The Golden Age of Charli: Bmi

By Jena C. Henry

When Charli and her husband, Pud, enter retirement, Charli mistakenly believes that paradise is just around the corner. Unfortunately, instead of spending their days soaking in matching hot tubs and admiring each others wrinkles, Pud lives on the links and Charli cleans out the basement. Still, they press on, eventually becoming closer while bonding with young relatives through a love of fine dining. Now the couple faces new and weighty challenges.

Charli and Puds days are filled with more excitement than AARP discounts and Lawrence Welk rerunsand more calories than they ever imagined. Realizing they are out of shape and slipping mentally, Charli and Pud check their BMIs and immediately decide they need to change their ways. With a goal of becoming healthy sooner than later, the couple embarks on a roller-coaster ride through calorie counting, label reading, and laborious exercising. But when Pud begins making mysterious phone calls and acting strangely, Charli cannot help but wonder if more problems are lurking around the corner.

The Golden Age of Charli continues the delightful tale of the energetic, friendly, and positive McAntics as they cruise through their retirement years and discover the consequences of too much of a good thing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781491774915

Jena C. Henry

Jena C. Henry is a blogger, book lover, and reviewer who presents workshops on how to write, publish, and promote books. She holds a juris doctor degree from the University of Akron. Now retired, Jena and her husband, Alan, live in tropical Ohio where they enjoy their two adult children and extended family, friends, and darling dog. This is the third book in the Golden Age of Charli series.

Book preview

1

The Big Lime Party Bus

W e blamed it on the big lime party bus, but deep down, way deep down, we knew that our years of gusto were to blame.

Pud and I sat opposite each other at a rickety table covered with a plastic red-checked tablecloth. A bottle of hot sauce, a pile of napkins, and smudged glass salt and pepper shakers guarded a lonely outpost at the center of the sticky table. We gazed around our surroundings, but there wasn't much to see in the cramped dining room. Our table was perched at the precipice of a crazy bump and ramp on the wooden floor that led to the kitchen. We were alone but not for long.

Our waitress slammed through the swinging door, balancing platters of ribs, wings, and brisket on her arms like a bootleg street watch seller. The red of the sauce matched her frazzled hair and blotched lipstick. As she clattered the food on our table, an identical waitress marched out, armed with plates of French fries, onion rings, corn on the cob, and green beans with ham. We tentatively smiled at this presentation and then looked up with growing alarm. A third waitress clumped to our table with yeast rolls, Texas toast, and biscuits. I stifled a scream and clutched Pud's arm as more and more waitresses delivered more and more plates of greasy food. Stop!

I am a joyful and positive person, and I greet each day exclaiming, Thank you, God, for this beautiful day. Once in a while, I am jarred awake by a swirling, crazy dream. But this scene of an endless parade of food bearers was not a nightmare. Pud and I had actually lived through this horror. About ten years ago we dined at a rib place owned by a friend of a cousin of a coworker's wife. We heard that their ribs were juicy and succulent. We hadn't heard that they were closing the joint. The night we ate there was their last. The staff decided to empty the larder and cook it all for us. They actually did bring endless platters and bowls and plates of food to us. As we left, hours later, we loosened our belts and vowed yet again to go on a diet.

Pud and I recalled the endless barbecue story the morning after the big lime party bus extravaganza. Once again, we felt bloated and blubbery. In our hearts and stomachs, Pud and I knew that our love of food began long before we boarded that behemoth. The bus was merely one weightier example from our years of overindulging and eating whatever we wanted.

And that fateful morning, like all the times before, we emphatically promised to go on a diet. Pud and I could recite the diet vow by heart. We had seriously uttered the weight- loss oath many times through the years---on the day we no longer fit into our formal clothes, the time we cringed at our wide bodies in a family portrait, and after the doc informed us we had high cholesterol. Guilty and contrite, we had pledged to lose weight for more than thirty years. Deep down under all our fat, Pud and I knew the truth. It wasn't the bus, the ribs, the chef's table, the donut shop, or the pizza parlor. It was our forks and big mouths. We were to blame.

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As with all pleasure island experiences, the bus party weekend began with high hopes. Pud and I packed and headed out to Indianapolis on a blue sky, sunny day---the kind of day that bewitched Clevelanders into thinking that northeastern Ohio sustained a habitable environment. But like Lucy and Charlie Brown, every year our Indian summer would soon be rudely jerked away from us.

Did you notice if I shut the garage door? asked Pud as we turned onto the main road.

Umm, maybe. I think so? I don't know.

Pud whipped the car into an impressive U-turn, reminiscent of his career in the auto racing world. Let's go back and check.

Okay, Mario, I responded.

Pud had retired from more than forty years of sports marketing and engineering work with Indy-style racing teams and race leagues.

We pulled into our driveway like we were entering a pit stop. It turned out that we had indeed closed the garage door, but Pud took the opportunity to visit the bathroom.

I found the bag of snacks that we forgot on the counter. Pud forced his cranky joints to climb into the high seat of our SUV, and then he rubbed his back and accelerated down the driveway again.

Oh, good. Did you put it in the back with the suitcases?

Put what?

The bag of snacks.

Damn. Pud screeched, roared up the driveway again, and dashed into the house for the bag of snacks. We headed to the main road.

Did you notice if I shut the garage door? he asked.

Just drive, I told him. We rode in silence until we pulled onto the interstate.

What's the temperature? I asked.

Forty-seven degrees. And look at the odometer. It's at 41,414.1!

We continued south toward Columbus, listening to the songs of the '70s countdown on the satellite radio. Even though our trip had begun with our usual chaotic start, the atmosphere between us felt companionable. Only a few years before, I bemoaned the strained and cold relations between Pud and me. After more than thirty years of for better or for worse, we had plunged into the very worst after Pud retired. We had lived busy and parallel lives for so long that we didn't know how to relate.

But thanks to Pud's great idea to visit and get to know our young nieces and nephews, paired with my project of digitizing our old family photos, mixed with a splash of insight and understanding, we had grown closer. Our golden years were now filled with more excitement than AARP discounts and Lawrence Welk reruns.

As the GPS lady exhorted us to circle around Columbus, Pud said, We need to see Susie and the kids again.

We visited our niece and her family more often now as part of our Project RSVP. I liked to name our goals, and Project RSVP had been a special year of getting to know the younger generation as we visited them and dined at fancy restaurants together.

Yes, we do. Hey, do you remember how many years we have been going to this party in Indianapolis? I asked.

You know I can't remember anything. I guess five? Or six?

Our friends Brenda and Gary in Indianapolis threw an impressive wine-tasting bash every year at their home to celebrate the end of the IndyCar race season. Ever since Pud retired, he especially enjoyed the chance to not only sample exotic wines but to reconnect with his pals and colleagues.

Well, let's see. One year the theme was Italian. And then they served the wild-game dinner, and then the sports night, and a small-plates event. Is that it? I asked.

Pud paused a few minutes and then replied, I think so. We wore the black-and-white shirts and gondola hats to the Italian night, right?

Yes, I replied. This year, the theme on the invitations seemed to be lime, so I ordered us those lime-green margarita T-shirts to wear tonight. And a little surprise to go with the shirts too.

Brenda loves Mexican, so if the theme is lime, it must be Mexican food tonight, Pud noted.

After a few more miles and pit stops, the GPS lady guided us to our hotel in downtown Indy. Pud ignored her pleas to turn right, because he insisted it was faster to go left. We sped around the blocks several times until we located the entrance to the hotel parking deck. Pud and I debated the merits of various parking spaces and finally agreed on a pull-through space on level two. We followed the signs to the Big Bush Suites. We always used our reward points to stay at the Hywet Hotels brand.

While we waited in the modern lobby to check in, Pud spotted a tall woman with chin-length gray hair peeking out of a blue baseball cap. Pud approached her and pointed to the logo on her hat. Hello. Looks like you are a Rhodes Scholar?

She chuckled. "Oh, I am a roads scholar. Once I retired, I hit the road. I love long road trips across the country."

I love roads too. Actually, I retired from the racing world after forty-two years and three months. I always said I got paid to have fun seeing the country and going to races to service the teams.

She waved and smiled as she left the registration area. We checked in and then headed up to our room. As we exited the elevator, the wheels on my suitcase balked, and Pud sighed as he held the door and I sorted out my rollers. I sped out, turned left, and sighed too as I realized that Pud had gone the other way. I hurried to catch up; I shook my head. It amazed me how I always picked the wrong way.

Our room pleased me, with its modern, fresh, and crisp attitude. I pulled open the curtains and looked out at the city. Nearby I saw the pristine ballpark. We didn't have much to unpack. My most pressing task was to find outlets and sort out my chargers and devices. Once my electronics were squared away, we settled on the lime-colored couch, and I looked at the hotel magazine while Pud explored the TV.

Even the couch is the color of the day! I said.

What?

Lime, like the party theme.

What should we do? We have to be ready by five o'clock, right? Pud asked.

We could walk? Or relax?

Take a nap?

We sat for a few minutes, and Pud muttered at the TV remote until he settled on a golf show. Why don't we take a nap and see what happens, I murmured as I stroked Pud's forearm.

Pud shook his arm away. Uh, umm, okay. Want something to drink too?

Why not?

Okay. Let me go see if I can find ice.

I'll be right here. Hurry back, I cooed.

Pud went to the bathroom, and after I helped him find the ice bucket, he left on his quest. Pud could still put the pat in the pitter of this old girl's heart. He stood almost six feet tall and was stocky with a competent, in-charge air about him. He had dreamy blue eyes, and I still pictured him with his dark curly hair, even though everyone else only saw a bald dome.

I smiled as I planned my surprise frolic. Knowing how much I loved the cottony king-sized beds, like clouds in a hotel room, I had prepared for a romantic moment. I unzipped every pocket and pouch in my suitcase and finally found my perfume, lacy camisole, and flameless scented candle.

I closed the curtains, struggled into my cami, sprayed the perfume on my neck and décolletage, and placed the candle on the bed. I slipped under the duvet, looked around for a second and then jumped out of bed and closed the curtains tightly, sprayed more perfume in the air, and set the candle on the desk. I plumped the pillows and sank again into the softness. I stretched and glowed in anticipation.

I waited a few minutes and heard a noise in the hallway. I turned on my side, scrunched my grey curls, and posed seductively. False alarm. The sound of footsteps continued down the hall. I yawned and turned on my other side. I waited in pleasurable suspense for a few more minutes and then decided to arrange the beverage glasses. I sprang up. I found plastic cups in the bathroom. They would have to do.

I worked my way under the sheets again. I glanced at the clock. I liked the flicker of the flameless pillar candle with its lavender fragrance. Pud had read that smelling lavender aided memory. Where could Pud be? I hugged a pillow close. He'll be here soon.

I must have drifted off. The door lock clicked and whirred. Are you all right? a voice barked. I jerked awake. Did the power go off? Are you sick?

Oh, Pud, it's you, I mumbled.

It's getting late. We have to get ready, he said grumpily.

I sat up. I was waiting for our nap, I said weakly.

What's that smell? Did the hotel use some kind of weird carpet cleaner?

Pud turned on every light. I am taking a shower, he said.

Where were you?

He strode into the bathroom. I heard the shower spray. I hastily put away my candle and cami. I laid out the lime-green T-shirts and put my other surprise in my purse.

Pud leaned partway out of the bathroom with shaving cream on his face. Oh, I forgot to tell you. I rode down to the lobby, and when the elevator door opened, I bumped into Joe! So he and I had a drink together in the lobby.

I looked puzzled. You talked to Joe the whole time? I was waiting for you.

Waiting for what? Did I forget something?

I rolled my eyes, but I didn't get into it with Pud. I don't like controversy or bad feelings.

We scrambled into our lime party T-shirts and caught the elevator. Pud pressed the L button, and I burst into a little song and dance. Let's all go to the lobby. Evidently everyone listened to me, because the lobby teamed with groups of young people in uniforms.

Must be a tournament, said Pud. Those girls are tall.

Over in the corner by a pillar, we spied Joe and the rest of the out-of-town race gang. Joe sprang over with a big Hi! and an even bigger hug. We joined the group and happily greeted everyone.

Here we are again! I announced. This is the best party of the year.

Joe said, Looks like the car just arrived, so let's make like a tree!

A limo ride lends instant allure, glamour, and excitement to an event. We all scooted in, which was easier for the younger, spry folk, and laughed and joked the whole way to Brenda and Gary's lovely home. When we turned onto their street, I grabbed my surprise out of my purse and handed one to Pud. I put mine on---plastic, lime-green palm tree sunglasses. Pud balked at wearing his, but the gang encouraged him. Come on---we need to rock the lime!

The limousine parked, the chauffeur opened the door, and we peeled out like sardines from a can. Brenda and Gary ran down. We hugged, and arm in arm, we skipped into their home. Except, their home looked like a park.

In the foyer, a small round grill presented champagne flutes. Appetizers were arranged on a cedar picnic table. Potted green plants, including shrubs and flowers, hardy mums and geraniums, asters, sunflowers, and sedum, completed the charming garden. In the living room, the beautiful cream plush carpet I remembered had been replaced by green artificial turf. Brightly colored bistro tables and chairs were arranged for us, and we selected our starters and sat down to visit. We were all dazzled and voiced our amazement all at the same time.

Brenda and Gary, this is amazing!

It's spectacular!

Enchanting!

"I guess this is the lime part of the evening."

Thank you, said Brenda. "But all of you are what is special about our evening. And the lime part of the night is still to come."

For each annual tasting, Brenda and Gary created a booklet that detailed the wine and food pairings, complete with interesting stories about the chefs and the vineyards. This year's lime-green compilation bore the title Lime's the Word.

While the others tasted their favorite appetizers, I took a moment to read about the food, starting with the appetizers. I saw that the chef for our first tastes had opened her restaurant in 2001, and she emphasized local ingredients in her rustic yet contemporary dishes.

Interesting, I thought. I could say the same thing. I opened my kitchen in 1983, and I feature simple, homey dishes sourced from my local grocery.

I put down the guide, walked to the picnic table, and browsed the selections on the charcuterie and cheese board. I chose the smoked mousse trout in a pastry cup and the biscuit with pate and gruyere cheese. Gary offered me a flute of Louis Roederer Cristal Champagne 2005. I wandered back to my table, and one of my favorite wives from the group joined me.

After we exchanged dossiers on our lives, children, and trips, Donna said, Looks like it's another wonderful evening.

I know, and the best part is that the food and wine always eclipse the decorations. And this year's arrangements are spectacular. We are in for an epicurean event.

Donna agreed. This is a Broadway stage set. So, everyone probably asks you this, but how is retirement going? We are planning for retirement too.

Well, it's certainly a blessing to say good-bye to the alarm clock and have more free time.

And did I hear that you have been traveling?

Yes, we took a lovely trip to Marco Island, and we visited our young relatives. But the day-to-day living proved to be an adjustment. At first we were so chilly together; we didn't know how to share our new life.

That's what worries me, Donna noted.

Right. Oh, this smoked trout is yummy, I said. You know, we survived all the other milestones---marriage, career, children---but I wanted our retirement to be more than the last stop before the end.

It's not the end; it's the last call. As long as you're having fun!

I'll drink to that, I said as I sipped the last of my Cristal. I thought when I grew old everything would be all settled. I would be like a Magic 8 Ball. I would have distilled my life to a set of helpful phrases and answers for every situation. But I don't have all the solutions like I thought I would.

"You are right, Donna, and we are having a good time. I look forward to each beautiful day."

Let's go find the guys and check out the appetizers one more time.

We found the others crowded around the grill and table appetizer displays. I heard Pud say, We need term limits.

Here, finish my champagne, I interrupted to distract Pud.

Donna's husband, Don, joined us and gave me a hearty hug. So good to see you! he said. I have been telling your husband how much we miss him. Not only was he the best at data and analytics, but he cared about the race teams he worked with and wanted them to win.

Yes, I said. Pud is a true competitor.

Gary waved everyone to the front door. We're ready. Get your coats, purses, and whatever else you want to bring, and here we go!

Do I have to bring her?! Joe pointed to his wife and laughed.

I retrieved my purse and caught up with Pud. I always knew that something exciting would be around the next corner. Or in this case, just outside the front door. I smiled, and we walked briskly to the door. I didn't know it, but Pud and I were about to meet our nemesis.

2

Pleasure Island

W e all burst out onto the beautiful portico. Our chatter paused as we beheld a fearsome sight. Huffing and puffing on Brenda and Gary's driveway crouched a big lime dragon. When we walked closer, we beheld a bus, a big lime-green bus.

Welcome to the party Lime-a-Zine, announced the driver.

We cautiously boarded.

We found a pretty awesome vehicle. Inside, pairs of benches faced each other, with a table in between. The tables were covered with a lime-colored, island-print cloth. Real silverware was wrapped in white linen napkins. We were on a first-class bus. As we settled ourselves, the driver turned on the high-powered sound system, and a Jimmy Buffet tune rang out.

There's a strobe light too if you want it, shouted the driver.

Gary rushed to the back of the bus and began to serve us the next wine of the evening, a 2007 Cabernet Sauvignon from a blue-chip Napa vineyard with sixty-year-old vines. Gary handed us the wine in shimmering, crystal-stemmed glasses. We quieted as we sampled the Cab, and then our pleased murmurings began as we sensed the fine, bold drink. The Lime-a-Zine lumbered away.

Where were we going? I wondered.

"We're going to sample our favorite restaurants," Brenda announced over the bus microphone.

We were spirited away on a tasting tour of Indianapolis.

Please enjoy your wine, and we will be at our first dining experience soon, she added.

According to our booklet, we would stop first at the Late Harvest Kitchen for the first main course. As we pulled up, excited wait staff boarded the bus and presented each of us with braised pork cheeks with fall vegetable risotto and pine nut gremolata. The jovial staff was as entranced as we were with the whole traveling meal concept. Happy pandemonium reigned in the big lime party