by Arthur B. Shostak, Ph.D., Emeritus Professor of Sociology, Department of Culture and Communication, Drexel University

 

While it helps to believe the Truth will set us free, it is foolhardy to believe it will always settle our mind and soul.  At times it can be a source of vexation, as when in retirement one brushes up against the Truth of there really being no Second Act: Retirement and exiting the planet are so close as to be kin.  We can gloss over the matter, loft toast after giddy toast to our Golden Years, smile wryly at the upbeat ads of the trendy new Retirement Villages, and in 101 other defensive ways whistle past the Graveyard, but ... truth be told ... retirement is a way station between here and nowhere

 

Which is not to invite despair, or even melancholy.  We have had a responsibility from conception on to make the most of matters, and if retirement has any singularity it might be in just that matter: At the risk of offending Dylan Thomas fans, we should neither rage at, nor fear the dying of the Light, but make the most of its aid and warmth while at all possible.

 

Not surprisingly, some of us find in retirement a new secret interest in checking on the ages of those featured in the day's newspaper obituaries.  We seek the relief of discovering both how very much older are some of the newly deceased, and, to our guilty pleasure, how very much younger are others.  This strange daily exercise in Applied Mathematics, one for which we had no preparation and of which no one had spoken, somehow reinforces an appreciation for the Gift of still another 24 hours (perhaps) of rich possibilities,  24 hours (perhaps) until we get to repeat the math.

 

Many of us in retirement find fascinating the ability we now have to "read" the life history of other seniors in their physical being. Oldsters who have lived a life with more rather than less happiness, with more rather than less accomplishments, and with more rather than less love are blessed to (unknowingly) advertise this.  It can be known from a smile that sits easily on a lined face, from their ambling gait, from the jaunty angle of a head, and especially from some sort of radiance, some enviable inner peace.

 

Many of us in retirement find unexpected comfort in walking streets deliberately grown familiar for being visited every day at nearly the same time, streets walked day in and day out, streets now as comfortable as favorite slippers.  We relate to such streets much as did New York Mayor Jimmy Walker, of whom it was said - He wore New York as if were a boutonniere in his lapel. 

 

We take much solace in the solidity of houses, trees, bushes, and landmarks that are the same today as they were yesterday, and are very likely not to differ tomorrow.  We need reassurance some things persist, even as we struggle to make our peace with a gnawing unspoken understanding that our ability to walk comforting streets is fast fading.

 

Finally, we wrestle with an unexpected tension where our grandchildren are concerned.  For public consumption we are all milk and honey, only too glad to boisterously welcome their visit and express tearful regrets at their departure.  In private, however, we envy their youth and vitality. 

 

We are jealous of their remarkable possibilities, and are certain that if we had their blessings - a nation at peace (kind of), a world of information technology wonders, a medicine cabinet of miracle drugs, folks with charge cards and ample bank accounts (our children) - we would do so very much more with it all than we expect they will.  Our envy, as it is pointless and selfish, embarrasses us, and we go to lengths to repress it - though the very most intuitive of our grandchildren may pick up a clue now and then, only to graciously and secretly forgive us this human weakness of ours.

 

Heads held high, thankful for the grant of each and every day, intent on looking our best (and signaling thereby a life history of which we are proud), comforted especially by the familiar, and vexed a bit by our envy of our younger kin, we move along toward the stage wings, wondering much of the time what the next Act will entail.  As for this Act, retirement - we know, as a great artist said of the color White in the musical - Sunday in the Park with George - retirement - is so full of possibilities.