goodbye: interjection. A concluding remark or gesture at parting.
The sadness wasn’t overwhelming. It wasn’t the kind that buckles a person at the knees. I wasn’t even brought to tears. Instead, I noticed it hanging around the periphery of my being. It was kind of like when you notice an odd smell in the air and are unable to identify its strangeness or where it is coming from.
It first came upon me last night while lying in bed, awaiting sleep. Why am I feeling sad? I feel like I’m saying goodbye. The thoughts, coupled with the sadness, nagged at me. Goodbye to whom? To what?
The sensation was foreign as there was nothing extraordinary or outlandish taking place in my very ordinary life. That is, unless I consider the fact I retired a little over six months ago, and I’m still in the throes of adjusting. It has been a drastic change—I am no longer at the beck and call of a clientele to tend their gardens or clean their homes.
I logged twenty years in my self-employed gardening business. My personal vehicle was also my company vehicle. I owned two Ford Ranger pickups during that time. I called the first one, a snazzy red, “My Workhorse.” It gave out at 250,000 miles and was replaced by another, the pretty blue one currently in my possession.
I spent hours in my truck driving to and from job sites. The majority of the over 200,000 miles I drove were solo, with no companion. The radio was set to my favorite radio station, the seat positioned just for me. The driver’s seat was a place of meditation. I spent important time there, often while at a stop light during rush hour traffic, communing with God.
The pickup accommodated my tools, the mower, fertilizers, plants, soils, and all other sorts of things connected to a gardening business. Backing a trailer has never been my forte’. I needed a truck to maintain my work schedule.
May 31, 2022 marked the end of “The Traveling Gardener.” It passed without fanfare, balloons or celebrations. I just stopped going to work. Other people were called in to fill my place. I was raised with the belief that work has a moral value, making me a person of worth. Adjustment has not been easy.
Time—and timing—are gifts. Summer arrived and with it the opportunity to work in my own garden. For all those years, the landscape on the corner of Echo Hollow Road and Wilhi Street was the picture of “The cobbler’s children have no shoes.” After a long day of gardening for others, I was too tired. It shouted “Neglect!”
It took a while, but I was finally able to mentally wean off the internal schedule I had for years: Monday was always Lucille's day, Wednesday was for Barbara, and every Sunday found me at the law offices. Old habits die hard. Life began taking on a sense of freedom.
There was one glaring problem: the odometer reading of 152,000 miles on my blue 2008 Ranger. The truck felt unreliable. While working, I drove around a confined area, within range of a tow truck and my mechanic. I wasn’t comfortable driving it far from home.
I wanted a vehicle that gave me the freedom to go beyond a very small radius--and the space to accommodate more than a single passenger. Decision made. I purchased a newer SUV with a warranty. And a back seat.
Selling my truck outright rather than trading it in was a practical decision. The car dealership offered me less than half of what they would sell it for. I wear a variety of hats, but being a used car salesman is not one of them. A friend who is a savvy car person agreed to broker a deal for me.
After living life as a gardening vehicle, the truck needed a thorough washing and cleaning--a task at the top of my “Things I Do Not Like To Do” list. Two young men washed and detailed it for me so it would be presented in its best light.
I gathered maintenance records, the title, and proof of insurance and then drove it to my friend today, never to see it or drive it again.
Coming back home with my personal Uber driver, the sadness settled upon me again. This time I understood. The truck represented a large part of my former life. The work provided a means of financial support after leaving a marriage, making it possible for me to pay my bills and be self-sufficient. It also filled my days with activity and social contact.
I left the final remnants of that phase of my life behind today. It was a “Goodbye”—not only to an old friend, my daily sidekick, but what was. What was is no more.
It is physically impossible to look forward and behind at the same time. I walked away both literally and figuratively. I’m not looking back.
What lies ahead? I have no clue, but I am moving forward. And I’ll be doing it in a spiffy-looking car that doesn’t drive like a truck.
".,,but one thing I have laid hold of: forgetting what lies behind
and straining forward to what lies ahead..."
Philippians 3: 13 NRSVUE