The author wearing sunglasses superimposed over handwritten text and a pen.
The Tarzan yell ringtone seemed like a good idea. Until it wasn’t. Still. Installing a Tarzan ringtone on your phone is what you do when you have some time to kill, when you’re retired, sitting at a picnic table at a state park on the Oregon coast.
It was a year ago this month. My retirement, that is. I produced political news at PBS Wisconsin for 32 years which is the same thing as saying I gave a shit about politics. Huge raging shits. 24 hour-per-day shits. I had to give a shit, especially the last three years of my worklife, or I couldn’t have done it. Covering racial injustice, the Trump administration, and COVID — often at the same time — was a challenge. I crawled across the finish line on bloody stumps.
Once across, the relief was immediate. Almost like nothing ever happened. Of course lots happened during the first year of my post-career life. It’s just that it was stuff I didn’t have to worry about. At least for a living.
My wife, Peggy, and I decided to celebrate last month by doing what many retired people do: travel. We loaded up our little teardrop camper, commanded our black lab, Emmylou, into the backseat of the Highlander, and took a left turn out of our Rutledge Street driveway. That’s how you get to Portland, Oregon.
One thing you realize on camp sites across America is that camping is for a) young families and b) old codgers. The two groups have something in common. One is commencing a very important phase of their life without having any idea about what they’re doing. The other is also starting out a very important phase of their life without having any idea about what they’re doing. This was understood and communicated between our groups with knowing nods. A young father walking his fussy baby at sunrise at a North Dakota campground panicked a little when our eyes met. “What the hell is going on?” his eyes seemed to say.
Rather than keep a traditional journal of our travels, we wrote haikus, which caused us to reflect on specific moments of our day instead of long, generic recollections. Old Desmond and Mary next door to us at a KOA in Washington State plastered their rig with Trump stickers. We dismissed them as clueless. Shame on us. When Desmond stepped over to listen to my banjo one night, tears streamed down his face because it reminded him of his North Carolina boyhood:
Desmond and Mary
Both voted for Trump for prez
Banjo made him cry
And one by Peggy…
“Who loves road laundry?”
It is my unsecret joy.
Clean sheets bring warm sleep.
Before you get the idea that retirement is all open roads, clear skies and haiku, let me take you back to a morning last March. It was a mild one and the sun filled our bedroom as we prepared for the day. Peggy turned to me and, in the softest, most loving voice possible, said, “You gotta get a fucking job.” Our deal had been six months. Six months after retirement to see if I could sell enough stories to supplement our income so that we could continue our lavish lifestyle. It wasn’t happening.
I remembered seeing a sign at the Jenifer Street Market, just a block from our house, advertising for delivery drivers. So I went downstairs, out the front door and over to the market. Within 10 minutes I was shaking hands with my new 26-year-old boss. Within 15 minutes I was back at our house where I found Peggy in the kitchen.
“I got a job!” I said.
“What?” she said.
“Yeah! I’m the new delivery driver at the market! I start Monday!”
“I thought you were in the bathroom!” she said.
So began my 20-hour-per-week career delivering meat and produce to area restaurants. At first I was embarrassed, ashamed to be a truck driver when I had spent all those years as a news professional. Then I saw how hard people work in groceries and kitchens and I was ashamed of having been a journalist. You know. Foamy, soft hands. Chasing stories instead of burning my arms on the broiler hood. Different culture, too. The women in the kitchens all call me “honey.” No matter how old or young they are. “I appreciate you, honey,” they say. At the end of almost every shift my boss says, “You killed it!” Not a lot of that in the professional work world.
The main difference for me between the professional experience and my delivery job is, in the former, I tried my hardest and worried about it all the time. In the latter I try my hardest and I don’t worry about it at all. Retirement’s greatest gift is perspective.
On the road last month, we only had three arguments over 25 days and 4,000-plus miles. But they were big ones (and Peggy’s count may be higher than mine).
The moments just before an argument breaks out with your partner are like the moments before a car crash. Everything slows down. You can see everything coming, crystal clear. You have time to react but then it’s on top of you and all you can do is hope the airbag works. One of our arguments on the trip took place, not surprisingly, in the car. It’s a testament to the reality that lovers quarrel about stupid things when I tell you that the fight was about a rainbow.
We were tired. I guess that’s how you wind up arguing about a rainbow. I was driving and Peggy asked me to take a photo of it on her phone. Hey, the rainbow was on my side and there were no cars for miles! Still. I wasn’t taking direction on the shot very well. Things heated up and in the midst of the firefight the Tarzan yell went off on my phone. Here’s how that went:
“Get out of the car to take the shot!”
“It’s raining!”
Tarzan yell.
“It’s not raining that hard.”
Tarzan yell.
“YOU take it!”
Tarzan yell.
You might think Tarzan’s entrance would have provided some comic relief. Instead he just made things more insane. We drove on. The road has a way of unknotting problems. Even in silence.
We can’t always drive through our differences. It’s the mundane, day-to-day journey that tests people. A day spent driving opens up possibilities that include the prospect to get along. I’ve found that there’s lots of room to be had in retirement. All that brain space formerly taken up with full-time-work worry? Room. Getting older comes with its own pressures. But gaining room to grow is golden.
Andy Moore is a retired PBS Wisconsin political news producer and a long-time Isthmus contributor.
If you are interested in submitting an essay to Isthmus, please query lindaf@isthmus.com.
