Steve Lopez - Independence Day: What I Learned About Retirement from Some Whove Done It and Some Who Never Will

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Independence Day

Copyright 2022 by Steve Lopez

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Published by Harper Horizon, an imprint of HarperCollins Focus LLC.

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ISBN 978-0-7852-8873-2 (Ebook)

ISBN 978-0-7852-8872-5 (HC)

Epub Edition June 2022 9780785288732

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022931407

Printed in the United States of America

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For Jeff.

There he is, coming through the door,

filling up the room.

As you get older, you become the person you always should have been.

David Bowie

I T S THE F OURTH OF J ULY AND I M LOUNGING IN MY BACKYARD , thinking about a different kind of Independence Day. The day I say goodbye to work as I know it. I live at the top of a hill, and on a clear day, I can see Santa Monica Bay twenty miles away. But the view to the west is a little hazy at the moment, just like my thoughts about when to walk away. Some days I know Im ready. Other days I fear Id be lost. I left college on a Tuesday night in 1975, started work the next morning, and I havent stopped. Its all I know and, whats more important, its a big part of who I am.

My wife, Alison, a freelance writer who is seven years younger than I, has just come out of the house. She beat me badly at tennis this morning. A lean, lithe youngster taking full advantage of a hobbled graybeard with two fake knees and a pacemaker. Thats my excuse, at least. She saunters over and takes a look at our bamboo sofa and asks if I think we should get rid of it and buy teak furniture instead. This is not a difficult question for me. I am not the kind of person who takes a gander at a perfectly serviceable lounge or a kitchen table or a refrigerator and wonders, on a whim, if its time to spend good money to replace it. But thats not an argument worth having, so I point out to Alison that the bamboo is all-weather and low maintenance. The latter feature appeals to me more than ever, because I can think of far better things to do with a weekend than sand and varnish furniture. Alison nods and goes back inside the house.

The house is not huge, and thats another consideration. We each like our space, and as a freelance writer, Alisons office is our house. But when the pandemic hit, and I was forced to work from home much more than usual after my office was closed for safety reasons, we bumped into each other now and then. It felt like a preview, a test of whether either of us can handle the closeness my retirement will bring. Alison would see me planted in the den, which is mere feet from her office, and ask, Are you going to be in this room much longer? God willing. Ten years. Twenty. Im not sure how much time I have left.

Fireworks explode in every direction around me, even though theres plenty of sunlight left in the day. Its been like this since Memorial Day, partly because nearly everyone in Los Angeles is a pyromaniac at this time of year. If another country invades the United States right now, were ready in L.A. We will blow any landing infantry or enemy air force to kingdom come with torpedo-sized bottle rockets, military-style M80s, and Roman candles. We are armed to the teeth this year, because people have time on their hands and are hungry for some cheap do-it-yourself entertainment, partly because sanctioned fireworks displays have been canceled. On the news last night, I watched a house not far from ours burn to the ground because some knuckleheaded amateur sparked a blaze. You never know whats coming at you next.

The symphony of pyrotechnic percussion makes me worry about our daughter, Caroline, who is out at the momentsafely distancing, she assures usbecause she is going stir crazy. Pandemics, lockdowns, teenagers. Bad combination. I didnt see her leave the house today, but I seldom do, because her departures are like prison breaks. I dont hear a sound, but I peer through the front window and see the car is gone. Shes had days where she sleeps late, wakes up mummified, and doesnt communicate until the evening rolls around. Then, when Alison and I are exhausted, she wont stop talking. God, I love her, and Im going to be in tears the day she leaves. Last year at this time we were on vacation in Italy. I wanted to take that trip because I know we are running out of time. It cant be much longer before Caroline tells us shed rather start an ant farm or do dishes than go on vacation with us. Were still good for the occasional family day trips, and were usually on a beach when school lets out and our work and school schedules free up a bit. But Im playing it safe. When the pandemic was in full force, half the deaths from COVID-19 were in my age group. If Im not burned alive by errant fireworks, itll be the virus that gets me. Maybe I should just retire today.

Speaking of Caroline, theres a letter on our kitchen table from the womens tennis coach at Occidental College. Hes interested in her as a possible recruit. This would be the perfect school for Caroline in many ways. Occidental has a pretty, tree-shaded, midsize campus and its a solid liberal arts school. Years ago, a freshman named Barack Obama was a student there. But Occidental has one major strike against it. It is roughly two miles from our house. If Occidental were to offer my daughter a full scholarship, she would probably decline and set her sights on one of the many American schools that think its okay to charge working people $75,000 a year. My retirement hinges in part on that decision and how much its going to cost. But I can guarantee you, especially after four months of forced family closeness, that Caroline is going to put more than two miles of distance between us.

Im not complaining about any of this, by the way. Life is better than good, all things considered. But its time to begin sorting things out, to the extent thats possible in the midst of strong evidence that the world is about to end. I know people my age who have already retired, couldnt wait to sign off, and never looked back. And among colleagues my age who are still working, one of our frequent topics of conversation is when to go. Im not usually one for making pro-con lists, because I tend to trust my gut more than my head. But maybe I should give it a try.

Okay, three good reasons to pull the plug now rather than hang on longer.

Number One: Ive been working full-time for forty-five years and will be almost sixty-eight at this time next year. In my parents generation, people had the good sense to go for full-time leisure at sixty-five or earlier, before they needed hearing aids, before their toenails turned yellow, and before they considered buying one of those bathtubs you enter through a door before turning on the water, so you dont have to face the impossible feat of scaling the fourteen-inch wall of a standard tub.

Number Two: Id still be young enough to do things, go places, maybe surprise myself with new interests. I like to cook, but because of my work schedule, I dont have time for formal cooking classes. Spanish classes would be nice or maybe a temporary move to, say, Barcelona, so I could finally get fluent, like my dad, the son of immigrants from Spain. Or maybe I could move to Sicily, where my maternal grandmother is from and where some towns have been offering homes for sale at a dollar each. Yes, a dollar for a house, more or less, if you agree to do some maintenance and restoration. Its seen as a way to revive dying economies in towns decimated by a population exodus. Why would I pass up a chance to take leisurely swims in the islands postcard-perfect lagoons, grow plump tomatoes in my garden, sip wine from local vineyards, and watch the sun set over the Mediterranean? If I wait too long to retire, I may not be healthy enough to do any of that.