I was nervous. I wanted this, but I had no idea how much it would hurt. The artist worked quickly. I sweated like I was in a triathlon. When it was done, I was thrilled. Instructions in hand, I headed home feeling like I had just claimed a little piece of independence.

Suddenly, a couple of young men started singing Rolling Stones songs.  

“I can’t get no Satisfaction…”

One by one, people joined in, and soon, the entire train car was filled with people singing along.

Every Labor Day, I see cookouts and long weekends. This year, I found myself thinking about something else entirely: the people whose work built the world we enjoy, and one man who reminded me why that matters.

It’s a funny feeling to realize you’re afraid the people closest to you will judge your work. In the past, I wrote without fear, sending query letters left and right. I received more rejection letters than I care to admit, but I never let it hinder me. I’d cross that publication off my list and move on. Onward!

The psychology isn’t complex: my Facebook is filled with people I know personally. Strangers can reject me all day long, but friends and family? 

Terrifying!

When I was twelve, I was a latchkey kid—like most of us Gen Xers. Being home alone or at a friend’s house without adult supervision wasn’t unusual. One day, I was at my friend Kitty’s house, just the two of us. For some reason, we decided to bake something.

We were responsible kids, so Kitty called her mom at work and asked for permission. Her mom said yes. (Again, Gen Xers.)

We browsed through Kitty’s mom’s many recipe books and settled on pumpkin pie. It must have been just after Halloween, because Kitty had a pumpkin. Real pumpkin pie—how hard could it be?

After the guide finished her talk, we made our way toward the canopied tables set for lunch. As we walked, the guide began pointing out some old machinery. That’s when I first heard her voice.

I don’t think she meant for us to hear it, but there it was: “Ah yes, the rusted machinery tour—every girl’s dream when she books Tuscany.”

My husband giggled and softly agreed, “Right?”

That’s when the three of us—me, my husband, and the voice—looked at each other and grinned. We all laughed and kept walking.

We passed dogs chasing balls, splashing, and barking joyfully. Jax greeted a large German Shepherd in passing — a quick sniff, no drama. Then, out of nowhere, a smaller Shepherd charged up. Jax turned to say hello, but this dog didn’t come in peace. He growled and snapped at Jax’s face and neck.

I’ve never really considered myself a book club person. I’ve been an avid reader my entire life—I read fast, and like most readers, I have my favorite genres. The idea of being assigned a book I might not be interested in, and then having to meet up with others to sit around and talk about it, didn’t exactly sound compelling.

But when my oldest daughter started a book club and asked me to join, I gave it a shot. At the very least, it was a good excuse to see her once a month—even if only via Zoom.

What will I do today? A whole day stretched out, with no obligations and no clock to race against. And the truth of it hit me: I’m retired. I have nothing to do.