I am working on my third cup of coffee. I’m not wearing my watch on my wrist. I don’t have my phone with me. I did check the weather before I came out on the porch. It’s supposed to be another scorcher.

Max is ready to get outside and take care of business. From behind the screened window, I watch him make his pit stops. One by the first bush he comes to. One by the big rock. One down by the well house. Then outta sight. He would be ashamed if he knew I was watching. He’s embarrassed easily and prefers his privacy when it comes these kinds of personal matters.

This is my first Monday.

My buddy, Rick, has about 13 or so years on me. I asked him at church yesterday how he felt about things when he retired. He’s a Vietnam Vet, two tours as a helicopter pilot. Then decades of work in the HVAC service industry.

“What went through your mind that first day you didn’t have to go to work?” I wanted to know.

“It was strange. I felt like I was supposed to be crawling around in somebody’s attic or pushing through a crawlspace somewhere, but there was nothing for me to do.”

“Did you go stir crazy?”

“It took a little getting-used-to, but it didn’t take long to figure out how much I liked it.”

So, here I am. I’m writing at a time of day when I don’t normally write. Normally, I would be at work. It feels kind of dirty to be writing right now. Like I’m cheating. Goofing off.

I had lunch last week with some friends down in Cairo, Georgia. They run a really nice tree farm down in Grady County. They bought the last of my big containers, so I took them down to drop them off. I may have intentionally timed my visit so that we would wrap up about lunchtime. They offered to buy.

They are both slowing down a bit. Trying to work only three or at most four days a week now. Mid-seventies, and it’s time they give themselves a break.

“It’s hard to do,” Doug says to me. “We bought a nice boat. We both love being out on the water. The first day I hooked up and pulled that boat through town on the way to the lake, it just didn’t feel right.”

“He was embarrassed,” she said.

“It was a workday. I didn’t want people to see me hauling a boat around town. I was supposed to be working.”

“He’s getting better,” Pam says, “but he still feels guilty about being away from the nursery.”

I think a clean break makes more sense to me. I’d hate to be back and forth between work and semi-retirement. Seems like you’d be doing one and always thinking about the other. Fishing, thinking you should be at work. Working, thinking you could be fishing. Always caught between one and the other. Never completely free to get on with your life.

My ending was pretty simple. No banners. No speeches. We just quit work about an hour early and sat down to a nice cold watermelon and conversation about ‘remember when’. We shook hands and said thank you and said “see ya around.”

That may sound lame to you, but it was perfect. Cory nor I, either one, have much taste for fanfare. I handed over my credit card and my post office box key. My name came off the bank account. I said, “Call me if you need something.” Max and I got in the truck and headed home for the last time.

I did have a nice weekend. A celebration of sorts. It was an early 4th of July get together on Saturday with my kids and grands. It was their way of congratulating me on my retirement. There was a handmade banner with custom artwork.

“I LOVE YOU JRANDPA” in big letters. Everett likes all thing Jurassic. There are pictures of prehistoric sea creatures and dinosaurs that eat other animals. There was a little man in a red suit. Dorothy thought now that I don’t have to go to work anymore that I could be Santa.

If she only knew.

We had ribs and fixings galore. Homemade ice cream, my favorite. Emily set out a sheet cake that said “Happy Retirement Papa” on it. Then we sat out in the driveway at dusk for redneck fireworks compliments of Auntee Em and Funcle Marshall.

The reality check amidst all the celebration was that my well decided to die around 5:00. Marshall was outside with the kids doing water balloons and water gun fights when he came inside to tell me, “We don’t have any water.”

I made it to Columbus and back by 6:30. We ate supper, and the dishes piled up in a dry sink. By 8:00 we were all breathing a little easier knowing that we could take showers before going to bed. It was like the retirement gods were saying, “Don’t get too comfortable.”

Without a doubt, the biggest surprise on day one happened in the parking lot of the grocery store earlier that morning. I knew the crew was coming and my cupboards were bare. I drove over to Ingles in Woodbury. Bread. Chips. Milk. I got all the basics. I even got a box of Capri Suns for the kids.

I loaded all the bags into the back floorboard. Max was watching and wondering why I was crowding out his space. The paper towels had to go the front seat next to me. I put the buggy away and like the old geezer that I am, I shoved all the carts together that were left stranded around the cart pen but not inside it.

When I got back to my truck, I cranked up and fired up the AC. It was already hot by 9am. I was fooling with something in my console when I heard a hard-knuckle ratta-tat-tat on my side window.

When I looked, there stood a nice lady, about my age or a little older. I had no idea who she was or what was about to happen. I dropped the window.

“Good morning.”

“I hate to bother you, but are you, Paul Chappell?”

Over the years I have had a lot of people come up to me in parking lots because of the logo on the side of my truck and ask me questions about a problem with trees in their yards. Some days I feel like a traveling Walter Reeves home gardening show on WSB radio. I was ready for a tree question.

“Yes ma’am, I am.”

“The one who writes Georgia Bred?”

I was not ready for that.

“Uh, yes ma’am.”

“I just love your stories. I saw your truck and knew it might be you. I hope you don’t mind.”

She was just the sweetest lady and we chatted for 10 minutes or so. She went on to say how she hoped that retirement didn’t mean that I would retire from writing.

“No ma’am. I plan to keep writing.”

I smiled. It was a perfect day one.