The Last Leg of the Journey

February. 55 degrees in Charlotte, North Carolina, with sunshine.

Not bad. Great, in fact, when compared to Kent, Ohio, where today it is 19 cloudy degrees with snow. Even Reykjavik, Iceland, beats Ohio at 32 degrees and partly sunny—but it cannot touch Sarasota where the Gulf of Mexico side of Florida is sitting at 77 degrees with mostly sunny skies.

This is how I spend lazy pandemic mornings…checking the weather in a variety of favorite locations and, often, gloating.

I gloat because spending the winter away from Northeast Ohio—luxury that it is—keeps me in sunshine and grandsons…and out of days that can be crushing in their murky, overcast gloom. Anyone who has lived in Northeast Ohio knows that February can be a dark, dark time of limited sunshine.

But this luxury also is a marker of my privilege, so reveling in this good fortune comes with a pang of guilt, too. Yes, I worked more than 40 years to build a retirement that now allows me to jettison snow shovels and icy sidewalks for a milder climate. My work was often difficult—midnight shift at a plastics factory while attending college parttime—60-hour workweeks after I graduated (with side jobs for extra money)—but I still had opportunities that helped me move forward, and I know that is not possible for many people.

In a country where there is so much wealth—of money and land—there should be a glut of opportunity. No one should go hungry. Everyone should be welcomed. People should extend helping hands to others, knowing that a rising tide lifts all boats.

In this season of my life, it is my intent to support younger people in ways that are similar to how I was mentored and guided. This feels like the work that will define this last leg of my life’s journey, and I embrace it with great confidence and hope for the future.

North Carolina, light through holly bushes.