start cybersenior.3.1 ==================================================== ************ * THE * CYBERSENIOR * REVIEW ************ =================================================== VOLUME 3 NUMBER 1 JANUARY 1996 =================================================== The CyberSenior Review is a project of the Internet Elders List, an active world-wide Internet Mailing List for seniors. The Review is written, edited and published by members of the Elders for interested netizens worldwide. Contributions from non-Elders are welcome. Please query one of the editors first. Contents copyrighted 1996 by the Internet Elders List and by the authors. All rights reserved by the authors. Quoting is permitted with attribution. The editorial board of The CyberSenior Review: Elaine Dabbs edabbs@extro.ucc.su.oz.au Pat Davidson patd@chatback.demon.co.uk James Hursey jwhursey@cd.columbus.oh.us ================================================================= CONTENTS, Volume 3, Number 1, January 1996 EDITORIAL by Elaine Dabbs SAILING THROUGH THE YEARS by Fred Miller Fred takes us with him as he sails through Long Island Sound, the coast of Maine, and through his life with boats. ISRAEL 1995 by Art Rifkin We learn of the culture, history and politics of Israel as we journey with Art and his family to their ancient homeland. RETIREMENT: THE GREATEST CHALLENGE? by Jim Hursey Jim compares his coming retirement to the other important demarcations in life. ==================================================================== EDITORIAL by Elaine Dabbs It's the beginning of our third year of operation and our _CyberSenior Review_ continues to grow in the breadth of requests we receive for copies and in the standard of articles contributed. This is also the beginning of a New Year, a time to review our lives, to make plans for a renewal of our "spirit" but not to forget the relationships we have forged in past years. Just how do we all go about reaffirming our cybersenior friendships, how do we express genuine concern for each other and share our hopes and dreams for the future? A poem could be sent. Those magical words "I care for you" could come from high above the earth as a satellite picks up a lone signal from somewhere on earth and delivers it to our doorstep. Then again, you could stop awhile and read our new edition of _The CyberSenior Review_ where Fred makes us want to take up sailing in our senior years. My family sailed on Sydney Harbour for many years and, as Fred points out, the captain is certainly supreme commander and woe betide the crew who disobey! I've spent many times in the shark-infested waters round Sydney holding our little boat into the wind while my husband, from the safety of being IN the boat, comforted me with the words "no one has ever been taken by a shark when hanging on to a sailing boat!" For those who are planning retirement, read Jim Hursey's account of his feelings on his forthcoming leave of the so- called "work force." It will be interesting to hear what you all think. Jim notes that we may approach this time with fear or with joy at the freedom gained to be master of your days. Perhaps Jim would like to take time in his retirement to visit Israel -- but first of all, those with like mind, read Art's account of the culture, history and politics of this fascinating country and enjoy a first-hand account of his ancient homeland. We'd be very happy to receive further contributions from the many articulate Elders we have among us from around the world. What about submitting an article for one of our Reviews -- if you have an unusual interest for example, please share it with us. Now we go into 1996, Pat, JimH and I wish you all not only a Happy New Year, but plenty of moments of joy and fun, plenty of health and plenty of peace. Let us learn how to live every moment in our life well -- is this not the greatest knowledge we can find in our lives. ==================================================================== SAILING THROUGH THE YEARS by Fred Miller Early in the 1960's, my wife and I returned from three and one half years in Europe with the two children with whom we had embarked plus a newcomer, born in Switzerland. As pleasant as the experience was of having a child born in a foreign country, she was not rewarded with dual citizenship, but that is another story. We settled in Larchmont, NY, the town in which I had grown up, which is on Long Island Sound and in those days was famous for sailing. Many successful America Cup skippers hailed from there and although neither of us had been sailors as children, we decided to buy a boat. Our rationale was that golf, a favorite pastime heretofore, was too lengthy and selfish a game and we should center on something we could participate in as a family. So without giving it a great deal of thought or research, we wandered over to a local boatyard, looked around and saw a Rhodes 19 which seemed to be about the right size and price for what we had in mind. It turned out to be a lucky decision as there was a very active fleet sailing and racing locally and the boat itself was quite sound and able. Naturally, we needed a name and when a friend suggested "Thou Swell" we instantly adopted it. Got to know the tune well as we listened to others sailing by whistling the melody as our paths converged. At this time we looked upon Long Island Sound as sort of a big lake. You could see the other side and when the weather was clear the towers of Manhattan loomed up from the horizon. It was deceptively easy to spot watertowers and smokestacks and the rocks and shoals were few and far between once out of the harbor. I suppose we had a compass but we didn't pay a lot of heed to it on our afternoon jaunts. We had a little three horsepower outboard we could stick on the stern if we got becalmed and with the hundreds of boats out milling around every weekend someone was alway available to tow a disabled boat back home. What did we know? Practically everyone there was a commuter. Gradually we became aware of the racing scene. The Long Island Yacht Racing Association was big stuff indeed. Saturday and Sunday afternoons hundreds of boats from about twelve different classes jockeyed for position and went across the starting line about five minutes apart with appropriate cannon signals from the Committee Boat. The august crew of the committee were properly attired in navy blazers, white trousers, and yachting caps -- true men of distinction. We had to try this out! Little did we realize how seriously these racing sailors regarded their sport. It was a competitive, give no quarter, strictly by the rulebook endeavor. The captain was supreme commander and his crew generally expected to obey every order with alacrity and no dissenting comments. Inasmuch as many of these boats were manned by husbands and wives, I'm afraid it took a severe toll on many a marriage. After a few hair raising experiences of being in the way, not understanding the necessity of following the racing procedure and the finer points of the rules, we went through a couple of seasons of "round the buoys" racing. Starting a race was always an intense experience as everyone jockeyed for the starting line demanding room at the mark and shouting at the neighboring boats. The races themselves could be anything from scurrying around at top speed to sitting in a flat calm until the time limit had expired, and after a while we began to look for additional adventures. We upgraded to a 27' Pearson Commander which had the minimum equipment for cruising. That is, our new boat, "Sarasea" named for my wife, had bunks, a head (marine toilet), a minimal water tank and portable stove. This was enough to enable us to start to explore the entire Long Island Sound area and we began to learn the mysteries of reading charts, using the compass and depthfinder to plot our courses, and identifying the various navigational marks which are fortunately plentiful in US waters. We also towed a small dinghy astern which enabled us to get ashore and the children to visit and make friends with others of their age aboard the vast cruising fleet of our area. I must say that we had really found something of endless fascination which even the children enjoyed most of the time. From the shore one has rather limited access to the waterfront. In suburban areas private homes occupy the best locations, and more rural sections generally have a minimum of roads leading to the waterfront. But we could anchor right in front of a magnificent home in a secluded harbor and be quite certain that we were thought to add to the scenic interest. There was fishing, swimming, exploring marine environment and rendezvous-ing with friends at prearranged spots; it never seemed to be boring. Every trip was an adventure. It's a well known feature of sailing that one increases the boat size through the years and then starts on the downward path. In our case, the next boat was a Columbia 34 which could sleep seven. We felt, however, the age and size of our two youngest would enable them to squeeze in so we named this boat "Puffed Huit". In point of fact, it was rare all _huit_ were aboard as by now the older girls were beginning to doubt the comforts of the spartan cruising life and the children had many other interests as they matured, so we frequently had friends for shipmates. By this time we were ranging as far as the coast of Maine. Since there are some 3500 islands in Maine, plus many extensive navigable rivers, one can spend a lifetime and not see the half of it. Of course the weather is a large factor there as well, since dense fogs are quite frequent throughout the summer season. At the present time, only 14 of those islands have year round inhabitants. There is, however, a large population of "summer people" who scatter themselves among them. Many families have been coming to the same place for generations even though they are "from away." It's a long way by water to get to Maine and we found it expedient to keep the boat on a mooring right in the cruising grounds. One year it was Casco Bay and we could drive just north of Portland to get to our boat. Another year we found room tied up to a small raft in Camden Harbor and yet another time the boat spent most of the season in Rockland Harbor. Well, the larger boat is now a memory, and as indicated I now find myself on a downward ladder boatwise. My late wife and I "swallowed the anchor" for a few years, but my present wife, Lesley, who taught us to sail originally, has purchased a 23' Quickstep which she is readying for next season. This, too, has minimal cruising facilities but we'll be outfitted with the latest navigational equipment, GPS which will connect us to satellites, as well as a radio, compass, depthfinder and, oh yes, mustn't forget the laptop computer so we can keep in touch with our cyberfriends around the world! During the many voyages we made up and down the coast through the years I was always surprised at the minimal amount of sea life we observed while sailing. Oh, it is there alright, but generally going about its business under the surface. Sometimes the birds alert you when the terns or gulls cluster excitedly over the waves, dipping down and scooping morsels in their beaks which are the result of bluefish creating mayhem on a luckless shoal of porgies or mackerel. Perhaps you might see a sudden skittering of the surface as these same fish frantically try to avoid the sharp teeth of the insatiable blues. Generally, however, all seems as placid as the weather permits. There are exceptions. Once, as we sailed all night across Boston Harbor from Gloucester toward the opening of the Cape Cod Canal leading towards Buzzards Bay, we neared the entrance and there was a definite commotion observable on the surface and we soon sailed into what seemed to be thousands of small sandsharks. These are bottom feeding fish, also known as dogfish, normally about a foot and one half to two feet long but looking like the deadliest of predators. Supposedly these are the fish used in "fish and chips" in England but here they are still considered trash fish and ignored. What they were doing on the surface in such quantity I have never discovered! Another vivid memory is that of heading for the Larchmont harbor as the sun was setting on a glorious summer day. Gradually we were approached by porpoises in groups of twos and threes beautifully arcing above the water and reentering smoothly. Soon we were surrounded by the migrating animals and as more came toward us we could see the ones behind us continuing their journey. It seemed to last for at least fifteen minutes and they passed as if in a dream in numbers I had never imagined. I've read a lot of sailing books about old men and the sea, how Francis Chichester, for example, sailed Gypsy Moth around the Horn when he was in his seventies and battling terminal cancer. That's not something I identify with. I'm not trying to prove myself against the elements or tempt my fate at this stage of my life. The best part of the sail is coming into a quiet harbor at the end of the day, finding a safe anchorage and relaxing with a drink in the cockpit before going ashore. As Water Rat says to Mole in Grahame's _The Wind in the Willows_, "There is nothing -- absolutely nothing -- half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats." ==================================================================== ISRAEL 1995 by Art Rifkin We knew our grandson, Amos, would be thirteen in July of this year, and we had heard from his parents that he was not interested in getting a formal Bar Mitzvah, as his older brother Moses had three years ago. What he proposed to his parents, which they later ratified, was a trip to Israel, so that he could plant a tree. This, he felt, would discharge his obligations as a secular Jewish man and also permit him to examine his roots in this ancient and troubled land. We, along with Diann's mother and father, were asked to participate, and we all thought this a good solution to Amos' rite of passage. Diann and our son Ned made the living and travelling arrangements in Israel, which denied us the planning activity which I find such a fascinating part of our travels. We were soon headed from Denver to Atlanta to join up with my son and his family on a flight to Paris, and then on to Tel Aviv. I don't remember the number of time zones crossed, but it's about nine, and I figured out that we would be in transit for close to 24 hours. It was not an easy trip. The most exciting part for the two young men was when we flew over the Alps. The next evening we arrived in Tel Aviv, in time to attend a wedding that Diann's mother's family were having, and it just seemed the right thing to do. So we did, as weary as we all were. But we were in bed early that night, for we were due up early in the morning to meet with our guide, Uri. Language was not a problem. There are many English-speaking Israelis, especially in Tel Aviv, and Uri is a Sabra (native-born Israeli), who speaks English, Hebrew, German, and rather good Arabic. The overall plan, worked out between Uri and Diann via fax, was to head for Jerusalem, spending the first day touring museums there in the new part of the city, then spending the second day planting trees and observing the ceremony for Amos, then reviewing other important spots outside of the Old City, with a third day devoted only to the Old City. After that we were going to head for the West bank city of Jericho and make our way North along the Jordan River to spend the night in Tiberias, which would be our jumping off place for exploration of the Golan Heights right up to the Syrian border and the regions North of Lake Kinneret, or the Sea of Galilee, if you prefer. This is not only the source of the Jordan River, but is the source of all of the water used in the state of Israel. We would then work our way West, go to the Lebanese border and back to the Mediterranean, head South to visit the city of Akko, and its market and port, finally ending up in Tel Aviv before we all planed back to the States. We had one free day, when Uri was off, and we used that to take a bus tour to the Dead Sea area, and to the fortress of Masada. The destruction of Masada and the heroism of the Jews besieged there by the Romans took place in the same war that ended in the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem. So we all piled into Uri's van, and started to climb the mountainous approach to Jerusalem while Uri expounded on the ancient and recent history of the area. We stopped at a strategic fort, first built by the British to command the approach, and were able to observe a Roman fort, not far away, built for the same reason. For whatever advantage, the Roman fort held higher ground, but did not have the strategic view of the surrounding countryside. This fort, used as a jail as well by the British during Mandate times, was now a Museum to the Israeli Armored Forces, and as a matter of fact there were bitter battles fought with tanks and infantry here in the War of Liberation in 1948. At the end of that War, Jordan and Israel occupied Jerusalem jointly, though all of the Jewish holy places in Jerusalem were occupied by Jordan. Israel gained full control of Jerusalem as well as the West Bank in the 1967 War. The Golan Heights were taken from Syria at that same time. And the Jewish holy places, like the Western Wall of Herod's Temple (destroyed by the Romans in 66AD) as well as the Jewish Quarter of the Old City (occupied by Jews from Roman times until the joint occupation in '48) were placed under Israeli administration. At that time Israel inherited what was to become it's Palestinian Arab problem, which is being addressed in the peace accords today. Too much history, perhaps, but it's fascinating to me. Aside from the reason that we were there, to discharge some obligations that this young Jewish boy had assumed in order to enter manhood, I, like many Israelis, find the history of the area, well, fascinating. Especially when we toured the Old City and understood how the Temple that Herod built became a holy place to Muslims after it was destroyed. There are at least three mosques in that area, including the Dome of the Rock, supposedly the site where Abraham was about to sacrifice his son. That Moslems and Jews have some common roots is clearly seen in Hebron, where both religions share the tombs of Abraham and Sarah, both considering it a sacred place. But Hebron is a dangerous place for Israelis today, especially since the terrors of the Intifada as well as the murder of worshipping Moslems at that very tomb by an Israeli "fanatic" recently. The difficulties between these two groups seem to get worse, even as their representatives negotiate peaceful restoration of Arab lands to the Palestinians. Nevertheless, the favorite subject of Israelis is Archaeology, and the digs continue in many parts of the country. At Beit Shean we saw a recent (within the past five years) excavation of a Roman city, that has been remarkably preserved and even more remarkably reconstructed. And, waiting in the wings, hovering over this Roman city, is a huge tell, the excavation of which has just begun. In Old Jerusalem, we saw the excavations that exposed the Southern wall of the ancient second temple, with its subterranean entrances to the Temple. Also in Old Jerusalem, we saw the Roman streets that have been exposed in the Jewish quarter, and the even deeper digs which exposed construction from Hasmonean times, six to seven hundred years before the Common Era. Of course, as Jews, we have a special affinity for this place, perhaps odd for secular people, but the tribal pulls and instincts are there. Thus it is not enough simply to describe this place or that. More important are the feeling and emotions generated by being in another culture. Israel is an exciting place, filled with people from all over the world who exhibit an amazing vitality and love for this homeland. Most of the population are immigrants, and of course the country's origin in modern times was a result of the European Holocaust. Though that event and the times that led to it are still in the minds of living people, survivors of the world that Hitler strove to dominate, that generation is dying off. In the near future there will only be the descendants, not the survivors themselves. The history of that peculiar aggression and prejudice is enshrined in a monument to the Holocaust called Yad Vashem. It is an overwhelming experience to go through that museum and relive my youth. It is very different, I am told, from the American Museum of the Holocaust in Washington, D.C. In the Washington museum, great efforts have been made to help the observer feel and live the experiences of the damned. The Israeli museum is more of a monument to the people who suffered. Both are understandable ways of creating a way of experiencing man's inhumanity to his fellow man. It's clear that Israelis, for the most part did not need to be instructed. To a great extent, that can be said for many Jews who lived through those times, but were lucky enough to have been spared Hitler's tortures. On the other hand, the museum in Washington assumes that the observer has not had such an experience and helps to recreate it. For me, the experience of visiting a Kibbutz on the Golan Heights was most moving. Israel is truly a land that was developed by farmers, and the farms indicate a prosperity that is not seen evenly throughout the country. They are wonderfully cared for and have the most modern equipment. Conserving water through the use of Xeroscopy is evident throughout, not only at the farms, but in the public places in the villages where flowers are grown. It's exciting to see and to meet the people who are responsible for all of this. At the same time, we were in an area that is in dispute, one that the present government seems willing to trade away to Syria for peace. For the heights were captured from the Syrians in 1957. I'm not sure if the territory was annexed from Syria or not, but it is in negotiations, and the present occupiers of these farms are very unhappy about the possibility of the loss of their homes. From the heights it was easy to see how vulnerable the farms around Kinneret as well as the city of Tiberias was to those who held the high ground. It seems to me that the political situation in Israel is very dangerous. Uri told us that he had voted for Rabin in the election that swept him in, but that he was against him now, because he felt that the peace accords with the PLO were very dangerous for Israel. But the problem, he says, is even worse than that: the electorate of Israel is so split over the idea of returning territory to both Syria and to the PLO for their administration, it might result in an Israeli civil war! We saw evidence of a territory where the PLO does have police jurisdiction, and that's in the city of Jericho. Actually we did not feel threatened as tourists there, but we had a very unpleasant experience with some young Arab sheepherders outside of an old, but still used, monastery in Wadi Kelt, in the hills west of Jericho. Jericho now flies the PLO flag, and that's had its effect upon the young and impatient Arabs who are tired of Israeli dominance. We had the experience of being threatened and spat upon because we did not wish to give these young men some of the things we carried, like field glasses. But according to Uri, Israeli attitudes to Arabs, even Israeli Arabs, are not good. He took us through an Arab town in Israel, and it is clear that this is a ghetto. He told us that Arab citizens are not allowed to serve in the Army, that generally they are not trusted. When I asked Uri about the attempt, if any, to integrate them into the main stream of Israeli life, he said that was not possible, nor did he have any sympathy for such ideas. Now I consider Uri a fairly liberal person, but he was adamant about Arabs. Strangely, the Druse and the Bedouins do serve in the Israeli Army, simply because they are not Arabs. Of course it must be recognized that this was one man's opinion, but at the same time the newspapers reflect the events of the times, and while Israelis may differ about how to deal with the problems of peace, there seems to be very little difference in their regard for Arabs. At least that's how it seems to me. This was our second trip to Israel -- the last took place about 20 years ago. What we remember is still true: the wild beauty of the desertland made fertile by Israeli pioneers; the amazing geography of desert, mountains, wadis, lakes, and the Mediterranean; the ancient cities of Jerusalem, Caesaria, Tiberias, Jericho and Haifa, where there are still archaeological surprises to be found, new revelations of the biblical periods. And we observed an involved, caring, and vital population striving to live in a hostile environment and making it. And, not incidentally, we had a wonderful time with our family, for we've never made a trip like this before. ==================================================================== RETIREMENT: LIFE'S GREATEST CHALLENGE? by Jim Hursey As these words are written, in November of 1995, I am just a few weeks from retiring after some 35 years working at the same job. One wonders if such longevity on a job, while not uncommon now, will become increasingly rare for future generations, as people change jobs as easily as we used to change shirts, as companies downsize and merge jobs away, as the economy and technology change so rapidly that very few jobs even exist for 35 years. Then, too, retirement itself, that is the end of a regular salary and the beginning of a regular pension, may also become less important as personal savings plans, rather than company pension plans, become the norm and retirement becomes not so much a matter of reaching a certain age as one of reaching a certain degree of solvency, or, the unhappy converse, reaching a certain degree of joblessness. For these reasons, our generation may be the last to view retirement as the abrupt, frightening, final end to a long, uninterrupted lifetime of work on the same job, the last to face the shock of suddenly having no real reason to get up in the morning after doing so every day, without interruption save only the occasional week's vacation, for an entire adult lifetime. Certainly many of my generation approach retirement with fear and trepidation, with apprehension and foreboding. And although I have been thinking about aging and retirement and making my own plans for some time and believe I probably have as firm a grasp on what it all means as anyone, I must include myself among this number. To be bluntly honest, I'm scared. What will happen? Is this the beginning of the end or the end of the beginning? It occurs to me that this coming retirement, this event that separates the formal adult years, the parenting years, the working years, from the rest of life, from the so-called declining years, from what has also been variously called the other half of life, the third age, the golden years and even, occasionally, less euphemistically, old age, this event may very well be the single most pivotal event that we face in life. At any rate it seems so to me after these sixty-five not uneventful years. Compare retirement to other momentous events of life: graduations from high school and college; induction into the military; first marriage, divorce, second marriage; the birth of children; their own milestones of school, college, marriage, children. Truly, to me, none of these seem as epochal as what this now looming event is likely to be. Let's look at some of these other important events. What about starting first grade? No doubt a defining moment in any person's life, a time of weaning, one's first halting steps into the world. An important time for both parent and child. But, unfortunately, while no doubt an important event, it was an awfully long time ago and, frankly, I don't remember a thing about it. And few five-year-olds keep a journal of their kindergarten year. Graduation from college and change from student to worker? In my case, after the first graduation, I continued in Graduate School not from ambition but for lack of anything better to do, but eventually decided that I just did not want to go to school anymore. As John Irving called it, "Gradual School" is where you gradually get tired of going to school. Thus even this was not such a drastic change. Working part-time during most of my school years, the shift from student to worker was a painless transition that, now, I hardly remember. How about marriage, in my case two? Yes, certainly, as individual events they were important, but I don't think they changed my life much either. These days marriage seems little more than a civil event and an excuse for a nice party, not a drastic change in lifestyle. The birth of one's children, especially the first one, which in my case were two, must certainly be ranked very high among those events after which one can truly say that life is never again the same. But yet, as glorious as this event is, as consequential as it is to our way of life, there is something so inevitable about it, something so deeply ingrained in our being as reproducing species, that the changes brought by the baby are not changes at all, but simply a continuation. There was another moment though, that may, in my case anyway, be the single event that, up till now, defined my personality and my life. At the age of nine my family broke up and I was sent to live in an orphanage. A terrible and terrifying time for a nine-year old, the scars of which have no doubt dogged me my entire life. It was one of those few events about which you can undeniably say that life was never the same after. But still, that frightened nine-year-old boy was hardly introspectively analyzing the significance of what was happening, more likely he was trying to block it out forever. Thus the event that looms just ahead may seem more epochal in my own conscious. If entering the orphanage was a primal demarcation then what of leaving it? Upon graduation from high school, still only seventeen, I was, you might say, kicked out into the world. Again certainly a big change, but not as bad as it sounds. The Home did, after all, teach me a valuable trade, and, as a ward of the state, I was entitled to have all tuition fees waived at the state university. Not so bad. I slid into college life, then in and out of the miltary and back into college and, as noted, into the workforce, in perfectly natural and painless progression. And so, indeed, it seems that the event now looming, retirement from a lifetime of work, may very well be THE pivotal demarcation of a person's life. Work is what defines us. Our work is our identity as adult human beings. Without it, who are we? While I approach the event with some trepidation, I know that I am not without resources and can, in another sense, look forward to being, for the first time in my life, free to pursue all of those things that, at one time or another during my working years, my parenting years, I often yearned for, but, with a family to feed and clothe, or, truth to tell, just lacking the nerve or ambition to abandon a comfortable and secure job for pursuits of dubious return, never attempted. Such things as, of course, writing. Get out the two unpublished novels I wrote long ago and see if they can be re-written into something readable, or, better yet, start a new one. Return to writing poetry, which effort has been spotty during my working years. Or take up a musical instrument once again, which I have not seriously played since high school. Return to the Russian or French languages I studied in college, or start a new language. Travel. Get out into the deep woods and re-discover nature, or go with Elderhostel to the corners of the world and discover disparate cultures. Volunteer. Run for the school board. The possibilities seem endless. Retirement will give me the freedom for these other pursuits. And good health, good doctors, and a certain amount of luck allows one the expectation that there will be many more years during which to pursue them. "_Retirement_," Ernest Hemingway said, "is the ugliest word in the language," a sentiment echoed by bandleader Count Basie, who, when asked about retirement, said, "Retire? Why? So I can sit in my living room and die?" These artists had their art. Indeed, when he felt that he could no longer write, Hemingway took his own life rather than simply retire to a life of not writing. And yet those of us who are not so fortunate to be artists working at our art, who must labor at a regular salaried job for our entire lives, retirement is mostly not a choice. The time comes, the age comes, and even though there may not be compulsory retirement, even though we can still do the job, it is still more-or-less expected when you reach the magic age of 65. So out I go, out into the world, much as I did at age six, or, leaving the Home at age seventeen, or, after college, at age twenty-something. All were steps out into a whole new and unknown world. But this one is the most different of all: A world without work where ambition means nothing, where there are no bosses, no daily commutes, no fear for one's daily bread; a world without structure where the only requirements are those one makes for oneself. Yes, I admit to being scared. But, as with those other of life's challenges, it is the very unknown, that little touch of fear that makes it exciting, that makes it perhaps the greatest challenge of all. ==================================================================== end cybersenior.3.1