~Retirement Investments~

WordWulf By WordWulf, 24th Feb 2011 | Follow this author | RSS Feed
Posted in Wikinut>Writing>Personal Experiences

~It is a far reach to a poor child in the tenements, that of being a responsible parent~a far but attainable, necessary, and worthy reach~having done so, looking back~I catch myself wondering, what’s next, what did I miss~

~Retirement Investments~

~Stepping Stones~

It’s raining today in Redding, California, one of those days when it’s going to rain all day, that’s all there is to it. Kathy left at 7am to attend a business meeting in Sacramento, 170 miles each way. She’s driving, wish it wasn’t raining.
Scrutinizing an article in AARP Magazine about Roth IRA’s, I got to thinking about my retirement investments. I’ve spent my life working and enjoying the day in and day out experiences while raising my children. Although I wasn’t so aware of the fact when I was younger, I know now that those beautiful People are my investment in the future, no Roth’s for me, no IRA’s, maybe no Social Security. Who knows? I’m sure there are many single parents out there who know exactly where I’m coming from, juggling multiple jobs, contract laboring, surviving, breathing in and breathing out.
I began writing and singing songs in my early teens. I wonder whatever made me think I could do that. A poor boy with no credentials, no past and little chance for education, I found a private place deep inside where I could safely believe in myself. I also made myself a promise that my children (I knew I would have many) would never go hungry or be put out on the curb by the sheriff as was my childhood experience.
A thousand songs, half a dozen novels, countless poems, four and a half decades later, I take stock of myself. I’m not much of a man in the money markets. Most investment decisions in my life have been on the level of should I splurge and buy two loaves of bread or just one so I can afford a half gallon of gas to get to work. My children didn’t go hungry and we struggled but managed to be housed and warm, a tight-knit family. I sang to them each and still do when I get the opportunity.
September 6, 2009, the day before what would have my mother’s 78th birthday, I married Kathy. She’s my fourth wife. I’m an edgy and contrary man, at odds with the time and space of my life, do not understand wars, sublimation and sacrifice of the very young, very old, and very poor. I am difficult to live with, no doubt about it. I believe Kathy has my number. I’m the man for her and she knows it. Her father was difficult but ever in love with his wife and children. She believes in me, respects my true work, my friends who are my children.
I have sung and composed songs with brothers, sons, and strangers all my life. Tommy, my oldest boy, is a musical and artistic genius. What makes him think he can do that? He works hard every day, melting steel, welding, to support his wife and two boys. Zedidiah, my youngest son, is a comer, a writer and guitar man. At 22, he is still too young to understand it is what he is meant to and must do. Good for him. Tammy, my oldest daughter, is the family communicator (and my personal barber), a proud and hardworking mother of two, wife, grandmother and career woman. I sang to her first through the water world of her mother’s skin. Christy, second born, is the family engineer, the ultimate career woman but to whom husband and family always come first. She keeps us straight, dotes on her nephews and nieces, grand-niece and dad. She’s the nicest person I have ever known. Then there’s Harley Blue, third born and youngest daughter. A single mother of two boys, she works hard as a preschool teacher, giving of herself in the service of others. She stirs us up, keeps us on our toes. She is full of vitality and engaging wit.
Hung on the tender-strings of my sons’ guitars, visions of my little girls roller skating in the basement, dancing and singing to daddy’s rock and roll voice, I am the man-child who believes he can sing and has the audacity to make his own music. Kathy and I watched Dances With Wolves last night. Those Good People massacred amongst the winter trees remind me of my voice. My mother’s grandmother was a Cherokee slave whose only retirement was death but she had something of value to leave behind, something no owner could wrest from her. The life of my mother carried her message and I hear it in my voice. Generation by generation, it grows.
Kathy, my good wife, we have no Roth/IRA decisions to make. I offer you five excellent friends, my children and more, their spouses and children, my legacy: I am the father of Good People. Your support, submission, and administration of my work are unique to my experience, a great relief considering my struggles with computers and the internet, unending decisions of what to submit to whom, my abomination of that word, submit. In the life I’m emerging from, one who submits is lost. We are invested in each other’s lives, the lives of your child and those in my fold.
I am a stepping stone, each word a sand pebble on my path. My voice is the song of birds, the cackling caw of the crow. When I leave and when I don’t, it is the same. The boy is singing, the earth is turning, no one knows his name.

~Tom (WordWulf) Sterner~
~Magick Fingers of Love~
~Day of the Wah~

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author avatar sgkeat
25th Feb 2011 (#)

You invest well when you invest in the future of your good people. Remember to tell your wife you love her a little more each day, inspite of yourself. Well done, my friend.

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author avatar WordWulf
25th Feb 2011 (#)

Thank-upi, yes.

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