Born in the Panama Canal Zone 79 years ago, Mr. Zidbeck came to California in 1944 with his mother and three siblings. He enlisted in the US Army after graduating from high school. Honorably discharged in 1952, he attended college under the G.I. Bill. After graduating from UCLA in 1958, he worked as a probation officer in LA County. George's wife of 55 years died this past August. However, he plans to remain in San Luis Obispo County since retiring in 1985. In addition to penning observations and reflections since living in San Luis Obispo County, George has authored six volumes of a family saga that addresses the negative influence of alcohol on a family from the perspective of the mother (two volumes); the father (three volumes); and the first born son. Anyone interested in contacting the author, may write George Zidbeck. Rochester, George's Good Buddy

Aging on the Squiredom #2

by George Zidbeck

(Readers might review ARCHIVES - May 2010,
where Mr. Zidbeck wrote AGING ON THE SQUIREDOM - # 1)

I hit the doldrums. The deadline for presenting a paper (of no more than five pages) for my monthly writers' group meeting fast approached. "No problem," I told myself this past November. Two years ago hadn't I written "It's easy" to a member of the group who had requested each participant of the congregation submit a response on how to jumpstart a poem or story. No inspiration need apply. All a person has to do is sit down—even with a vague notion—and begin writing. Just keep writing. Pretty soon you'll find that the muse comes in and takes over.

Consequently, I sat my mesomorphic frame in front of my 'puter with the idea of penning a few hundred words regarding "Turning Eighty on the Squiredom." My writing progressed as anticipated. Until I reread the first effort.  "No, no George," I told myself. "That just ain't right. You skip around talking about yourself, then start philosophizing about sexual differences, then make conclusions that you can't justify."

All right, no need to sweat the challenge. All that's required is a rewrite; cull out the superfluous. That should be easy enough. But, oh boy, by the third time around of  deleting this word/phrase/sentence and improvising some substitutions, I couldn't be sure what I had wanted to say in the first place. My muse had cast me aside to flounder in a literary Sargasso Sea.

Sixty-two years ago I had an army buddy, who, when I mentioned that I thought about becoming a writer, asked, "But what have you got to say?" Cogitating his question, I found myself without a clear-cut message. Without a message, I then believed that I had no future of making a living through the writing game.

Sure, I made stabs at my youthful ambition after that, especially during my thirties when I churned out short stories, a screen play, and even a novel. Rejection slips aplenty.

But then—at last—retirement. After taming a three acre wilderness and trying to live off the fat o' the land, I tackled a family saga. Finally, I had found my message. It took nearly a decade to write six volumes, but I finally finished the deed.

Neither agent nor publisher expressed any interest, but whatthehell?! Self-publishing at least got the book out there for my vanity and the public at large. Moreover, the task had countless moments of satisfaction offsetting the absence of royalties and the dearth of fame and fortune.

The greatest fringe benefit of this past decade of pounding a keyboard? The discovery of a most compatible writing group. Additionally, I had the pleasure of taking a creative writing class through Cuesta Community College Extension – a night class taught by Ingrid Reti (now deceased). Enlightening & Encouraging!

Adding up the elements, life is good.  Prior to retirement, I hadn't foreseen comfort as a desirable goal in its own right. But, that's my emotive status now. True, the recent death of my wife dented that comfort zone, but not eliminated it. Still, in my analysis of who I am and what I'm about, one thing as of the here and now yet dangles from my medulla oblongata: I can't find that damn word that will trigger a decent verbal reflection on "Turning Eighty on the Squiredom." Maybe after I actually turn 80 on January 22nd, 2011, I'll come up with something.

Stay tuned.