Alan S. Oser

Whenever I am asked the embarrassing question, “What are you doing with yourself in retirement?” the response that flashes instantly to my mind is “Neatening up.” Or, sometimes, “Keeping things in order.” Or perhaps, “Looking for things” (although this idea normally comes a split second after “Neatening up”).

Now, this is not what I say in answer to the question. What I say at present is that I am organizing a music festival, which I am, and also doing a little writing. Both are true, but privately it seems to me that something else is even truer: I am always either looking for lost items, or straightening up. It seems necessary to get everything in order before I can move on to weightier tasks.

Where does this urge come from? I wonder when and how it began, and what it signifies.

It may merely serve as an excuse to postpone “moving on,” words that to me imply accomplishing something useful. Neat rooms do not qualify. “Accomplishing something useful,” to me, implies working, which means that gratification, if it comes at all, is delayed. Neatening up is too mindless to be considered work, and its gratification is immediate, if short lived.

Neatening up also sets me off on a mindless search for additional instant gratification through more neatening. The potential for straightening up, for tossing unwanted effects, for rearranging what remains, is infinite in my house. But this is not escapism. It is something deeper and more insidious.

And it’s my mother’s fault.

My mother taught me at the age of 8 how to help her make beds. I learned how to make French corners, and I got a bang out of it. Do kids make French corners anymore? Do they know what they are? Do they make their beds at all?

In a well-made bed, a small portion of the loose-hanging sheet at the end of the bed is raised and tucked in. In my day there were no form-fitting sheets. So the French corner was applied both to the top and bottom sheets. Once applied, the rest of the bottom sheet still hanging loose would be tucked in. When applied to the top sheet, the rest of the sheet would be allowed to hang loose. The French corner was also applied to blankets.

While other children were honing their skills in stickball, dancing or card tricks, I was learning how to make the bed. I was quite skillful at it by the age of 9.

These and other parental teachings leading to neat habits never entirely left me during the decades of breadwinning that followed. Many were in hibernation, but others I steadfastly practiced. I still make beds expertly, with finely turned French corners. What is different now is the satisfaction I take from it. And that is depressing. Somehow I feel that pleasure should not come from so humble an activity as neatening up.

The picture hangs crooked. I straighten it. I stand back and admire it – not the picture, but its straightness.

I look in the refrigerator and find that the milk cartons have been carelessly left standing on an angle on the top shelf. My wife will never learn. I straighten them.

I try not to let her near the sink while dirty dishes are cleared from the table. I want those dished stacked neatly before they are consigned to the dishwasher. Stand back, woman. Stacking is a man’s task.

And look how beautifully my clothes are hung and my ties are arranged in the closet. Notice that all the red ties are together, and the blues. I treat my ties with respect. They nestle close to their brothers in color.

Meanwhile I am frittering away my retirement. Little things have become more important than big things. Little things are the big things. I have abandoned the motto, “Who’s to know tomorrow if the bed was made today?” which guided me from day to day during my working years. Now the answer is, “I am.”

To relieve the distress that this realization induces I have found it necessary to come to a new understanding of what constitutes a “big” or a “little” concern, one appropriate for my advanced years. It used to be a big matter to fulfill serious commitments to employers and fellow employees, to do well the job I was getting paid for. It was a little matter to keep my desk tidy. Lost keys did not destroy my day when an angry boss awaited me in the office.

Now it is a big matter to keep life running smoothly, free of distress, conflict, tension and the other afflictions of a normal working life. But also dangerously free of its satisfactions. An orderly room and closet can take a retiree only so far.

To revive these afflictions and induce the deeper satisfactions they may ultimately bring I recommend involvement in a group activity with worthwhile purposes. An election campaign on behalf of an underdog candidate is one possibility. Joining the local school board or community organization is another. In my case, I have found it almost sufficient to get myself elected to the board of directors of my condominium, and take charge of a lobby redecoration as chairman of our operations committee. I rekindled the afflictions of working life by participating in the selection of sofa fabric.

Then there’s my music festival. It has the worthy goal of giving hardworking, under-recognized, talented composers from foreign countries a chance to be heard in the United States. This effort has involved me in fundraising, in which I have no experience. It is touch and go whether I will be able to raise the money to cover all the commitments I’ve made. That realization induces the familiar stress of the working life.

Clearly I’ll always be able to find afflictions. But life does run more smoothly in retirement, and the French corners help.