Life in the retirement zone is a bittersweet existence for Harry Winkle and his friend Jimmy.

Jimmy retired first and furiously. At his retirement party, he eagerly acknowledged the best wishes and weak handshake from his now former boss, grabbed the tastefully inscribed retirement cup, and immediately filled it to overflowing with hops-infused amber libations. As far as Jimmy was concerned, it was the best birthday party he ever had.

Harry is a mere seven months younger than Jimmy, a fact that he enjoys sharing with anyone that will listen, “From January until May, I’m as old as dirt. Then this guy (this part entails smacking Jimmy on the back with a gusto unbecoming his age) has a birthday. He’s still older than dirt and I’m just a punk kid, again.”

Regardless of any youthful false bravado, seven months after Jimmy’s big retirement party, it was time to throw another one for Harry — and he was not as eager to settle into retirement as Jimmy had been. Harry fought “the Big R” right up until the big day and then continued to fight it for another three months as he moped and sulked on his front porch.

Eventually, Harry started to see the advantages of sitting around doing nothing but what he wanted to do — whenever he wanted to do it.

One of the things that he enjoyed doing was sitting on his front porch and arguing with Jimmy. The two refused to agree on anything and were adamantly opposed to conceding the validity of the other’s point. If they ever did, what would they have left to talk about?

“The sun’s been coming up a little lower on the horizon for the past few weeks,” one of them might say. Which one is irrelevant — on any given day, it could be either.

“Nope, the sun’s been coming up later. Three minutes later than a month ago.” The other would counter with absolute authority in his voice.

“Three minutes and thirty seconds since thirty days, back,” the first one would shoot back, as if that extra thirty seconds makes any difference to anyone. The important thing is that the two have a full-blown argument fomenting and, with luck and a little effort, it could last most of the afternoon.

One time, Harry’s 9-year-old neighbor Mandy stopped by for a story — one of the better retirement benefits for Harry. “Have I ever told you about the time I rode a spotted space turtle to the other side of the sun?” he began with a straight face and overblown sincerity.

“Couldn’t have been a space turtle,” Jimmy interrupted with the full force of his selective encyclopedic knowledge. “Turtles are too small. It would have had to be a space tortoise to be big enough to haul your wash tub sized butt to the moon.”

“It was to the far side of the sun, not the moon,” countered Harry, “and space turtles get big enough to haul wash tubs anywhere they want.”

“Turtles are much smaller than tortoises. You couldn’t get your derriere in a saddle that small.”

“I rode bareback.”

“And probably side-saddle.”

The story and the argument twisted and turned for nearly an hour as the two meandered from topic to topic in heated debate — much to the delight of little Mandy. The deliberation bounced like a radioactive pinball from turtles or tortoises, to Little Richard or Li’l Abner, from Rolex or Rolls Royce (as if either of them could ever be an expert in that debate), to Edison or Tesla. No consensus was reached, nor was one expected.

In the end, Mandy heard an amazingly unbelievable story — punctuated with questionable facts and recollections while Harry and Jimmy spent another afternoon, toiling in the fields of retirement.

 

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.