Yesterday was Clif’s last day at work. His wonderful co-workers, who had fêted him royally last week, treated him one last time. They took him out for brunch at Doc Hollandaise, which makes homemade donuts to order. (Was I jealous? You bet I was! Now that Clif has retired,  we will soon be going to Doc Hollandaise for donuts.)

Retirement is one of those milestone events that makes a person think. For over forty years, Clif has worked at one job or another, all of which have revolved around social services. He worked for the state as an honest-to-God social worker. He worked as a computer programmer for various nonprofits. Finally, he worked as a database administrator for Homeless Initiatives at Maine State Housing. He’s been laid off twice, once right before Christmas when the children were young.

None of these jobs were what you would call high-paying jobs. Clif, like so many people who work for the state or for nonprofits, wanted to work at a job that qualified as right livelihood, as the Buddhists might say. Clif wanted to do good work, to make a difference, to help people. And he did. (Those who like to inveigh against state and federal workers should take the time to look at countries that don’t provide social services.)

Yesterday was also a wild tempest of a day, with a rain that was, well, lashing. A friend told me that she measured over five inches of rain. Readers, that is a lot of rain to fall in one day. In Portland, streets were flooded. Farther north, my cousin Carol posted pictures of flooded streets in Skowhegan, which is snug against the Kennebec River. People lost their power—thank goodness we didn’t—and branches large and small came down.

One large branch, in fact, came down at the little house in the big woods.  When you live in the woods, such things happen from time to time. We were just grateful the branch came down on our fence rather than on our roof.

So on his first day of retirement, Clif is going to play chainsaw man. He’ll take care of the wood and inspect the fence to see where it needs mending.

And after that? There are projects galore around the house to keep Clif busy. He also plans to work part time as a computer consultant for nonprofits, where he will continue with the good work that he has done for all of his adult life.

But most important, there will be trips to Doc Hollandaise for donuts.

On Friday, we had six cords of wood delivered to the little house in the big woods. We have a wood furnace in our basement—or down cellar, as we Mainers say—and this is our primary source of heat in the winter. (We also have electric and propane, so we are covered.)

We like to refer to the wood as “nature’s gym,” as Clif and I must stack the six cords before the snow comes. All right. In fact it is Clif who mostly stacks it. But I will help, too.

And elderly man drove the truck with the wood. Just how elderly he was I didn’t know until I started talking to him about hauling wood.

“I’ve been working in the woods since I was eleven,” he said. “Back then we used horses to get the wood out.”

“Horses?” I asked.

The man nodded. “I’m eighty years old. That’s how we did it back then.”

“You’re eighty? No way, ” I replied, and I was being completely truthful. The man looked to be in his late sixties or early seventies. It seems that nature’s gym has worked for him.

The man smiled. “I am eighty.”

“When are you planning on retiring?” I asked. Clf will be retiring the end of September, and it was on my mind.

He answered, “To me retiring means sitting around waiting to die. I’m not going to retire.”

“Well,” I said, “if I’m lucky enough to live to eighty, I hope I look as good as you do.”

“I have had a few things tinkered with—bypass, stent, and knees.”

Still, here he was, delivering our wood and not planning on retiring. Our talk then turned to where to put six cords in the relatively narrow space between our driveway and the woods. We certainly didn’t want it on the other side of the driveway, on the flower beds.

“If some of the wood goes in the driveway, then that’s all right,” I said.

“I’ll see what I can do,” the man replied.

And he did very well indeed. He delivered three loads—two cords each—and most of it was piled off the driveway. On the last delivery, I looked out the window and saw him scrambling over the wood he had previously delivered. He was trying to figure out how to dump the last load without getting too much in the driveway.

I hurried outside. “It’s all right. It’s all right. Don’t worry about the driveway.”

He smiled sheepishly. “Not quite as agile as I used to be.”

Just as he finished with the wood—some had to go in the driveway, but we still have room for the car—I took the first batch of gingersnaps out of the oven. I had time to put a couple on a paper plate and bring them out to him before he left. After all that work, it seemed to me that an eighty-year-old man deserved a couple of cookies.

“You’re leading me astray,” he said, but without a moment’s hesitation, he took the cookies.

After the man left, I thought about what he had said about retiring. For someone whose life has revolved around physical activity—he’s worked in the woods for a very long time—I can see how retirement would be a torment rather than a blessing.  I hope when it is his time to go, that he does so quickly, maybe by the woodpile as he’s gathering wood. (My friend Tom Sturtevant died that way.)

It would be a fitting end for an active man.