Independence Day
April 2002

To most Americans, Independence Day means flags, hot dogs and fireworks at the beach. But this year, my husband Jim and I are celebrating a different kind of independence.

In 1992, Jim, had a kind of midlife crisis. He'd just turned 40. The comic book store he co-owned for 16 years with his partner, Joe Ferrara, had gone through some upheavals, most notably (and literally) the Loma Prieta Earthquake of October 17, 1989. Although Jim and Joe opened their doors for business the day after (without electricity, writing up receipts by hand, racking up $100 in profits for the day), their building was condemned. By Thanksgiving, they were forced to move into one of the now-notorious tents (er, "pavillions") hastily constructed over the parking lots along Cedar Street to accommodate the businesses who lost their Pacific Avenue buildings in the quake.

It was freezing in the tents in November. The porto-potties stationed right outside their door lost their quaint charm real fast—especially on clean-out days. More than once during the next two years, kids attempted to burgle the store by slicing their way through the tent walls, while Jim & Joe waited and waited for the long-delayed commencement of downtown rebuilding. On top of all that, Jim would come home at six-thirty in the evening and spend hours outside on the deck pursuing his newfound passion—painting. When faced with the prospect of moving yet again to another tent, in advance of still another move to a permanent location further down the road, Jim had had enough. It was time for a life change. He decided to "retire."

As midlife crises go, there are worse things a guy can do than retire, most of them involving turbo-charged motor vehicles and blonde women named "Bambi." Still, the very word "retired" conjures up images of cheery white-haired seniors playing Bingo in a condo in Florida. That's not what Jim had in mind. We knew we couldn't afford to stop working. It was the quality of the work (and, hopefully, the quality of the lifestyle) that Jim hoped to improve in his transformation from shop-owner to working artist.

He went about it very methodically. Business had been good before the quake. Our debts were all paid, and we have no children to put through college. He worked out a five-year buyout plan with his partner, through which Joe would own the business after five years of payments. If, at the end of that time, Jim could not make a living on his own, he was fully prepared to go out and get another job.

That was ten years ago. And apart from recurring store nightmares (in which he can't remember how to work the register, the doors won't lock, or he can't find the cash drawer), Jim has never looked back.

More pertinent to me were the adjustments we had to make on the home front. My initial giddy reaction to Jim's plan, "Gee, he's going to be home all day," speedily morphed into a dire, "Eek, he's going to be home ALL DAY!!!" As a writer who has always worked at home, I was completely spoiled by having the place all to myself. I could work, or not, take a walk, read a magazine, or goof around with the kitties whenever I felt like it, all at my own pace.

But Jim is of sterner Midwestern stock. He likes lunch at noon, for instance, and I had to adapt. Then there was the noise factor. I don't go in for mood music when I write; deathly silence is my preferred MO. If some guy on a construction site six blocks away is playing a rock radio station, I freak out. (It's not that I mind rock, it's just that I inevitably find myself singing along.) Jim is not exactly Paul Bunyan, stomping around the house and rattling the windowpanes, but he does like to listen to music when he paints. Some sort of compromise was in order. Now, he only plays classical music in the mornings when I'm writing. Choral music is okay, too, as long as its suitably ancient or foreign; anything sung in, say, Latin, medieval French or Estonian defies even my ability to chime in.

Of course, we've all heard horror stories about men who retire from a lengthy career at 65, and have no clue what to do with themselves away from the job. They drive their wives crazy, following them around the house all day, expecting to be entertained, or, worse, giving their less-than-grateful partners the benefit of their wisdom on ways to make their household chores more efficient.

The difference in our case is that Jim did not so much retire from something as to something— a life in art. He went from a job he'd always enjoyed, but outgrown, to work that he loves, and gives him plenty to do. Make no mistake, it takes hard work and discipline to follow your bliss, and there are no guarantees. There are no company pension plans, employee benefits or employer-paid insurance, either. But what we lose in security, we make up for in the satisfaction of living the life we want, right now. And that's worth a firework, or two.