Jan Galletta
My Life: 50s
My husband aims to retire next month, and I'm bracing for a big transition in our married life.
Fred has worked for the same employer 37 years, a special-education job he took two weeks after we got married and left Florida for what we thought would be a temporary relocation to Tennessee.
Since giving notice six months ago, he's been gleefully crossing off days on his calendar until its grid blocks resemble a gaping mouth with missing, blacked-out teeth. He's been delegating duties like a happily deranged salesman passing out free samples of stuff people likely would rather do without.
Ever since one of the clients at the special-education center learned of Fred's impending exit, he's greeted Fred (perhaps prophetically) with the question, "How long 'til you're retarded, Mr. Galletta?"
At last month's awards ceremony, a two-part affair, Fred told me his boss had said nice things about him during the daytime leg of the function. Fred bragged, "He was pretty oviferrus over me."
As I pondered the implications of that remark, my high-school Latin kicked in. I thought "ovi: egg," "ferrus: iron;" Fred's boss likened him to an iron egg? But it turned out Fred meant "effervescent."
During the event's evening segment, the entertainment included a film sketch called "The Legend Lives." It was all about Fred, who'd earlier cryptically described it as "all photographs but no video."
The film had snapshots of him grilling burgers at a company cookout, rolling bocce balls at staff fun day and hitting a drive in a benefit golf tournament. Shown on the screen were images of Fred fishing during an out-of-town conference, flipping omelets at an employee-appreciation breakfast and dozing off during a strategic planning session.
The camera had chronicled a career that made our older son, on hand for the festivities, ask, "Dad, did you ever do any work here? How come you're quitting the play-for-pay lifestyle?"
Another part of the program honored a recently deceased volunteer, whose wife said the hours that the man had contributed to the center comprised a second career that he'd preferred to his first one. She said she'd steered him into volunteering because, while she'd pledged to love, honor and cherish him, she'd never promised him lunch.
I'm not going that route with Fred if leisure time sits idle on his hands, based on the advice we got years ago from an older friend who'd left the work force. She'd said, "Whatever you do, don't tell anyone at church that you're retired, or they'll have you doing everything but baptisms and burials."
Plus, it's hard to imagine Fred's being bored. He'll never lack companionship since he already talks about himself as if an audience were present, such as when he says, "Fred wants bread," for example.
He recently bought a laptop and amused himself for hours on a Web site that had audio and sing-along lyrics to old cowboy-show theme songs. Later, I heard Fred belting out the "Bronco Layne" verse, "You've never seen a twister, mister, 'til someone gets me riled," like it was written for him.
It will take him years to view the vast collection of "Yankee Workshop" videos that his late father taped -- part of the generous legacy bestowed (instead of stocks and bonds) by Fred's stepmother.
And of course, Fred will go fishing anytime he gets out of his pajamas and isn't weighed down by such mundane matters as sleeping, eating or tackling the honey-do list. Such is how the legend lives.
E-mail Jan Galletta at jgalletta@timesfreepress.com
