Retirement

   I've heard that old age creeps up on a fella, kinda like a mountain lion sneaking up on a skunk. It's an amazing surprise for both and once we get there, we kinda wish we'd have never made the trip. But it's too late now pal, we're in this for the duration.

   All of my working life I yearned for the coming days of freedom, the time when I could do anything that I wanted to do. I had visions of fishing the cold clear lakes of Minnesota and wandering the wind swept beaches of Oregon. I could see myself sitting by a campfire in the evening, way up in Canada, roasting a moose over the coals or trying to figure out how to clean a fish.

   For years I thought it would be nice to see my boss come down with Alzheimer's and I'd be able to call him names and make faces at him. He'd have no clue who I even was. The problem is that the old jerk was still there at my retirement and in reasonably good health. He came up to me and even shook my hand, the old troglodyte.

   Now the things that had so irritated me, have passed in a wild array of sunsets. I have no one to complain about any more and it's a hard life. A fella really needs a jerk in his life just to keep things in balance ya know.

   The little lady is trying desperately to find something to occupy my time. Bungee jumping is at the top of her list but I think she might be just joking about that. I'm not sure though. I had considered sky diving but every time I get close to calling the airport, I get the hives. One time a century or so ago, I was on an old C-121 Constellation in an ice storm. Some guy handed me a parachute and told me to put it on. I thought about it for a while and figured that it would be better just to crash and burn with the plane.

   Today I have thoughts of standing in the door of a plane, trying to overcome my good common sense. My fingers have dented the doorway to the point where the door will never fit again, but I am however, quite determined. The pilot is making his seventh trip over the drop zone and starting to run a little short of fuel. It's not the falling through the air that bothers me, it's the problem of changing my Depends as I fall toward certain destruction.

   Then there's the problem of having a bad right foot, a fake left knee and a pair of manufactured hips. When I hit the ground, those parts would be so messed up that I'd probably be walking upright on my elbows. That's a scary thought at my age.

   But now I have talked myself into really doing it. I take a deep breath, say four "Hail Mary's", put my hand on the chute release and step off. I feel a hard impact but am afraid to open my eyes.    

   "What the hell are you doing?" asks my instructor.

   I open my eyes just a little and see that I'm lying on the ground next to the plane, covered in red parachute material. Guess I waited a bit too long.

   The days of my retirement are passing at a dizzying rate. I make plans to do this and that and none of them ever get done. One day I decided to go ice fishing. It used to be one of my favorite things. I started to inventory all of the things I'd need for such a trip. First there would be the assortment of fishing lures, a supply of fishing rods, an auger to cut a hole with, a supply of candy bars, cold weather clothes, heavy boots, a large heater with an even larger supply of propane tanks, a first aid kit to remove imbedded hooks, a GPS unit, a compass, heavy mittens, books and magazines in case I get bored, a wind shelter, three cases of beer, three rolls of toilet paper, four boxes of assorted Pop Tarts, my blood sugar meter and testing supplies, one tube of Fixodent, all my prescriptions and of course some sun screen. Then there's the new pickup truck to haul it all in and the snowmobile to get across the lake. As close as I can figure, it would cost me around $48,000 and that doesn't include my new crash helmet. The little woman is recovering nicely from the shock. I promised her not to do any ice fishing until she gets out of the hospital.

   Summers have always been great for us retired guys. There's the fishing, the yard work and the gardening, all of which keep me quite busy. By the time May first rolls around, I've already found several good excuses why those things are no fun. And so I continue searching for something to do.

   I heard that Geocaching is a great new sport. Someone hides a little container with small trinkets inside and gives out the coordinates where it can be found. When you find it, you open the box, take something out and put something in for the next guy. I just gotta do this.

   Down to the local Army Navy Store to purchase the needed items. The GPS is $400.00 and the rest of the items I need come to around……… well, it's a lot. There's the GPS, a couple books, a first aid kit, a compass, appropriate clothes, appropriate boots, a heavy duty cell phone, a diary, a log book, fly spray, a spare tube of Preparation H, software to program the GPS, another new shirt, 3 rolls of toilet paper (notice the pattern?) a signal mirror, and a large pack of signal flares. This time the cost was considerably less, coming in at just under $3500 and this time the little lady took the checkbook and credit cards away from me. Where's her sense of adventure!

   I figured that there had to be a secret spot where old guys hung out in the wintertime so I went in search of such a place. After a few days and a couple tanks of gas, I found 'em. They were hiding in the courthouse. The whole place was filled and I was a happy man. I found a place to sit and tried to strike up a conversation with the guy next to me. He didn't seem to want to talk much. Then a guy everyone called "Your Honor" asked me to leave. I never did figure that one out.

   Time started to get the best of me one winter. I was sitting in the garage feeding chunks of birch into the barrel stove when I came up with a plan. I'd invite a bunch of old guys I knew over to the secret hideout called "The He-Man Women Hater's Club". Now this had the makings for a pretty good idea. I called 14 guys but didn't tell them what it was about.

   Around 11 next morning, they started to shuffle in. I had chairs set out and had even bought some crackers and peanut butter to go with the grape Kool-Aid. Now we were set. I stood up in front of them and told them my grand idea. To my great surprise, they figured it was a pretty good plan. We'd have a secret handshake and a secret sign that no one else would know. Meetings were every day around noon. The whole thing would be a secret sworn to in blood… or something. No women would be allowed. None…. We hadn't decided what we'd do but I was sure it would be a lot of fun. The meeting ended with many kind and generous old codgers patting me on the back and asking where I got the guts to even speak about such things.

   By the third day, the membership was dwindling and by the fourth day, I was back to feeding the barrel stove again, all by myself. I couldn't figure it out. That evening I called one of the guys we called Lefty. I dialed the phone and waited.

   "Hello."

   "Is Lefty there?"

   "Say! Just who is this anyway?" a woman asked.

   "Just tell him Slugger wants to talk to him." I said.

   "Well Slugger, Lefty can't come to the phone right now. I heard about your little club and after we spoke about it for a while, he decided not to come any more."

   "Uh. Well… OK." I stammered.

   The next day I saw my old pall Lefty down at the barber shop. He had a black eye and a slight limp. All he said was. "Women haters huh? You just about got me killed with that one."

   The next day I was back once more, feeding the barrel stove, alone.

   Winter was moving along but at a slightly slower pace than what I wanted. The garage floor had been swept so many times, that the concrete was wearing thin. On my drive through town that day I spotted a sign that said "Buttershots $4.00 per liter." I didn't know what a liter was, but I had a darned good idea what Buttershots was. It tasted like butterscotch and was served over ice. I walked in and bought two liters, somewhere around three gallons I think. I stashed my purchase under the spare tire and headed for home. As I pulled into the driveway, I saw the little woman shoveling the sidewalk and I waved politely. I think she waved back.

   Once the garage door was down and locked, I threw another log on the fire and then went to retrieve my purchase from the trunk. Yup, just as I left them. I opened one and took a sip. "Whew!" That stuff was strong. I didn't dare go inside for ice though. The little woman would put me to work doing some kind of a demeaning chore. That idea was out. I had to come up with plan "B".

   Over on the workbench behind the lawn mower engine was a fairly clean metal cup from about World War One. It would suffice. I went out the back door and scooped up a little of the clean snow that hadn't been peed on yet and then back to the bottle of Buttershots. I poured a little on the snow and went to take a sip. No good. The snow just soaked it all up. I needed more. I tipped up the bottle and kept pouring until I could see it start to turn a yellowish caramel color. I walked back over to the stove and sat down in my most "favoritist" chair. I raised a toast to us retired guys and took a big gulp.

   "Doggone!" That stuff was great.

   Then with the experience of many years in the garage, I put my stash in a good hiding place. Didn't want the little woman seeing it ya know.

   I licked my lips and took another and then another. That stuff was pretty good. By the time I finished that cupful, the room was starting to seem a bit unstable. I lurched over to where the jugs were hidden and did it all over again. I poured a generous amount (somewhere around eight fingers) and put it back into hiding. Now this was a really good way to spend a day. The barrel stove was nice and warm. The radio was playing Paul Harvey and I was in hog heaven.

   The next time I went for a refill, I couldn't remember where I had hidden the stuff, so I just went back and sat down by the fire.

   I never did hear the end of the Paul Harvey show that day. When I finally came to, the garage was around 15 degrees below zero and my head felt like Lefty's wife had smacked me a good one too. What had started out to be a fun day, kinda fizzled and died and so did I.

   Retirement has kinda had its ups and downs but in general, I can pretty much do any darned thing I want to. Of course there are some things that when once tried are better left alone and then there are the things that the little
lady doesn't approve of and the things that ……….. etc.

 I invite you to visit "The River Calls" blog site each day for a small look into what life was like a long time ago.

 You can find the EBook Kindle edition of "The River Calls" at Amazon.com and at www.peaceriverbooks.com. The Peace River Books blog is updated each day.   

   Glad you stopped into "therivercalls" blog. We'll try to put something new here each day.
Good Reading,
Ron