“Hitting the wall” is an expression runners use when they have exhausted themselves and can go no further. Over the years, I’ve heard this expression used for other situations; in my case, it’s work. I have “hit the wall” and written and plan to submit my resignation letter, effective December 31, 2023. Despite fears that my brain will turn to mush, I’ll be bored, have nothing to do, or will eat myself into oblivion. I am ready – I think!

I remember when my father announced we were moving from New York for a warmer climate. His arthritis had become so painful that he drove to work sitting on his hands and steering the car with his shoulders in winter. He loved New York, but the weather was harming his health and ability to work; he had hit his “wall,” and our relocation was planned.

Although my mother was not happy leaving our family in New York, she accepted the move wouldn’t be too horrible because we also had family in Los Angeles. Unfortunately, my father decided we would move to Tucson, Arizona. He knew someone there and heard there were plenty of opportunities for his commercial plumbing business. So, when my father declared that we were moving to Arizona, my mom hit her wall.

However, she exacted a price to go over that wall. My father had to agree to allow her to refurnish our new home with Ethan Allen Colonial furniture. A deal was struck, a wall was climbed, and off we drove. The adventure of our drive is a whole other column.

After we landed, she hit stores and catalogs until we had a home filled with furniture we all hated. As it turns out, too much of a “good thing” was even too much for her. We were all stuck behind the wall of colonial furniture for way too long. To this day, I have no interest in wood furnishings. It’s glass, chrome, and laminate modern for me.

Tucson in the early 1960s was an interesting place (not in a good way). Not a lot of growth, but lots of cactus, heat, and mafia intimidation. After a few years of attempted interference by the mafia to obstruct my father’s business, he hit another wall. A move was planned, and off to Los Angeles, we moved.

I was ecstatic because we were leaving the land of heat, cacti, gray pebble lawns, gray pebble roofs, gray sidewalks, grayed down paint colors, all to reflect the heat, then add in scorpions, tarantulas, and the occasional flash flood.

Currently, there are no walls in my way. But winter is coming, and the icy fog, snow, and winter doldrums are imminent. Less socialization, less tennis, mud, dirt, digging out of snow, and blasting the heaters to avoid frozen pipes. My nemeses, my wall, and my greatest frustration: frozen pipes.

Last year, we were diligent and did everything advised, including weeping all the water faucets when the temperature fell below twenty degrees. We were semi-successful, and water continued to flow, just cold, no hot water. This year, we will again try to push through the wall of winter as we miss the warmth of Los Angeles. Daniel and I grew up where winters were snowy and cold, and there are no excuses for us. We will scale that winter wall.