Empty Rooms filled with Memories

“All that had been used to make it a dwelling place, by my folks on back, by Grover and me… all the memories of all the lives that had made it and held it together, all would come apart and be gone as if it never was.”
---from Sold, a short story by Wendell Berry

The rooms were empty by the time I arrived. Except for a few heaps of trash here and there, and some stuff no one wanted, it was finished, done. The auction for the contents of my parents’ house was over. And there I stood with my sister-in-law, Joy, and my brother, Mark, who had witnessed the whole thing. Now they were exhausted, the auction (it was 107 degrees the day of the sale, forcing one of the auctioneers to the emergency room with heat exhaustion), had taken its toll on them, physically and emotionally. Moving slowly, almost painfully ambling from room to room, their eyes darting over every square foot of floor space, they searched as if still expecting to find something beautiful and worthy, something cherished that had been somehow overlooked.

But it was all gone. All that was left was empty rooms.

They looked at me with tears in their eyes like I had arrived at the ER a few moments too late and had just missed the passing of a loved one. Glancing out the back window where I used to chat with Mom on the porch swing about life, and dreams, and why mosquitoes like me so much, my eyes blurred as I choked out the words, “It looks so sad when it’s so empty.”

I then walked through each room alone, just the empty space and me. It was my way of bidding adieu to the home place. And in each room I took a mental picture. I could almost hear my imaginary camera clicking as I paused in each room. I stood in the informal dining area, and click, I captured a picture of our family gathered around the table laden with steak, baked potatoes, fried okra, and corn on the cob. We were singing “happy birthday” to one of us.

I glanced across the room and click, I was taking a Sunday afternoon snooze over there on the couch, the Sunday newspaper draped across my chest.

Then I was in the kitchen and click, there was Dad watching TV while Mom was brewing hot tea.

I walked through the den when click, I got a great shot of all of us at Christmas, exchanging gifts, laughing, and then, click, I got one last picture of my annual reading of the Christmas story. My brother is smiling as I read. He always did.

I tip-toed down the hallway and click, I caught a glimpse of Mom putting on make-up in her bathroom, then click again, and I was in my old room sleeping in my bed, back home for a visit.

In the dining room reserved for special occasions I clicked and saw us at Thanksgiving dinner, turkey and dressing piled high on our plates as we stand around the table, pausing to give thanks.

And so it was, I clicked my way through the house until I arrived back at the place I had left my brother and sister-in-law.

Tears again clouded my eyes, but not for empty rooms; I had just filled them with memories of what they always truly were: spaces where people gathered to be family. And I could carry the moments, the pictures, with me, tucked inside the canyons of my soul, waiting to be explored again for the first time--- a new time.

“I think I may come back tomorrow for one more look,” I said to my brother as we left. But I knew I wouldn’t, for there was no longer a need to return to the old place when I could always draw on the freshness of what it was and is in my heart.


Email David B.Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.Davidbwhitlock.com

Your Retirement Day May be Nearer than You Think

“Are you ready for retirement?” I asked myself that question last week at my dad’s retirement reception. Of course I’m not ready for retirement. Unless someone drops a couple of million into my bank account, it will be years before that day arrives in my life. But, preparation for retirement begins long before actual retirement. The question, “Are you ready for retirement?” has to be asked with a measure of urgency, and the sooner the better. In a sense, we have to get in the retirement mode, which is difficult for most of us. Someone said it like this: “When you retire, think and act as if you were still working; when you're still working, think and act a bit as if you were already retired.”

When we fail to plan for retirement we plan to fail in retirement. This past year millions of Americans awoke on their retirement day with some sobering news: apart from either government assistance or family support, they do not have the resources to survive their retirement years, much less enjoy the fruit of their labor. For thousands, this is the direct result of the 2009 financial collapse; for others, simple negligence is the cause.

The truth is, less than half (43%) of Americans have calculated how much they will need to retire. I’ve learned it’s much more than I thought. One reason it will take more than many anticipated is because of the simple fact that we are living longer. The average life expectancy in the US was 72.6 years in 1975; by 2007, it had increased to 77.9. For many people who will live into their 80s, 90s, and even 100s, this means they will be retired longer than they worked, says Carl Macko, CFP, president of Synergy Capital in Smyrna, Georgia. But there are other reasons, according to Forbes.com reporter Lisa LaMotta. Adult children can have money problems, which can quickly drain the parents’ financial resources. In addition, health care costs and taxes, inflation, and home repairs are all potential problems just waiting to absorb your retirement fund. Financial advisors, I hasten to add, strongly recommend not touching retirement savings to address these unexpected situations.

But, the question still remains, “Are you ready for retirement?” Let’s suppose I did win the lottery, and won millions. Would I be ready for retirement? We can have all our financial “ducks in a row” and still be “sitting ducks,” unprepared for what awaits us. Our inner lives will not suddenly be different at retirement than now. A good retirement begins with a good today.

Each today leads to another tomorrow; each day is filled with whatever we choose to put into it, which is the condition for what we receive from it. How we live each passing moment will bear the fruit we will eat in later years.

The day after Dad’s retirement reception, Dad, my two brothers and I, met for coffee. I couldn’t help but overhear a worker say at mid-morning break, “I just can’t wait for this day to be over.” I understand, I’ve had days like that. But then again, I wondered if that was her life, one day at a time.

The retirement reception for Dad was outstanding. My sister-in-law, Joy, had been there to make it happen. All I had to do was show up, and then at the close, help Dad up the steps. It was there, holding his hand, that I caught his smile again, and as he glanced my way with that smile, it was quite suddenly early Saturday morning, December, 1962. I could feel my dad’s steady hand lifting me into the air between steps as my seven year old feet, striving to keep in step with his fast pace, were lifted by the strength of his arm. Hurrying alongside Dad, left hand warm in my coat pocket, right hand secure in his, I was afraid of missing the moment, in this case, arriving at Art’s Boot Shop before he closed at noon, anxious as I was for a new pair of Christmas cowboy boots. And in that moment, looking up at Dad, I felt his smile, as he too anticipated what lay ahead.

Now on this day, 45 years later, as I slow my walk to match his hobbled, uncertain ones, I embrace that same smile, grasping the adventure of walking together. Retirement day is only the culmination and continuation of life’s crooked, meandering, and thrilling uphill climb. The walk is as much the adventure as the arrival. And retirement is just another step in the mystery of this life we live, even as it reminds us of our boundaries, our limitations, and our expiration date.

Life Matters by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is published weekly. You can contact David @ drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. or visit his website, davidbwhitlock.com.