My Retirement Days
by Tom Damron
Starting the day after I lost Janet last January, my son and family have been hounding me to sell, or lease, the house and move to Colorado closer to them.
As appealing as that sounds, I distinctly remember the ten years we lived in Connecticut—Storm Larry that forced the Governor to close the State for four days—the fines if you left the house without permission and an escort—watching my six-foot patio screen disappear under the white devil---the soles falling from my shoes because the salt and whatever ate through them—Jan’s Mustang buried for three months--the freezing cheekbones and ears—the door handle on the car frozen—heating the key with a match to melt the ice inside the lock—the burdensome heavy overcoat with pockets stuffed with gloves—windshields that required a sledge hammer to remove the ice--and then I pause as I realize---my son and daughter-in-law have had their marbles frozen to the point where they can’t think straight.
I knew at that moment that I had to take my blowtorch, go to Colorado and have a thawing sit-down with them. I did that the first two weeks of the month. The melting was enough to reach a compromise—see, we’re not akin to Congress—and we reached a compromise acceptable to both parties—I will mothball the house each June and spend summers in Colorado. I’ll come home in September, remove the mothballs and spend a pleasantly warm winter here in Plano while they lose their shoe soles.
It appears, and sounds, to be an agreement that will provide me the best of both Worlds—scenic Colorful Colorado summers coupled with a warmly embracing flat winter Texas plains.
Who could anticipate such a rewarding retirement?
Me, that’s who!
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