Some tell me it’s a terrible thing to say.
Some think I’m talking about them.
Some get upset. And they tell me my words are offensive, mean-spirited, and insulting.
But you know what? Those words?
They’re not even mine.
In my book, Fay tells Charles about retirement.
And one of the ways she describes it is by saying that retirement’s nothing more than people sitting around, waiting to die.
Ouch.
It sounds harsh, I know.
Ignorant, perhaps.
And yet, those words—those very words—were said to me by a retiree. A retiree who not only believed them to be true, but one who decided to do something about it.
He was a retired government worker and he called one day asking if I could sort out his accounting software.
So I went over.
As I sat there, at his computer, reorganizing his Chart of Accounts, I peppered him with questions. And he was happy to answer them.
He told me that civil service had been his only career.
He told me that he and his friends all retired together.
He told me they had plans, lots and lots of plans.
And he told me many of those plans went unfulfilled.
All of a sudden, he told me in his rich baritone voice, his friends began to not venture out—they preferred staying home. Why? Because it was raining too hard, or their leg was sore, or The Price Was Right was about to start.
Then, with me breezily typing away, he said, “You know what they were doing, Mike?” I looked up, shook my head.
“They were waiting to die.”
And when he said that, something changed.
A chill went through me. And my hands dropped from the keyboard, and my mouth dropped open, and I stared at him, dumbfounded (for there’s no other way to describe it—I was dumbfounded).
Then, with a sheepish smile, he waved his arms, taking in the room, and said, “And that’s when I started this.”
By which he meant taking a passion and turning it into a business.
And he was having a grand time.
I only saw him once more—2004, I think it was. (Do you ever wonder whether people come into your life for a specific purpose? Like they had a message or something? Then, once that purpose is served, they just as quickly disappear? Do you ever wonder about that? I know I do).
During that final visit, we talked business, we discussed numbers, we looked over his accounts, and after it all, he told me another jaw-dropping tale. (Looking back I now realize he was a natural story-teller. The kind of guy you want to sidle your chair up to, then sit back—get entertained).
Again with that gravelly voice, he described how he, not long before, got a call from the PMO’s office. The Prime Minister’s wife wanted to visit his shop (nothing more, really, than two rooms in the basement of his house).
With gusto, he went on to paint the proceedings of the appointed visit—how the RCMP barricaded his street, how stealthy security types swept through every room of his house, and how he and the PM’s wife, attended to by burly bodyguards and busy secretaries, examined samples of his wares.
Imagine that! Here’s this guy–this retired government guy–padding around in his basement, showing the PM’s wife around–selling her stuff!
We chuckled long after he finished telling the story. And I laugh still whenever I think of it.
And I cherish that story too, because it makes me realize he’s right.
If one’s golden years could be foretold. If retirement is a continuum with but two extremes. If there are two options. If one of them is staying productive, pursuing a passion (and maybe even getting noticed by dignitaries). If the other is waiting to die.
I know which one I’m choosing.
Now tell me.
Which will you choose?
