This is the latest in an occasional series of blog posts commenting on upcoming retirement.
Take a good look at the watch you see in this picture.
I’ll have more to say about that in a moment.
I’ve decided that I likely will be addicted to knowing what time it is even after I enter full retirement mode. My reasons are simple and quite justifiable.
For nearly 37 years — as I toiled in daily journalism — I performed under deadline pressure. As a reporter I had to get stories turned in by a certain time — or else face the editor’s wrath. As an editor, I had to oversee other reporters’ deadline performance. As an opinion page writer and editor, I always had to get my work done by a certain time every day.
I lived by the clock. I looked at my wrist constantly. Am I late? Do I have more time?
This morning, I awoke to discover that my battery-powered Citizen watch — a nice watch, but nothing gawdy — had quit overnight. The battery croaked. Oh my goodness! What to do?
I thought about it for all of about 5 seconds. Then I went to my drawer and pulled out the watch you see in this picture. It’s a very old Bulova. It’s one of those self-winders. I set the time, strap it onto my wrist, jiggle my wrist two or three times and off she goes — the watch, that is.
Mom gave it to me in 1980 after Dad died. That was more than 36 years ago, which makes the watch old just by that measure. Except that Dad wore the thing for as long as I can remember before that. He wasn’t wearing the watch when he died suddenly in a boating accident all those years ago.
Mom wanted me to have it. I accepted it with great gratitude — and I cried like a baby, too.
It still works. It keeps perfect time. I took it to a jeweler here in Amarillo to see about having it cleaned. He removed the back of the watch, took one look at it, and put it back together. Then he said the watch’s innards are too delicate, too old to mess with. “When it stops working, that’s it,” he said. “You’ll just have to retire it.” It’s been semi-retired ever since, sort of like me.
I don’t see myself going without a watch on my wrist. It’s who I am. Sure, I could tell time by pulling my fancy-shmancy I-phone out of its holster. I’d rather not do that.
I know a lot of retired folks who no longer wear watches. What’s the point? they ask. Why do I need to be anywhere? Members of my immediate family are like that. My sons don’t wear watches, either. They rely on their big-time telecommunications devices to keep them on schedule. My granddaughter — who’s all of 3 years of age! — already is becoming tech-savvy. Will she ever wear a watch? I, um, doubt it.
I’ll stick with the old way of telling time. It’s worked well for me for more than six decades. Why change now?
