The man who delivered the load of limestone for my driveway was older than me (at least he looked that way). He was thin, only as tall as myself and hard of hearing. He had to get out of his large dump truck to talk to me so that he could hear what I was saying.
I wondered about people who don’t know how to retire versus people who can’t retire but want to. As he seemed to strain to do his job I thought about how much I love not having to go to work each morning if I don’t want to. I also know that I need to have something I’m passionate about doing.
Maybe that’s why my dad still works. There’s nothing at his house that he’s passionate about. That’s my moms territory. At least it used to be. With the rapid advancement of dementia this past year her former passion for keeping the house in order has been replaced by the effort it takes to remember where and who she is. Her day consists of repeating habits over and over. Anything that falls outside those repetitions is subject to making her lose track of her current dimension.
Dad still goes back and forth to work. Because that’s his favorite form of retirement. Going to work when he wants to.
