Raquel Martina Martinez

I was in my young fifties when I decided to retire.   I dreamt of lazy mornings, afternoon naps, endless hours of nothingness. But my husband warned me that the complete halt of my daily routine might be a total shock to my system.  He understood I wouldn’t miss the stress, the commitments, or the harassments I was leaving behind in my old job, but what about the social aspect of my life, the challenge of learning something new on a daily basis, the pleasure I got from living an industrious life. I needed to ease into retirement, he said. I was going from working with thousands of people on a daily basis to just him for lunch.  I was involved in the latest trends and information in my field.  I liked working and being productive. He gently told me how much he loved having me at home, twenty-four/seven, taking care of our house, making him lunch and dinner, catching up on all the books and DVDs I had bought over the years and never taken out of their wrappers, BUT he was afraid i

We might not wear feather boas or glittery tiaras when we meet (though I am thinking of suggesting such at the next meeting), but we have the best time when we get together to discuss our latest chosen tome. Our group formed one afternoon in the spring of 2011 and though some of the original members have dropped out or moved away, the rest of us have persisted. We have read over twenty-three books in the last three years though meeting on a consistent basis depends on a myriad of facts.  We all have two lives – our daytime filled with family, jobs, and other obligations, and our writing life with all its deadlines, some self-imposed and others dictated by legal contracts. Though we can bake and hostess with the best, we meet in the evenings at a cool, local coffee shop.  This way we don’t have to worry about adding more stress to our complicated lives and we don’t overstay our welcome.  Our book talks usually end when the employees start turning off lights and stacking chairs onto

For years I was confused by the bible verse – Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. As a child I was scolded, both at home and at school, if I tarried too long in front of a mirror.  I was chided if someone gave me a compliment, warned against the evils of vanity, pride, and egoism. I grew up embarrassed and ashamed.  How then was I to love others the way I loved myself when I didn’t love myself very much? Thank goodness for my stubborn streak (or better yet, my resilience); it sheltered the little self-esteem that kept me going.  It questioned why one side of the equation did not equal the other.  How come I could appreciate the innate goodness of another person and not see it in myself? First, I examined myself, truly looked at who I was when no one was watching (or making fun of me), and I assessed what I liked (and didn’t) about the person called “me.”  I learned to nurture the good before I could nurture anyone else. I had to value who I was before I could truly va

1.      Kale – and all those other odd-ball vegetables that were not part of my dinner plate until Dr. Oz showcased them on his program. They are hard to like. I’ve learned to stew kale with onions, garlic, and chicken stock, and it tastes okay, but it will NEVER replace the affection I feel for a can of Del Monte corn swimming in a stick of melted butter.  2.     Reality TV – no, no, and no.  I am not interested in watching people prostitute their private lives for the sake of TV entertainment, unless of course, we start televising the lives of our elected politicians.  Now there is an intriguing idea.  3.     Politics – and the shysters that run our government.  I usually vote for the candidate with the least amount of dirt and the most amount of integrity (or what passes for a semblance of it). Too bad we can’t stew them with onions and garlic in chicken stock to make them more palatable.   4.     Exercise – and dieting and a slow metabolism and aging – all the stuff that m

Almost every Tuesday I bake.   It’s become “my thing.”   One, HoneyBunch has a sweet tooth, and two, his all-male, barbershop choir meets on Tuesday nights, and they ask members to contribute to “the coffee break” that is held halfway through their practice. The average member is in his 80’s, so a vast majority of them are widowed.  Some of those who still have wives live on restricted diets or at the mercy of the food at their assisted living homes. All the men look forward to the coffee break more than they care about getting their four-part harmony in sync. At first, HB would stop at a grocery store on his way to the choir practice and buy a package of cheap cookies, but then I started doubling a recipe while baking for the home and he took a home-baked good as his contribution. Over time the men have come to expect it.  HB says a welcome committee greets him upon arrival to see what I have sent.  They measure their Tuesday night practice on the promise of the upcoming