If I were in the headline-writing business, and many of my former editors are in agreement that it's a good thing I am not, a suitable choice for this column might be, "How can we miss you when you won't go away?"
Before my retirement on Aug. 24, I agreed to write one column per month until either I or the Times, or, more importantly, its readers, become tired of it, and this is the first of those efforts.
Among other things, I think I might be able to chronicle a process that I spent more than 30 years watching in others, that of making the transition from work to retirement. It is as process that some have found traumatic and some joyful.
I can't be sure yet, but I think I am leaning toward the joyful end of the spectrum.
The truth is that the weeks immediately before my retirement were filled with parties and outings featuring people who were either sorry or glad to see me go, and the three weeks immediately afterward were spent preparing for and taking a honeymoon trip that had been postponed for 18 months as my wife began a new career.
So, unless most retirements begin with a week trying hard to discover exactly how many places there are in Amsterdam, The Netherlands, to party, (I lost count at 25 . . . okay . . . I'll admit it . .. I lost count several times before that) or taking in the quiet scenic beauty of Ireland, then my experience to date hasn't been typical.
The trip was sort of a roots-finding expedition.
First some Dutch friends drove us to Cadzand, the tiny Island community in the extreme southwest corner of The Netherlands from which my ancestors, at least some of them, came.
I had expected some kind of "Kunta Kinte, I am HERE!" moment reminiscent of Alex Haley's Roots, but it didn't happen. I have always had that feeling with Amsterdam, where my ancestors stopped over for a generation or two before coming to the United States, but Cadzand, a stone's throw from the border with Belgium, is a small village with a few houses and shops and a windmill, and a nearby equally tiny beach resort.
A few days later, as we drove down the driveway to stately Ashford Castle in County Mayo, Ireland, my wife leaned over to me and said, "so far I think my roots are kicking your roots' butt."
I couldn't argue.
The castle, now a five-star hotel, is terrific, although a little too quiet, stately, and, okay, classy for our tastes, but we found some real fun a short cab ride away in a village where we, anxious to hear authentic Irish music, waited for two hours for the band to show up at a bar, only to find out that it was a country-western group.
I loved the Irish people who were, without exception, helpful and friendly and cheerful - even more so after I caught on to the trick of using my wife's surname, Kennedy, rather than my own to make reservations.
Ireland, it turned out, is a great place to recover from Amsterdam, but, after innumerable pints of Guiness stout and a lot of lugging luggage around, I have to say that Dade City is a pretty good place to recover from Ireland.
I swore when I retired that I would never, repeat, never, be one of those people who say they are busier in retirement than they were in their working lives, even though friends like Margaret Longhill, the long-retired college professor who is the grand dame of Florida folk music, seem to be thrilled at maintaining dervish-like activity levels.
I didn't retire to be busy.
We don't have a honey-do list at our house, because this honey is incompetent at doing most of the things that appear on those lists. I don't mow, trim, paint, fix, lubricate or disinfect anything and am not trusted to.
I retired to goof off, and as soon as I am finished with my list (car servicing, bill-paying, getting to the gym, writing thank-you notes, going to the grocery store, commencing the war on fire ants and bathing (!) the cats) that is exactly what I am going to do.
