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| It's harvest time at Yule Love It |
Well, dear Reader, we’ve survived another marital marker. Six months of His retirement.
With one phone call last December 21, the poor guy induced the greatest transition in his life—and without the benefit of a refresher Lamaze class.
After forty-seven years on the road as an outside salesman, he awoke the next morning with no place to go and no quota. Christmastime, a new car, and our wedding anniversary diverted the symptoms of withdrawal through January.
Then headaches hit with a paralyzing vengeance.
“I put the brakes on too fast. I should’ve never retired in the winter,” he said one Sunday night.
“Then you need to take a drive tomorrow to breathe some fresh air. All day. And every day this week as if you’re going to work.”
The following night his car pulled into our driveway well after our dinner hour, unusual for his 6:00 p.m. punctuality. He stepped into my study a bit sheepish.
“You’ll never guess where I’ve been.”
“Oh?”
“Grand Lake.”
“You drove up to Presque Isle to the Lodge?”
He nodded and slid into my reading chair. “It’s been over forty years since I’ve seen the place. It’s not the same.”
He related the modernization of his beloved childhood summer roads and haunts. We reviewed again this truth: nothing remains the same, and loss and mourning come with each change.
The premise abided like a faithful friend as we navigated retirement’s rough waters through February and March. In April, I took a sabbatical from a few weekly commitments to rest, consider, and revise my personal and professional life.
We began our field and yard work. He went his way. I went mine. The wind cleared and invigorated our minds.
“You know,” I told Him one night, “when each of the girls left home, it was like retirement from my job as their mother.”
He turned from his book. “I never looked at it like that.”
“I didn’t either until today.”
See, my husband is wired to work alone. I’m made to commune. So he pulled up weed cloth and dead lavender plants and sowed grass seed while I worked another field and my gardens. Gradually, his headaches subsided. His strength and enthusiasm revived.
When it came time for me plant the vegetable garden in May, he weeded it without my request. With his hands and back around 24/7, we’ve not had to hire help this spring. Instead of driving carpet and wood samples to clients, he’s now my mulch deliveryman.
And Mo the retired mouser doesn’t know what to do with his master home day and night, so the cat sleeps under the lilac hedge. He awakes to meow for his breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
After our lunch the other day, I took up my garden gloves to replant the greasy and turkey craw beans. I waved Him good-bye. “Heigh Ho, Heigh Ho, It’s Off to Work I Go!”
He smiled.
