1 of 3
I had it all planned. After more than thirty years serving on the faculty of a Christian college just outside Boston, I would head to the sunny Gulf Coast of Florida. My days would begin with early morning spiritual and physical activity,then perhaps some fishing, followed by four or five solid hours of professional work—writing and editing poolside on a laptop. Come late afternoon, I would head for—what else?—an earlybird special at one of the many restaurants in the Sarasota- Venice area. Then I would conclude the day at the beach enjoying those breath-taking Gulf sunsets with my wife. That was the plan.
On both sides of my family, Florida has beckoned whenever we Yerxas and Wrights have contemplated retirement. No doubt long Maine winters drove these decisions. But I'd always thought I'd buck the trend. Retiring in Florida conjured up images from Seinfeld of Boca Del Vista: senior tricycles, white belts, and Elaine pleading with Jerry's mother to turn on the air conditioning as she wilted in the heat. Not me! How could I leave the "Hub of the Universe"? I'd tough it out. Order lots of firewood. And pay some neighborhood kid to shovel me out after each snow storm.
A gently persistent wife, however, has worn down my resistance. Being a native of Pittsburgh, she has never shared my love of New England's distinctive four seasons— the mantra diehard New Englanders recite whenever someone mentions moving to warmer climates. But it's more than just my wife's lobbying on behalf of Florida. For example, the cost of the kiln-dried firewood I like to burn has jumped to about $500 per cord. And the army of youthful entrepreneurs who used to hit the streets with shovels after each winter storm has disappeared in my neighborhood. Moreover, concerns I've had about cultural and professional isolation have been allayed: with the Internet, cable, and good phone service I can remain connected to the intellectual circles I cherish, let alone still watch my beloved Boston sports teams, most of which are faring pretty nicely these days!
Baby boomers like me, I suspect, never thought it would really happen to them. Sure, we knew we would grow old someday, and we've been diligently preparing with our 401Ks and TIAA-CREF plans (more about that anon). My generation has comforted itself with the consolation— conceit, really—that if we have to retire, at least we'll be a lot cooler than our parents; we'll do it with panache. We'll plan better, dress better, and for sure we'll prove that our taste in music, while eclectic, is vastly superior. No Burl Ives, Tennessee Ernie Ford, George Beverly Shea, and Gaithers for us. From our CD players and iPods will come the sounds of Hendrix, the Kinks, Baroque chamber music, and Renaissance polyphony.
As I contemplated retirement—at least from teaching — I began to downsize my library. How many of us, I wonder, have books at home we'd be embarrassed to place on our office shelves? Would academic colleagues think less of me if they knew I read Vince Flynn and David Baldacci novels on the subway? Or if they knew I have a good number of "What If?"-type alternative historical explorations at home? How lowbrow! But I digress.
Over the years I have culled a fair number of superfluous and unwanted books from my shelves. These haven't been terribly painful exercises. The minor losses were more than compensated for by the prospect of new, more exciting replacement volumes. This time, however, it felt very different. I wasn't just pruning and thinning here and there. This was "biblio clear-cutting." I committed to keep only those books that I truly cherish, really want to read, or have some prospect of using in my post-teaching career.This hurt. I said good-bye to hundreds of books. But I also found that radical downsizing of a personal library can be instructive.
share this page
RSS Feed
