On Retirement: Part II, The End Game

          Be happy if there is something to be happy about!
          When the moment comes, do not lose it!
          Though they say life lasts a hundred years,
          Who has seen a full thirty thousand days!
          You are in this world but an instant,
          So don’t sit there grumbling about money.
          At the end of The Classic of Filial Piety
          It tells you all about what funerals are like.(1)

“Be here, now!”

     So Alan Watts charged us.(2) In my twenties, it sounded great. The problem was that I couldn’t do it. I observed that I was mostly running ahead, toward completion, toward the next thing. There was much to do: studying, jobs, money, marriage, a child, where and how to live – “caught between the longing for love and the struggle for the legal tender.”(3) Admittedly, there were times of Flow: becoming lost in a ego-less process, absorbed in the moment, losing track of time itself in the pure pleasure of being.(4) But mostly not: mostly, it was do this or that, and get on to the next thing.

     This goes on for years, with the cares of family and daily life and concerns of career. Then, with retirement, an opportunity opens up. Unless one is planning a new career as a winemaker, tractor-trailer driver, or TikToc fashion influencer, or you fill the void by chauffeuring grandchildren around to Sufi dancing or kettle drum practice, the present opens in a way it has not been open for a long time.

     In this openness there is a natural inclination to review the past and to assess how one has done.(5) You have run your career race and came in seventh. This can be okay and work out well enough, depending on attitude: “I was married more times than a radio talk-show host, but I never lost hope.” Or, “I didn’t end up writing The Great Novel, but that chapbook of racy limericks was a killer!”

     In my work, I made the world a better place.

     Or this can turn to rumination and recrimination, which is never a good thing for the emotions or disposition. My ship came in, but I failed to get on board. It can be depressing, because we all fail spectacularly, and at this point there is nothing you can do about it. But the latter is also the good news. There most definitely is nothing you can do about it, so you might as well give up on it and make a nice fried egg and tomato sandwich.

     Your thoughts also go forward toward The End Game, as a ninety-two-year-old friend calls it. Somewhere along the line, starting in late middle age, our mental calculation changes from time spent on the planet to time left. In older age, this is acute. There is no room for denial: time is limited and the outcome is fixed. It is just a matter of when and how.

     How this goes is naturally affected by one’s state of health. Even without major problems, aging issues can be vexing. Brown things and skin tags start growing on you like you are a compost pile. Your arm hurts for no reason. Legs get stiff and athletic activities like tying your shoelaces make you short of breath. Or like me, a hand starts to shake one day and doesn’t stop: “essential tremor,” Dr. Google calls it, which means they have no idea where it comes from and there is nothing that can be done about it. Why it is “essential” beats me. My fine doctor offered me neurological testing, which I appreciated, but declined. Why bother if there is no fix?

     After seventy, one can become afraid to go to the doctor for fear of discovering something that will kill you sooner or later, but of which, until that appointment, you were happily ignorant. That has been the case with me. I go to the doctor with no complaint and pow! Now I have a problem. That is one reason that the annual physical is terrifying. Adding to the horror, if you are of a certain age, they start asking you to remember three words and recall them later, or ask you to draw a picture of a clock showing twenty to ten. (My advice on this? Refuse. Don’t do it – don’t go down without a fight!) All this naturally leads one to think that the obvious solution is not to go to the doctor at all, which was the recommendation of a friend’s mother. She lived to 91 and died happy. However, such a course can lead to a surprise heart attack while imagining Shania Twain without any clothes on when you are country line dancing at the Senior Centre, or keeling over with a stroke while serving figgy pudding to that felonious band of in-laws at Christmas dinner. So not having checkups is not most advisable.

     Entirely too many people in retirement age are troubled, if not tormented, by illness and debilitation, and I am sorry for them. I do not yet have this. I only have to know where the washrooms will be if I go for an urban walk. I count myself very lucky. I feel much compassion for those who are afflicted, who feel so poorly and who are stuck in endless rounds of appointments, tests, and treatments, and those as well who suffer pain and impairment. I have friends among them and have lost friends to the diseases they have encountered. It is something that the Buddhists warn us about, and they suggest that we prepare; but still, it does not feel quite fair. You put in a lifetime of effort and good work, kindness and caring, and it comes to debilitation and discomfort. Then you die. Jarring, that.

     So you have to face your mortality: The End Game. Retiring does both make it plain that you have been to the mountaintop and now are on the downslope, and it gives you more time to think about it. This might be alright, a sort of preparation for death as Freud proposed.(6) For some it might bring relief; you will miss things, of course, like how the kids are doing or the laughter or your mate; but on the other hand, you will be free of pain if you have that, and certainly you will not have to hear or read about Taylor Swift ever again – no small compensation, that.

     Still, death can be a ruminative burden and for some is frightening, although not inevitably so. Many are consoled by religion, and look forward to an afterlife. Others – those of us without a strict belief in the continuation of a human soul – are without this solace, yet we are still not afraid. After all, if we come from the cosmic ether, we will go back to it; there is not much frightening about that. Although to be sure there can be anticipatory grief – about one’s pending absence from the dance.

     So with the past done, and a future that is dodgy, what we are left with is the present moment – just as good old Watts prescribed. And as Freud implied, and the Buddhists advise, contemplation of mortality provides a focus, an opportunity to experience the present to its fullest, in a way we never have before.

     Friends and companions help a great deal on this journey. The old gang at the office or the plant have gone on ahead without us. What we are left with is a partner, if we have one, and our old friends. The old reliable, more-or-less daily, enforced socializing of the workplace has vanished, and for many a void is opens up.

     Much is made of the value of socializing in general, especially in popular psychology and the New York Times. This notion is a regular feature and sells a good number of issues of Psychology Today. But the idea appears to be overrated and there is not much real social science behind this.(7) As a confirmed and contented Introvert, I am skeptical about the value of casual socializing. I can take it or leave it, mostly the latter. And I don’t think I am alone in this: ask the third of the North American population who share my temperamental trait.

     That said, complete isolation is bad for one, and correlates with higher rates of depression, heart attack, early death and inebriated purchasing of workout equipment from infomercials at three in the morning. So for goodness sake, despite the reservation expressed above, if you are isolated and lonely, by all means do join that backgammon club, church choir, or a weekly book club, or if desperate and in danger of developing suicidal ideation, take up pickleball. Make a friend!

I am sitting on an August Sunday early afternoon, eating a store-bought turkey sandwich with a good old friend at the picnic table at the Stewart’s store in the quaint village that he grew up in. He is an empathetic fellow who sat with me one time many years ago in another Stewart’s, and listened when I was at a very low point in my life. A couple of times a month I receive a brilliant multi-page longhand letter from him, describing the subtleties of everyday life, his reading regimen, and intellectual explorations. He is a member of a select class of people: highly intelligent, yes, but more, a true scholar. I count myself fortunate to know not just one, but two people like this, who, no matter what they are doing as a livelihood at a particular time, read and learn and think for its own sake. Once I called up the other of them, M.W., when he was in Brooklyn visiting his daughter and I asked him what he was planning to do that evening. “I’m going back to the hotel to think,” he replied.

     K.B. takes me on a walking tour around the village, with tales of adventures at the old school, early and later grades, middle-school exploits, and unrequited teenage love. We wander by the now-dilapidated band shell where his high-school rock and roll band debuted. As we walk away from the now sad and decrepit little public park, I am carrying on about my current side-by-side re-reading of Jack Kérouac’s The Subterraneans vs. Leonard Cohen’s Beautiful Losers, and why the former is a success, while the latter is a failure, in my opinion. I declare that it is because Kerouac’s telling is full of emotion and a visceral love of life, while Cohen’s lacks these and is rather cold. I find I have no empathy for its characters: surprising in a work by the writer of So Long Marianne and Dance Me to the End of Love. K.B does not interrupt my opining and instead listens attentively, which I appreciate. Is it not true that we all want to be heard?

     After the walkabout, we talk about his upcoming project of reading the eight hundred pages of L’Être et le Néant : Essai d’Ontologie Phénoménologique that he had ordered – half-jokingly he proposes to read two or three pages at a time, in the booths at each one of the 350 plus Stewart’s stores in New York and the few in Vermont. I think this is an outstanding idea. He jokes again and wonders how it might stack up against the wanderings of Herodotus.(8) We consider what kind of car would be appropriate for such an epic journey. K. B.’s 2018 Honda does not seen quite right for the odyssey – a more classical ride would seem appropriate. I suspect my friend leans toward something like his previously-owned late-sixties Dodge Charger, but I am envisioning something more modest, such as a Morris Minor Traveller station wagon from 1957, preferably in the classic British racing green. Of course, I am thinking that offsetting the carbon would have to be considered, which is difficult these days as it has come to light that most of the available offset schemes are fraudulent.

     Before we part, we wonder out loud if there is a market for a basic car without all the annoying features like fobs, lane correction, touch screens and heated seats. Something with key-entry, roll-down windows, no-draft vents, and a standard transmission would be nice. I am imagining a two-door Valiant with a Slant Six under the hood, not with that push-button automatic, maybe a sixty-one with the classic fins. A perfect car: would there not be buyers for such a thing in 2023, I ask? We muse that one would think so, but probably not. To be sure, for my part, this – old cars were better etc. – is retired geezer jawing at its very best. Very satisfying. I am sorry to take leave of my friend.

     Now I am back in the afternoon sun, in the yard, sitting in a weather-worn wooden Adirondack chair. I am the lazy one; I am reading and smoking a cigar while my mate labours in the garden. I see a bee – not my bee from July, the one that came to the window during news time, but another one and I wonder where my bee went. I hope it wasn’t eaten. A big Monarch butterfly comes by and flutters around me, darting here and there, up and down, back and forth. Then, apparently not bothered by the the cigar smoke, it alights on my knee and there it perches.

     I am one lucky bastard. This Monarch thinks I am trustworthy enough to rest awhile on my blue jeans. I live on an acre of rural paradise. My modest income is sufficient for my needs: there is nothing more I want to own and nowhere I want to travel. My health ain’t perfect, but it ain’t bad, either. I have some friends. My wife, K., loves me unconditionally, and when I grumble about one or another of my shortcomings, tells me that I am perfect just as I am. I am inclined to disagree with this assessment, but I do not debate the point; in any case, I feel the same about her, so have no basis to argue. The sun is on my face, the book is excellent, and our friendly dog-like cat is lying by the raised garden. My daughter, off in Toronto, is thriving, and my smart and good-natured grandchildren are launching into the world. None of this is permanent, of course; any of it could change in an instant.

     But in this moment, I am grateful. I am retired and have nothing to do.

     I have only to be here, now.

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1. Hanshan. Cold Mountain: 100 Poems by the Tang Poet Han-Shan. Translated by Burton Watson. Columbia University Press, 1970. Accurate details have been lost in time and myth, but the Buddhist recluse is thought to have lived around the seventh or eighth century. 

2. Columbus, Peter J., and Donadrian L. Rice. Alan Watts – Here and Now: Contributions to Psychology, Philosophy, and Religion. State University of New York Press, 2012.

3. Browne, Jackson. The Pretender. Flat Town Music Co., 1976.

4. Csíkszentmihályi, Mihály Róbert. Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience. New York: Harper and Row, 1990.

5. Erikson, Erik, with Joan Erikson. Childhood and Society. W. W. Norton & Co., 1959.

6. Freud, Sigmund. Beyond the Pleasure Principle. Translated by C. J. M. Huback. Digireads Publishing, 2020. First published 1920.

7. La Grassa, Jennifer. Do Exercise, Nature and Socializing Make People Happier? Research Suggests We don’t Really Know. CBC News, August 26, 2023.

8. Kapuściński, Ryszard. Travels with Herodotus. Translated by Klara Glowczewska. Vintage, 2008.