I'm old, so people ask, "When are you going to retire?" By now the question is faintly irritating, but the first time I heard it and mused on the implications, some memories awakened:
Responding first — and alone — to a grass fire and nearly tripping over an elderly woman engulfed in flame with a rubber boot melted to her leg.
Pulling into a rural address on an icy December night to find an attached two-stall garage bursting with fire, two vehicles burning inside and vinyl siding sagging off the gable of the house. Thinking the place is a goner, then facing the owner — bandaged after recent surgery — standing forlornly in the snow and imploring me, "Please save my home."
In choppy water off the Florida Gulf Coast in the wake of Hurricane Ivan, boots slung around my neck as I ease over the gunwale of a Boston Whaler into the surf, wading ashore on Santa Rosa Island, scaling the sea wall and being startled by a dead rattlesnake. Then surveying the stunning devastation beyond the serpent and wondering how to begin.
High over the remorseless crags and unbroken forest canopy of the Bitterroot Mountains in north Idaho, riding a helicopter running low on fuel, and recognizing — again — the utter neutrality of bad luck.
And so on etcetera over the course of 37 years.
"When are you going to retire?"
I answer truthfully, "Don't know." One person added, "You should, you've earned it." Well, have I now? Earned it? Maybe, but consider the definition.