Recently, unbeknownst to all but a handful of Alan Williamson insiders, I threw myself into one of the greatest challenges facing civilized men and women the world over: Filling retirement with purpose while pursuing the freedom to fart around. After a transitional period of blind wheel spinning and reckless snacking, I hit the restart button on my life and did the following.
I
Embraced Minimalism.
What is
minimalism you ask? There are many definitions, but for me it came down to
choosing quality over quantity and eliminating the surplus debris that had
accumulated around me through the years. My music collection, for example, took some
deep cuts with Paul Simon, Bob Seger and Van Morrison among the survivors,
while Sheena Easton, Enya, and Sounds of the Everglades said sayonara.
Winnowing
the book collection was an even bigger task, requiring a level of tough love normally
reserved for parents ousting live-at-home children for irreconcilable unemployment.
After some careful consideration, I kept the books that were under 400 pages and
cast aside the rest. While this may sound like an arbitrary choice, you should
know that my favorite book genre is the short story. In fact, when I get a book
of short stories, I flip through it and read the shortest stories first.
Sometimes I never get around to reading the longer short stories. Some may call
this lazy. I call it a great love of short stories. The shorter short stories.
We Bought
A Lake House.
After
decades of living in the fragile habitat holding too much humanity called South
Florida, my wife Sherry and I decided to sell our home and find an oasis of
sanity and serenity elsewhere in Florida. What we found instead were places
that were once unspoiled hideaways, but now were traffic-clogged growth areas. Then
there was the other extreme: towns that are so off the beaten path and
cheerless that even the cows were alcoholics.
One night as
I scrolled through the latest listings on Zillow, the holy grail of housing
appeared: a lakefront charmer on an oversized lot priced to move. I knew that properties of this quality and
value were rare but decided to keep a cool head so as not to weaken my negotiating
power. After looping Sherry into the situation, I casually called our realtor
and with a nonchalance bordering on indifference spoke these noncommittal words:
“THIS HOUSE, OUR HOUSE, MUST HAVE!!”
Beating
other buyers out was surprisingly easy – a little luck and timing go a long
way. Condensing 30 years of stuff to downsize
into a smaller home is a different story. We donated, sold or threw out about
25 percent of our material possessions, which left 80 boxes of belongings to
bring along. As I write this months after the move, 12 boxes remain unpacked,
their contents the subject of only mild curiosity to Sherry and I. In other
words, they’ve taken a backseat to other priorities, such as getting away from
it all.
We Took A
Road Trip.
When you’ve
been through a major uprooting of your life and landed in uncharted territory
where you know nothing and no one, the next logical thing to do is hit the road
again. So we loaded up the SUV and drove through six states to visit Sherry’s
family in Michigan. Road trips, of course, aren’t as efficient as flying, but
as new retirees we had the luxury of slowing down and taking the scenic route. If
you have the bad timing of driving through a major city like Atlanta or Cincinnati
during rush hour, you will slow down to the point where it becomes possible to leave
your car, tour a local museum or historic site, and return in time to drive another
10 to 12 feet.
Sherry and I
have a system on long trips that works exceptionally well. We drive in three-hour
shifts stopping to refuel, stretch our legs and use the restrooms. For the sake
of our mental health, we have an agreement not to speak about anything we see
in the restrooms, unless it involves an unsolved mystery where we might be able
to collect some reward money.
During drive
time, when either of us starts to fade behind the wheel, we take a slug from
Sherry’s dad’s old coffee Thermos that keeps the java piping hot for 24 hours
or 1,200 miles – whichever comes first. It’s always good for a laugh when we
stop into a McDonald’s or Dunkin Donuts to get the Thermos refilled and the
millennial behind the counter looks at it like we’ve given him a spare part that
broke off from the space shuttle.
I Started
Writing Again.
When we
returned home from our travels, I was in the middle of writing a grocery list
when it hit me. I missed writing. Not grocery lists specifically, but
observations and reflections grounded in real-life experiences. Okay, also some
shameless clowning and gratuitous wordplay.
The thing
is, after decades of writing professionally, I discovered that it’s fun to do
it as a retired guy. Maybe somewhere down the line this writing life could lead
to diminishing returns, my vocabulary reduced to words that rhyme with
“warthog.”
For now, I’m
content to gaze out at the lake and wait for the words to flow. Salt Log? Art
Blog?
“Honey… is
there any coffee left in your dad’s Thermos?”
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