more affluent friends.

At a restaurant, Bobbi and I will always order different entrees. During the course of the meal, I’ll comment on how delicious and perfectly prepared my dish is, and offer my wife a bite. She’ll

enthusiastically take a little morsel from my fork, and proceed to ooh and ah. What a brilliant selection. Reminds her of something similar we had in San Francisco, New York, oh, where was it?

If, after a few rounds of “Let Me Taste Yours”, the other couple fails to join in the game by offering a bite from their plates, Bobbi or I will simply ask, point blank, to sample what they’re having. Most courteous dinner companions will not only eagerly participate, they’ll hardly notice a little later when I push back from the table, placing my hands on my tummy, and announce that “this is just too much food” and ask the waiter for a doggie bag, which of course will be kept in the host’s refrigerator at their home until we depart.

The really essential tactic in our bag of tricks is, of course, getting the other couple to pay for the meal. Sometimes this is easy. We can usually tell in advance by tell-tale signs of our hosts’ generosity. For example, when we first arrive at their residence, and the upscale master of the house opens the liquor cabinet with a “what would you like?” or even a “help yourself”, it speaks volumes about their capacity for sharing. By contrast, when guests make the four-hours-from-the interstate, two-lane trek to our lovely spot in the mountains, we serve what we want them to have, customarily with a long description and endorsement before the liquor is actually poured or ideally, before the beer bottle is opened. We’ve saved thousands with this simple method alone.

In the restaurant, a silent pause when the waiter asks, “one check?” often works. For people we’ve had dinner with more than once, it’s sometimes best to chime in and suggest separate checks, but we consider this outcome a draw at best. A complete victory requires complete commitment to the goal. This is where teamwork pays off.

My sweetie has a remarkable gift for controlling a conversation. She does this by skillfully employing what I’ve come to call verbal ellipses, that is, endless sentences that others are much too polite to interrupt. “That was the best shrimp scampi we’ve ever had, it was just…” her voice trails off, as if there are just no adequate comparisons. The scampi, as Bobbi recounts, was and is simply the best ever cooked and served, unquestionably.

Bobbi is a master of the first order in manipulative chit-chat, steering the topic away from subjects that others may have knowledge of or experience in to subjects in which we can present ourselves as absolute experts, conducting endless discussions about 401K’s, health care and benefits, and of course name dropping, fascinating, detailed anecdotes featuring other lucky friends who have hosted and entertained us in style.

So, after dessert is over and the check is on the table, my darling wife is always ready to create a verbal smoke screen for me to excuse myself and make a quick trip to the restroom. This absence shouldn’t be too lengthy, lest someone catch on, just long enough for our hosts to

decide to go ahead and pick up the tab. The real artistry is in the timing, waiting for our generous friends to offer to pay, putting up a little resistance- “oh, no, we insist, you’ve been so nice to us” - but ultimately giving in and allowing them the honor. If done properly, they’ll even thank us for suggesting such a wonderful eatery and providing them with such an enjoyable evening.

We exit the restaurant, doggie bag in hand, triumphant, looking forward to spending the balance of the evening drinking our benefactor’s liquor and enjoying their ample accommodations. Many hosts will offer to set their alarm clocks for us, so they can be ready to serve breakfast early in the morning and even help carry our luggage to the car.

Of course, it’s important to remember to also accept from your hosts, a parting gift, a little bag of fruit from their backyard orchard, leftover dessert from your first night’s stay, some fine marmalade or salad dressing from a local tourist attraction, whatever they have. They’re more than happy to share. It’s a long drive to the next stop, and there’s no reason your hosts can’t continue to provide after you’re on your way to the next couple’s idyllic retreat, with its free lodging, meals, and entertainment.

The California Trip

By carefully dividing our pool of friends into “haves” and “have nots”, knowing which couples on our pushpin map of overnight stays are a good bet for a great dinner, which are real serious drinkers with good taste in booze, and which friends have the biggest, finest homes, we’ve perfected the art of fine dining and being gracious guests. Using our personal network of dear, dear friends as guiding beacons along the way in the voyage through our golden years, we keep a close watch and a steady hand at the wheel to steer a smooth course.

However, in spite of all our best efforts, our retirement lifestyle will occasionally throw us a curve. In those rare instances, an innocent visit can result in an awkward or embarrassing situation, or a situation where we are forced to spend our own money, or worse yet, spend it to someone else’s benefit.

But, according to ancient Confucian wisdom, or at least according to Linda and Steve, dear, dear friends who imparted this third hand ancient wisdom to us over dinner one lovely and worthwhile evening in the Catskills, unfortunate events sometimes turn out to be unexpectedly advantageous for some of the parties involved. Or something to that effect.

Back in the late summer of ’95, just a few months after Bobbi and I were married, the death of Grateful Dead guitarist Jerry Garcia came as a dramatic blow to the Deadheads, that lunatic fringe subculture of the baby boomer generation. Nowhere was the impact of that sad event more evident than in the city of San Francisco, where the Dead had their beginnings in the mid-

sixties. My sweetie and I are proud to have been a part of that seminal hippie movement, and in fact, we honed many of the techniques described in this volume right there in the heart of the cultural revolution, near the corner of Haight and Ashbury.

Although we were gainfully employed at the time, with real jobs, and in actuality, only participated as “hippies” on weekends and days off, we had scores of contacts and connections in the new alternative lifestyle community. For us, having long hair and wearing the colorful clothes and beads was the best way to score invitations to parties, free spare tickets to the Fillmore, and basically whatever countercultural fun and diversion was available at no charge.

We learned, for example, the fine art of obtaining cheap marijuana and offering joints and pipe loads of “bunk” weed to our companions as a way of gaining access to their stashes of “good shit”. At many a party or concert or afternoon at the park, Bobbi, with great fanfare, would roll a dry, seedy, Mexican number while I extolled the virtues of what both of us knew to be inferior quality stuff. After the dope had been passed around a few times, someone would invariably break out the Acapulco Gold or Columbian, just to show us novices what the real thing was like. “That reefer’s okay, but wait ‘til you taste this…”

We also learned that our stoned companions had very short memories. I frequently was able to swap one of our roaches for one of the potent ones right under everyone’s nose. With the same deft slight-of-hand I put to good use in friendly poker games with my straighter friends, I’d put out the good joint and pocket it for later while passing on the low grade stuff to unsuspecting beatniks who were too high to know the difference.

Often, we’d smoke entire bags of other hippies’ dope and take a gracious bow for getting everyone high and all the good vibes we’d generously shared with our brothers and sisters. I can’t begin to count the number of times someone would profusely thank us for turning them on with their own pot. “Awesome jib, dude…” You’re welcome, man.

But back to the nineties. When the memorial concert for Jerry in Golden Gate Park was announced, Bobbi and I made one of our first cross country trips as a retired couple. We received an invitation from a couple we knew from the old days to come out, stay a few days, and celebrate the life of the great hippie forefather.

Bill and Susan had moved up in the world from their humble days sharing a fleabag crash pad with six other deadbeats on Pooneil. Bill had since gotten his MBA and made a killing in the stock market, retiring at an early age to a beautiful hillside home in Marin County. When we got the call, we immediately recognized the opportunity to vacation on the west coast with style. Not to mention all the great weed they surely kept in stock.

We arrived the day before the big event and took a quick side trip through the city to see how the old neighborhood had changed. We circled for what seemed like an hour before we parked and got out of the car to take a short walk down to the meadow in Golden Gate Park where we’d seen the Dead and the Airplane play, free of course, so many times.

To say it was hot that sweltering August afternoon would be a drastic understatement. We soon found ourselves in a tent city of mostly second generation hipsters. There were thousands there already, staking out their camping and partying spots for what would surely be the greatest hippie reunion of the decade, or possibly, all time, man. A steady stream of psychedelic music issued from the public address system.

There was a hint of the old carnival atmosphere from the sixties, but the tinge of shock and sadness was palpable. The running, skipping, carefree whirling dervishes of old were now just a large, sweaty mass of strangers. There were many people there closer to our age, but no one we recognized. A whiff of pot smoke, a topless young nubile here and there, but by and large, the vibe had changed.

We sat near a small group of young stoners who were passing around a pipe of what appeared to be dark, oily hashish. Bobbing our heads and pretending to listen to whatever noise was coming from the stage, we attempted to make it clear that we were, indeed, groovy folks, but no one offered us so much as a toke. My hand-tooled custom cowboy boots and Bobbi’s prized turquoise and silver necklace seemed to scream “not cool” to these imitators, these phony hippy types with their torn jeans and tattoos.

We got up and moved several times, trying to find just the right spot, always seeking out groups where weed was being smoked openly, but we didn’t feel quite…welcome. We elicited a similar uncomfortable response from each little clique of unwashed, faded, and raggedly dressed potheads we approached, as if they knew we didn’t quite belong. Some would finally, after many passes, offer us a hit from a damp, brown roach of skunky smelling weed, but most would avert their eyes from us as they bobbed and weaved in their peculiar and ungainly tribal hippie dance.

Aside from the unbearable temperature and humidity in the meadow, aside from the stench of hitchhiking, van dwelling, mostly unemployed and unemployable vagabonds, there was also the pervasive cloud of grief and mourning. These people were serious. It was unreal. I mean, after all, Garcia was a pretty good guitar player, and it was sad he was gone, but why should we allow that negativity to affect our good times? This memorial thing is kind of a bummer, and besides, it’s hot.

So we headed up to Bill and Susan’s place in Marin County, where we knew we’d find air conditioning, hot showers, clean thousand- thread -count linen sheets and plenty of good wine and weed.

Of Dogs and Fine Footwear

Bill and Susan met us in the driveway of their fantastic Mill Valley home, built into a hillside overlooking Richardson Bay. An architectural marvel: three levels, four bedrooms, each with its own veranda. We came to the right place, I mused. Susan knelt by an adorable little Lhasa Apso, who was barking and wagging its tail with delight as we pulled up. Even the puppy was glad to see us.

Susan looked a little older, but none the worse for wear, as they say. Her now giant, low slung breasts pushed into my midsection as we embraced. Dear, dear friends. Bill, in turn, hugged my sweetie for a long and tender moment. It had been over twenty years. It seemed almost like we were a real family, reuniting after a long separation.

We of course were feted with the most wonderful vegan supper we’ve ever had, sweet potato fritters and black beans, followed by a scrumptious avocado salad. Then, absinthe over sugar cubes, and a quiet, dreamless night of luxuriant rest in climate controlled comfort.

The next day, Bobbi woke up, feeling a little more ill than usual. She even thought for a moment she might have had a heat stroke in the park. I asked her what she wanted to do about the memorial. “I don’t think I can handle it. You wouldn’t want to have to take me to a hospital, would you?”

Bobbi and I decided that it was just too hot for a funeral. We explained to Bill and Susan, it was just so…hot. We would be going into Sausalito for lunch. Wouldn’t they rather come with us? Or maybe we could go in your car? ”You know where the best places are,” I said, grasping the back of his upper arm affectionately. “Show us around.” Bill, who never much cared for the Dead, liked the idea.

I had a marvelous braised bison chop, fresh kale and sourdough bread for lunch at the Café Toothsum. My sweetie had the cucumber salad with salmon. Bill and Susan had the same, ordered espresso, then picked up the tab. What a great couple.

We got back into Mill Valley mid-afternoon. The weather, as one would expect from one of the most beautiful, eclectic and exclusive areas on the West Coast, was perfect. Bill and Susan strolled off down the street, hand in hand. “Take your time. We’ll be back in a few,” Bill called over his shoulder. We knew something was up. They had something special in mind. Bobbi and I

half expected an expensive gift, purchased on impulse, something they knew we would cherish. That’s the kind of friends they were.

Marin County can be a real shopping paradise for anyone who appreciates and loves really fine jewelry, clothing, and footwear. There are hundreds of shops and stores with unique, one-of-a-kind dresses, long silk scarves, big silver earrings, and real pearls. Places where women and men of taste and means are treated like the special people they are.

Bobbi and I walked into an incredible shoe shop named TaDa’s. There was a little atrium with a fountain and a wrought iron bench in the center of the store. Birds splashed and sang as very well-maintained Northern California women perused the stacks and consulted with one another over shoes, shoes, and more shoes. A saleswoman approached Bobbi and it was all over. I sat down, stoned and resigned to a long wait. Bill had the “good shit”, no mistaking that.

I waited for two hours and fifteen minutes. I stepped out and wandered down the little shady walkways between the shops, gazing into the attractive, professionally decorated windows. Everything a man of refinement could want: pipes of every imaginable kind, fine kangaroo-skin tobacco pouches, gold-plated hip flasks ready for monogramming. And the clothes. It was mind-boggling. I came very close to buying a black suede vest that made me look like a silver-haired Maverick in the fitting room mirror. Remember James Garner? I pointed out a small stitching error in the lining to the cashier, but there was no negotiating on the price. I ended up getting a pair of fine Italian loafers at the shop across the street.

It was another hour before Bobbi had finally talked herself into just the right pair of Bolivian leather sandals, and she emerged from the shop, three hundred dollars lighter. We met up with Bill and Susan, who we learned had gone to a local antique place to look at a vintage Victrola they’d discovered on Craiglist. They ended up buying a silver and jade tea service instead. For a second, we held our breath. Could it be a gift for us? No, false alarm.

We compared our treasures, complimenting each other on our good taste and congratulating ourselves for the excellent deals we got, then climbed in Bill’s Mercedes M-Class SUV to ride back up to their place, with Jefferson Airplane’s Crown of Creation playing at a comfortable, age-appropriate volume level from the twelve-speaker sound system. The day had been a truly fulfilling, almost spiritual , shopping experience, Bay Area style.

As a host, Bill didn’t disappoint. His wine cellar was well-stocked with fine California wines. He and his soul mate had all the time in the world to sit and drink a few bottles with us. I took a long, deep drag from Bill’s colorful blown glass bong. Ah…California Sinsemilla. ”Fuck Garcia,” I said silently to myself, “this is where it’s at.”

I wasn’t listening to Bill or Susan or even my sweetie. Their conversation was just pleasant noise, background music for a very exquisite and expensive cannabis and cabernet high. I could barely make out what was being said. Something about Bill’s collection of old ‘78’s. Blah blah. Then, the subject changed, and my ears picked up when I realized the girls were talking about me, or at least me before I married Frannie and moved to the Gulf Coast in the seventies.

“Oh, those were the days.” Susan shook her head and laughed, looking at Bobbi and then smiling into my eyes. “Man, you used to cut an impressive figure with your Ray-Bans and sideburns, flying up 101 in that Triumph Spitfire. Good times.”

My mind submerged itself in the liquid warmth of that memory. That was me, young and virile, and my first sports car, the Mk3 . And I was rather impressive looking, snappily dressed in my designer bell bottoms, compared to most of my low rent hippie friends who didn’t or wouldn’t work. It was good to be a productive member of society. I had a promising career as an assistant fashion magazine editor, I could take chicks to lunch, I could have steak. I didn’t have to share an apartment with a bunch of almost- grown children who never chipped in for the phone bill and ate all my food out of the refrigerator.

“Well Bobbi,” Bill said, voice brimming with true admiration for the score of the day, “your taste in shoes is as impeccable as always. I am impressed,” he continued, “and what a great price.”

Puki, unbeknownst to us, also had great taste in fine footwear. While we laughed and reminisced under the California stars, Susan’s prized Lhasa Apso was quietly at work, sneaking into the guestroom to have a go at the genuine leather chew toys that lay irresistibly on the floor, between our luggage and the canopy bed.

At first, we didn’t recognize what Puki had in her mouth when she came running out on the veranda, growling playfully as she chewed the delicate heel of a very expensive sandal. The feisty little Lhasa wagged her tail with delight, slinging the wet leather lump around, teasing and hoping to entice someone into a game of keepaway. Cute dog.

Susan chased Puki into the house and grabbed the mangled sandal. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe she did this. Bad girl!” She held out the irreparable, tooth marked Bolivian leather flip flop. The woods on the hillside became suddenly quiet. Not even a cricket chirped as we stared, dumfounded, at Puki’s handiwork.

“Oh, no!” my sweetie cried out in horror.

Bobbi’s deep blue eyes began to well up. “Oh, I was so stupid to leave that door open. Look at them now. They’re ruined. They were just the best…sandals I’ve ever bought.”

Now Susan’s eyes began to well up. Bobbi continued.” I just can’t afford another pair…and they would have gone so well with the maroon scarf I bought today at Patchoulie’s…”

I spoke up now, sensing my cue. “Bobbi,” I scolded, “let me remind you that we are on a fixed income as of September first. You’ve got to be more careful.” My sweet girl was sobbing now. I had never been prouder of her intuitive skills. She held her hands up to her face, as if ashamed of her pathetic display. I could see her peeking through her fingers as she sniffed, “It’s not …Puki’s fault.”

Susan, sympathetic soul that she was, seemed truly moved by Bobbi’s tears, and at the same moment, mortified at appearing to be such a negligent hostess. Finally, a wave of inspiration rolled over her. There was only one way to make this right. She offered to pay for the sandals. In fact, if we’d consider staying another day or two, she’d go with Bobbi down into Mill Valley to TaDa’s and buy her a new pair. What were friends for, after all?

The Ass Burger Twins

Bill and Susan remained our faithful friends for years after that visit. We recently heard, via an email from another old friend from the old days, that Bill had lost everything in the mortgage-backed derivatives game a couple of years ago. We haven’t been to see them in awhile.

Other new and interesting people have come into our lives since. We met one memorable pair through a famous social networking site. Isn’t it funny how fate works, how certain personality types are drawn to one another through mutual friends, preferences, likes and dislikes? God bless you, Mr. Zuckerberg. You have truly changed the world.

D’Angelo and Dick became our favorite hosts in Vicksburg, a great place to pick up some silver queen corn when you’re coming down from Memphis in early July. We had just spent a fabulous week at Ray and Renaldo’s houseboat. They were also a delightful gay couple, and we always looked forward to seeing them, maybe even staying at their place for a night or two before heading out to points west. This trip, as I recall, we were on our way to Austin for real Texas Chili and some horseback riding at the ranch home of Jim and Frances, two of our oldest and dearest. We would stop over at D’Angelo and Dick’s place to perhaps sample a little fresh-baked pumpernickel and share some gossip from our Memphis stay.

D’Angelo was an artist, proficient and prodigious in charcoal sketches and water color; he played classical pieces on his enormous French horn and would conduct séances and read tarot cards. He had also authored two horror novels about gay zombies or something. Dick was an executive with a chicken processing company.

The important thing was that D’Angelo seemed to really, sincerely enjoy impressing us. We had the verbal faculties to make him feel like the genius he obviously was. In addition to his other fascinating creative works and projects, D’Angelo was, naturally, a marvelous chef and bread baker and we always enjoyed his cooking and baking when we were in town. So creative.

Dick, on the other hand, merely tolerated us. We’d always thank him for being such a gracious host after spending a weekend enjoying D’Angelo’s incredible meals. We always asked about his mother when we departed and made every sort of overture to express our deep affection for him and D’Angelo.

One occasion in particular springs to mind. We were innocently sitting in their living room, enjoying the extensive collection of vintage Shaker furniture, chatting with D’Angelo, when Dick came in from work. We asked about his day at the office and he just grumbled and headed up the stairs. What truly gay man would do such a thing? Where one would normally expect an exaggerated, dramatic and entertaining revisiting of the day’s frustrations, Dick was sparing of words and withdrawn. What bad form in front of guests. How rude.

We used to think he simply didn’t like people. It wasn’t us, specifically. He just acted like he didn’t want guests. Not even guests with spell-binding stories of houseboat life on the Mississippi, and our other, more flamboyant gay friends who simply adored antiquing and clubbing until dawn. Oh, the money Ray and Renaldo could burn through in a night on the town. Great people, we just loved them.

But Dick was determinedly impervious to our charm and finesse. It became imperative that we get to the bottom of his dislike, that is, it became necessary to play one off against the other in a little game we sometimes entertain ourselves with, one we’ve come to call “Why Aren’t You Nice to My Friends?” A well-placed question or comment, usually posed to the wife or passive partner, could serve to divert the attention and change the subject when an irritated husband or breadwinner appeared to have had enough of us. This could pay off in a number of ways; hopefully in this case, guaranteeing our future reservations at D’Angelo and Dick’s Free Bed and Breakfast.

Bobbi approached D’Angelo in a discrete girl-to-girl moment before brunch one morning and quietly asked, with great concern, “What’s wrong with Dick? He seems to be depressed about something. Is there something we can do? Can we help?”

That’s when we learned about Dick’s ongoing struggle with something called Asperger’s Syndrome. D’Angelo explained that Dick suffered from an unusual malady that prevented him from “reading social cues” from others. D’Angelo continued,

“People with Asperger’s appear to be insensitive towards other people’s feelings and unable to read between the lines. They don’t seem to be willing in sharing experiences or interests with people close to them. They don’t pick up on non verbal communication and they lack a sense of what is socially appropriate to do.”

In effect, he didn’t give a fuck about anyone but Dick and never bothered to concern himself with other people’s feelings, but it wasn’t his fault. It was a disease. Bobbi’s heart ached for D’Angelo and Dick and Dick’s tragic condition. She listened to a detailed list of all the symptoms, understanding at last that Dick didn’t dislike us or having us as house guests on both legs of our annual summer trip to San Miguel. He was simply a sick man, and needed our sympathy more than anything.

We left the next morning for Austin, pausing just long enough in their enormous, country blue kitchen with striking marble counter tops and shining copper pans, to fill our two-quart travel thermos with some fine, Kona coffee Dick had brought home from a recent business trip to Oahu.

Last year, we dropped in on D’Angelo and Dick, not knowing it would be for the last time. Our formerly congenial and generous host met us at the door, clad only in a silk dressing gown. I made a mental note. That would make an excellent Father’s Day present for me. I must remember to leave a few Niemann Marcus catalogues scattered around the house, opened to the robes with colors and prices conspicuously circled.

D’Angelo, visibly agitated, informed us that Dick was home sick from work, upstairs in bed, and he’d barely had time to bathe, shave and prepare for guests in the two hours between our phone call just outside of Smedes, Mississippi and the time we arrived, strategically, as was our habit, in the late afternoon, a little before dinner time.

We sat rather awkwardly in their well-appointed den as D’Angelo poured a plain Earle Grey for Bobbi. I, of course, inquired if there might be some of that fine Kona coffee available. Unfortunately, there wasn’t any in the cupboard. Dick wouldn’t be making another trip to Hawaii until January. I settled for some brandy I spied on the counter at the wet bar.

“I suppose we do have something to snack on,” D’Angelo pondered, “things have been so hectic lately. My new novel is taking forever to finish. Dick and I have decided we must simplify.”

We of course agreed. Too many obligations simply wear a person down. I began to steer the conversation into the story of my successful bankruptcy maneuver and subsequent tidy profit from the sale of Bobbi’s home at the top of the market, but our host appeared to be really worn down and burned out, and Bobbi cast a warning glare at me when D’Angelo went into the kitchen to rustle up a snack for us. Better not push it, dear.

My sweetie and I were at least as exhausted as our host. It had been a long, dogleg trip from Memphis, zigzagging down the back roads, looking for yard sales and bargains in nearly-abandoned areas where the textile mills and factories were now shuttered. We had stopped at several roadside vegetable stands and flea markets and all we’d eaten was the overpriced bowl of red beans that we shared at a soul food diner in the bowels of Mississippi.

The weather worn and rusted sign out front identified the place as “Babe’s Bar-B-Q” and it wouldn’t have been our first choice, frankly. They thought a lot of their food, and the prices were way out of line. So we sat, next to a gigantic cotton field on the edge of some depressing little southern ghost town, and ordered the lowest priced item on the menu, anticipating a hardy repast that evening at Chef D’Angelo’s.

Clattering noises spilled from the kitchen. Minutes passed like hours until, finally, D’Angelo emerged with a large silver tray. Crackers and cheese. “I’m afraid we have nothing else to offer you,” D’Angelo explained, “it’s so hard to grocery shop when Dick’s being a bitch. I’ve had to wait on him hand and foot. So we’ll have to simplify. I’m sure you understand.”

Bobbi was almost embarrassed to ask if we might wash and dry a few clothes while we were there. Our normally charitable host gave us a blank look, answering that the washer and dryer were out of order, and that they had been waiting on the repairman from Sears for “weeks now”.

After a sleeve of saltines and a few slices of provolone, we made our fond goodbyes and expressed our hope that Dick would be feeling better soon. We parted amicably at the front door. D’Angelo promised he would write soon, closing the door behind him. As we drove the winding gravel path through the elaborate topiary that graced their well-manicured property, just before we reached the road, we were surprised to see Dick, apparently recovering nicely and weeding a bed of day lilies around the mailbox.

I rolled down the window and called to him. He walked up to our station wagon, dusty from the long country drive, and grinned. He wished us a safe trip and offered an apology, “I’m afraid my Asperger’s may be contagious. D’Angelo has had a bout of it lately, too.”

Dick leaned into the window, smiling warmly as he glanced up the drive at the immaculately trimmed grounds leading to the stunningly beautiful federal style house and speaking in a soft, almost conspiratorial tone of voice, confided,

“Neither of us seemed to pick up on your social cues. We might have known you were tired and expected supper and a place to stay. I’m so sorry. Perhaps we’ll visit you on our trip to New Brunswick this autumn. I can’t wait to sample those sourdough pancakes you’ve gone on about so many times.”

“Please come. We’d…love to have you,” Bobbi replied.

We drove away, faced now with the prospect of finding an affordable motel and a decent meal. I must say that we were frankly stunned at first by Dick’s remark, delivered with uncharacteristic candor and cheerfulness, yet so heavy in its implicit meaning.

Bobbi and I came away from that experience with a new awareness of the unintended effects our retirement lifestyle agenda could have, in isolated cases, on some of our friends. Perhaps we did impose; perhaps we took our friends for granted. However, after long reflection and discussion, we came to the conclusion that, ultimately, we weren’t at fault here. Asperger’s Syndrome and other New Age social maladies may indeed be real, not just convenient excuses for inconsiderate behavior.

No, the fault was not ours. We’ve made it our quest to brighten the lives of everyone we know, by visiting and imparting our knowledge and advice to them, no matter how far off the beaten path they may live, no matter how well-heeled they may be. Our heartfelt wish is to able to share this wisdom with all the dear, dear friends we’ve known over the decades, as well as those dear, dear, friends we’ve yet to meet and visit.

In this light, we’ve grown to understand our mission as a vocation, of sorts. We come into your home to offer our vast repository of expertise in antiquing, baking, cooking, decorating, dressing, drinking, dining, entertaining, gardening, investing, grocery shopping, scoring the best controlled substances, saving money and traveling in style. If, like our unfortunate friend Dick, you don’t care to accept the enlightenment we bring, something is probably wrong with you.

An Old Fashioned Christmas

During the long Kentucky winter, my sweetie and I prefer to hunker down at home and enjoy the incredible snowy vista from our comfortable retreat in the mountains. There’s nothing quite like the holidays here, and we love to spend a little time with our extended family, as we take a break from our touring and visiting to do a little entertaining of our own.

Bobbi and I each have a daughter and a son from previous marriages. My daughter Julia has been divorced and remarried a number of times, has three boys, ages eleven to sixteen, and Bobbi’s son is the divorced father of a thirteen year old boy. My son, Clark Jr., has never been married and has no children, while Bobbi’s daughter Peggy is married to a man with three daughters of his own, all teenagers.

So a little quick math tells you that our extended family obligations can entail considerable expense for the holidays, with a minimum of twenty one Christmas gifts to purchase every year. Bobbi is obligated to buy gifts for, first of all, ourselves, Bobbi’s five brothers and sisters, our

four adult children and their three spouses, four grandchildren, and three additional grandchildren-in-law.

When Bobbi’s daughter Peggy married Cliff, it was immediately apparent to me that his three children were going to cost us, because in addition to the annual Christmas outlay, there were three more inconvenient birthdays to deal with each year. Prudently, at their wedding reception, I made the case to Bobbi that we’d have to be strategic in our gifting to avoid overspending on presents, always a potential pitfall when maintaining a retirement lifestyle on a budget.

When I was married to Frannie and our kids were little, we, like so many of our contemporaries, were caught up in the annual cycle of finding out what they wanted for Christmas, and to the best of our ability, going out and buying it. Among our friends and neighbors, it would have been shameful to appear like there was anything we couldn’t afford. Our children were status symbols in and of themselves. If the neighbors’ daughter had several Barbies and Kens with extensive wardrobes, my daughter Julia would have to have a comparable collection, and her Barbies would have Dream Houses and Sports Cars as well. If the neighbors’ son had a Daisy air rifle, Clark Jr. would have a Crossman pellet gun, and so on. Even in the seventies, brand names and fads were the penultimate expression of a child’s social position at school and in the neighborhood.

As we’ve moved into our golden years, we’ve grown past much of that. While Bobbi and I appreciate and use modern technology, particularly the iPhone, the iPad, the Garmin, and so forth, we know that young people these days tend to be spoiled and self-serving, in part because of these same kinds of devices and conveniences. Therefore, we’ve adopted a policy of giving our grandchildren simpler, more traditional gifts for the holidays.

There’s no reason why any twelve year old expecting an Mp3 player or an iTunes gift card shouldn’t be perfectly happy with a kite or a wooden penny whistle, especially one purchased at an arts and crafts fair on one of our annual visits to Joe and Linda’s stunning home in the Hamptons. After all, learning to fly a kite is a lost art, and a kite, of course, can be usually be had for less than ten dollars. And as a bonus, the gift can be presented along with a lengthy monologue detailing the many ways life was better in Grandpa’s day.

Bobbi and I are always vigilant on our shopping excursions, looking for bargains and ways to cut costs everywhere we go. One example stands out in my mind as one of the best Christmas gift purchases we’ve ever made. We were in one of those discount salvage stores, I guess it was about ten years ago, and we were perusing the name brand sweaters and overcoats for ourselves, some with water stains, some smelling of smoke, but most items only requiring a

good dry cleaning. After Bobbi had selected some really fine winter garments, on our way to the checkout counter we passed by a stack of crushed and water damaged cartons.

We called one of the stock boys over to pull down a case from the top of the pile marked simply “books”. Upon opening the box, we were pleased to discover a selection of coloring books, not the movie merchandising or superhero stuff that you find at Walmart, usually marked up beyond reason, but nice, generic coloring books with pictures of nice, generic dolls and animals and so on. We had the boy bring the case to the counter, where the clerk did a quick price check. Five dollars for the case.

Maintaining my best poker face, I pointed out the damage to the box and asked if there might be some additional discount. After calling over the store manager, who’d dealt with us before, we were able to get the price down an additional dollar, and we walked out of the store with two dozen perfectly good coloring books for a little under twenty cents apiece, tax included. And, just our luck, there were three different editions, perfect for three boys, the oldest of whom would be five that year.

At that time, our state had a one day tax holiday in late summer for school and educational supplies, and after successfully arguing with the department store checkout girl that a couple of genuine cowhide Cole Haan dress belts, at forty percent off, were in fact school supplies, we were able to pick up a number of great bargains, including three boxes of 64 Crayolas at a reasonable price.

Needless to say, it was a great Christmas for us that year. We came in well under budget, and as matter of fact, we came in under budget, at least for grandchildren’s presents, for the next three Christmases, by cleverly planning to give each grandchild a different coloring book each year. By the fourth year, only the oldest child showed any sign of suspecting that he’d gotten this present before.

One of the finest family gatherings we’ve ever had was just this past year, when all of the children, grandchildren, and Cliff’s daughters came to our home in the mountains. With great fanfare, as all the children circled about, I lit the yule log in our rustic stone hearth, being particularly careful not to build too big a fire at once. No need to be wasteful. We still had about half a cord of cut, delivered, and stacked hardwood out back, and we’d been very frugal since purchasing the load the previous February.

A couple of the girls remarked that it was cold in the house, and without missing a beat, Bobbi explained that she and I preferred that way; we slept better with the temperature hovering around sixty in the master bedroom. If you’re cold, leave your coats on.

We’ve had a little family tradition for quite a few years. We always have Julia, along with her current spouse, and Peggy and Cliff and his horde, bring their respective trunk loads of gifts to our home for opening on Christmas morning. This makes everything particularly festive, and for my sweetie and I, particularly cost effective. With my red satin Santa Claus hat, festooned with fresh holly each year and stylishly cocked to one side, I hand out the gaily wrapped presents from under the tree, taking the implied credit for giving each gift, even the expensive Spiderman and Star Wars junk that Cliff typically purchases for Julia’s boys.

“Thanks, Grandpa!”

“Oh no, it wasn’t me,” I insist with a wink, “thank Santa Claus.”

This season was unusually merry for me, in that I had finally won an ongoing dispute with Bobbi about buying presents for Peggy’s stepchildren. The three girls were, to say the least, rude at the dinner table, and everywhere else for that matter. In past years, they’d been visibly ungrateful when opening their presents from us, never failing to point out that their nearly identical sweaters were the wrong size, or smelled like smoke, or some other complaint.

After Thanksgiving dinner at Cliff’s modest tract house, Bobbi had discretely broached the subject with her daughter, explaining that it was hard picking things out for the girls, not knowing their sizes or what they liked, and so forth. We would prefer to give her a check so she could do the shopping herself. Peggy graciously accepted this generous gesture, and we were able to check off three names from our list with a stroke of Bobbi’s Montblanc fountain pen to the tune of thirty five dollars.

Of course, Peggy and Cliff, barely scraping along on his humble postman’s salary, always remembered to be especially generous to my grandchildren. It was all I could do some years to contain my chagrin at being upstaged when Julia’s boys opened the costly, trendy toys that were just what they asked Santa for.

The highlight of the day was of course the opening of the final present, an honor, as always, reserved for my sweetie. Over the years, we’ve attempted to adopt a theme for our gift giving at the holidays. In the past, we’ve done sweaters, scarves, and jewelry for all the LeFleur women. During the year, my sweetie and I are always vigilant, occasionally scoring some very attractive deals in bargain bin earrings and bracelets for the girls. Bobbi’s Christmas present would be in keeping with the theme; if the girls got jewelry, she’d get jewelry. Hers, it goes without saying, would always be the most exquisite.

The real trick here is, of course, in the timing. Giving sale-priced costume jewelry to one’s grandchildren while giving yourselves the real thing has to be done with tact. The pendants, necklaces, and whatever must be handed out early in the proceedings, something that’s

relatively easy to do when you’re the one distributing all the gifts. With the cheap stuff out of the way and practically forgotten by the time the action figures and video games have been unwrapped, the piece de resistance can have maximum impact.

Soon, the boys were running through the house, shooting those irritating Spiderman webs, threatening each other with Incredible Hulk Smash Fists and wrestling in the mountain of torn wrapping paper, ribbon, and barely noticed and unappreciated generic coloring books and hand-crafted paddle balls. The moment had arrived to draw the older children’s attention to the small package waiting under the tree for Bobbi.

My sweetie, always mindful to feign surprise, unwrapped and opened the diamond-studded Movato watch she’d picked out for herself back in October. The ooh’s and ahh’s ensued, with Cliff sheepishly staring at the floor, outclassed and outdone again. Imprudently, he’d spent his entire Christmas budget on the children. Bobbi threw her arms around me in blubbering gratitude.

“My husband always knows exactly what I want,” she announced, wiping away a tear. Peggy glanced over at her deflated husband and squeezed his hand reassuringly.

“Maybe one day, darling.”

Christmas dinner was all the more enjoyable this year, thanks in great part to our well-timed and flawlessly executed performance that morning. Bobbi, Peggy, and Julia had been hard at work in the kitchen throughout the day, preparing all my favorites, under my gourmand supervision. There were not one, but two ducks roasting in the oven, a thirty pound turkey, candied yams, an ornate cranberry salad mold, mincemeat pie, and especially for the kids, a generous dollop of traditional lutefisk, a kind of jellied codfish. We’d gotten the jar from our dear friends Sven and Astrid in Norway three Christmases past, but there was still enough left to go around.

Next to shaming an errant grandchild for taking too much butter or asking for a second serving of pie, there’s nothing quite like the satisfaction a grandparent gets from forcing a child to eat something they find disgusting. It’s always an opportunity to moralize: we always cleaned our plates when we were kids, we didn’t want to hurt grandma’s feelings, and so forth. In the case of lutefisk, it’s a great way to clear out the cupboard of crap we don’t want. Lutefisk is nasty, period, but it makes for a wonderful and convenient “tradition” when you want to get rid of it. And it puts Cliff on the spot when his children turn up their noses.

As the family gathered around our magnificent Early American mahogany dining table, set with our finest silver and crystal, I raised my glass, as is my custom, and announced, “ If you’re not completely satisfied with dinner, the price of your meal will be cheerfully refunded. “

“Amen,” Bobbi added. Julia’s husband Mike and couple of the grandsons chuckled politely, while Sue, one of Peggy’s stepdaughters, rolled her eyes. I pretended not to notice. It was my standard dinner table joke and I knew it was a little corny. Just another way of letting our guests know that we expected a little gratitude for the effort and expense we’d gone to on their behalf.

All told, there had been quite a bit of effort and expense. Peggy had gotten up in the middle of the night to start the turkey she and Cliff brought, along with the mincemeat pie. Julia had purchased the yams at a roadside vegetable stand in Tennessee, and Clark Jr. had bagged the ducks on a hunting trip in Wisconsin.

Not to suggest that we didn’t do more than our fair share. Bobbi prepared her traditional cranberry salad in the Tupperware mold Julia and her second husband had given us a few years back. The cranberries, of course, came to us FedEx from our friends Jake and Cindy in Hyannis Port. We served a fine box Chablis with the meal.

And of course, everyone had traveled a considerable distance to get to our lovely mountain residence. Julia and Mike were on the road for three days and had to book two motel rooms for two nights for the kids and themselves. Too bad they haven’t developed a talent for networking. Bobbi and I have accumulated, by my last count, six dear, dear retired friends who live along the route Mike and Julia took to get to our place. A little careful planning and strategizing, and they could have made the trip in true LeFleur style, with free lodging and meals.

At any rate, expensive or not, it was quite a spread. The turkey was delicious, the ducks perfectly roasted, the yams and pie were just wonderful. Everyone at least tasted the lutefisk. But the star attraction, as always, was the cranberry salad mold. It seemed to dominate the conversation for the whole meal. Even Bridgette, Peggy’s usually finicky younger daughter, loved it and asked for more. Bobbi, the consummate grandmother, expressed a little concern about the child’s weight issues, and judiciously measured out a second helping. Peggy gently cautioned the child under her breath, “That’s enough, Bridgette.”

After almost half the turkey and all of one of the ducks had been consumed, and everyone appeared to be sated, we declared dinner to be officially over and cleared the table, relishing the thought of all the leftovers, the duck empanadas, the yams, the turkey and cranberry sandwiches my sweetie and I were going to enjoy in the coming week. Yes, we love having family for the holidays.

I guess my favorite part of the celebration will always be the second half of Christmas Day, when all the paper and refuse have been cleared away, all the penny whistles carefully separated and stashed in bags for the road home, along with the labels, identifying the presents

“from Grandpa and Bubbi“. Most of the name brand and high tech toys have been fought over, damaged, or broken outright, almost always a vindication of the frugal shopping and gifting skills Bobbi and I have honed over the years.

Late Christmas afternoon is the time we can put all the confusion behind, the men retreat to the den where the football watching begins, and the twelve-year-old bourbon flows for me. Bobbi usually joins us around half time, after the leftovers are put away and Peggy is almost finished scrubbing the roasting pans and casserole dishes. For Cliff and Julia’s husband du jour Mike, there’s always plenty of the funny tasting micro-brewery beer we get from Tom and Sally in Milwaukee. Ah, yes, Christmas afternoon. Time to gloat and pontificate.

This year, I decided to have a little fun with one of the gifts I’d gotten from Peggy and Cliff the previous year. I went to great lengths to call attention to and tout the advantages of the stainless steel ice cubes in my Waterford whiskey glass, how they stayed cold longer, how they didn’t melt and dilute the fine liquor I require. Fine liquor should not be diluted.

Obviously, Cliff didn’t remember that he’d bought the damn things for me in the first place, and he listened patiently, drinking the lukewarm brown bottle of Milwaukee Ass Fuzz Ale I’d brought up from the storeroom refrigerator. I went on and on about the ice cubes and what I was drinking, gesturing and waving my tinkling glass in the air until my son-in-law was just on the verge of begging to taste some of my prized twelve-year-old bourbon, when Bobbi walked through the den and pointed out, “Oh, those are the ice cubes you and Peggy gave us. We just…love them.”

Of course, the ironic fact that the stainless steel ice cubes were a gift from Cliff and Peggy was completely beside the point. I was simply trying to convey the subtle message that I had them and he didn’t. I skillfully ignored my wife’s thoughtless comment.

“How about another ale, Cliff? Sweetie, would you mind?” As Bobbi obediently turned to head down to the storeroom, I refocused the attention to the big game playing on our giant plasma screen. My near-photographic recall of sports statistics and expertise in all matters football would provide endless opportunities to browbeat my guests into the evening.

Finally, in the waning hours of Christmas Day, all the children and grandchildren piled into their cars and vans to hit the road. Bobbi and I waved goodbye from our doorstep and snow fell as they drove away. We were alone at last. Sharing a last aperitif before bed, we paused a moment to reflect on how well everything had gone. I lit a pipe with the golden monogrammed cigarette lighter Mike and Julia had given me, along with the fine silk dressing gown from Niemann Marcus, and took a deep long drag.

Oh, why can’t every day be like Christmas?