Time to Retire

By Jon Foyt

A middle-aged journalist, bereft of love, while contemplating his own retirement, investigates the suicide of a prominent member of a large active adult retirement community. Willy Herbst uncovers the dark forces playing upon the victim while exposing the skulduggery of the cabal of volunteers running the community. In his investigation, he encounters the many facets making up this new phenomenon of senior citizen culture.
Written by an octogenarian resident of an adult retirement community, the novel addresses the reality of aging, both for baby boomers and others who may be living in or contemplating living in a retirement community.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jon Foyt
• Release date: Oct 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301672721

Jon Foyt

Striving for new heights on the literary landscape, along with his late wife Lois, Jon Foyt began writing novels 20 years ago, following careers in radio, commercial banking, and real estate. He holds a degree in journalism and an MBA from Stanford and a second masters degree in historic preservation from the University of Georgia. An octogenarian prostate cancer survivor, Jon is a runner, hiker and political columnist in a large active adult retirement community near San Francisco.

Book preview

Preface

The Prophetic Billboard

When I was a little boy in Indianapolis, my parents would always pass a certain billboard as we drove home along 38th Street. The cleverly composed advertisement featured a child about my age in a nightshirt and nightcap, holding a brass candleholder with a candle burning bright.

In juxtaposition to the child’s image was a spanking new Fisk automobile tire with the straightforward caption: Time to Retire.

Today’s use of the word retire—to leave one’s employment—conveys a meaning that people fortunate enough to be employed in the 1930’s could never have contemplated. Yet, today, more than a half-century since I first viewed that Fisk billboard, countless retirees, myself included, are spending the senior phase of their lives within a retirement community.

* * *

The Relatively New Phenomenon of American Retirement

In 1776, when the United States of America was born, the typical life expectancy was less than 40 years. In those days, the only use of the word retire occurred in chess when one player, sensing impending defeat, retired his king.

By the 1850’s, the Industrial Revolution had changed Western nations, and workers were relocating from farms to factories. Younger people wanted the industrial jobs and older people, their life expectancy now extended, were considered superfluous or even worse, in the way. Consequently, they were urged to retire from the workforce.

Fast-forward to 1935 and the birth of Social Security along with government, railroad, and corporate pension plans. Suddenly, workers could visualize retirement through these new social programs. Older workers retired from the work force, thereby creating more jobs for the young.

Now, in the 21st century, aging Baby Boomers, commentators, journalists, and writers are inquiring how best to prepare—both emotionally and financially—on behalf of themselves and their readers/viewers—for the Golden Age of Retirement, the zenith of the American Dream.

Time to Retire is a novel that considers the many diverse aspects of aging and retirement through the eyes of its central character, Willy Herbst, a middle-aged journalist.

—Jon Foyt, Walnut Creek, California

Chapter One

The Hiking Club Takes a Hike

As one of the oldest and largest clubs in Sunset Gardens, an active retirement community, the Hiking Club numbered more than 200 members. In the early fall, after the mountain snows melted and before the seasonal rains began, Dusty Rhodes, the club’s leader, and a few hardy hikers, would attempt the ascent of a Sierra Nevada Mountain peak. Most club members, however, preferred more moderate excursions of 3 to 10 miles across less challenging, slightly hilly or level terrain in nearby regional or state parks.

On this particular Sunday, Dusty had planned an outing of some four miles over the eastern hills bordering the retirement community. Along the trail, the group would pass the Historic California Buckeye tree. Continuing down the other side, the hikers would arrive in nearby Sunrise City for lunch at a popular bistro. They would then retrace their steps for an afternoon return to Sunset Gardens.

Undaunted by his 85 years, Dusty had trekked most trails of note worldwide while serving as a Foreign Service officer for the State Department. He had hiked with royalty, dictators, strong men and their henchmen, drug lords and their bodyguards, as well as with clergy of nearly every faith. Each of his fellow hikers, whether leading a virtuous or nefarious life, professed devotion to regular exercise as a spiritual tonic. What mattered most to Dusty, however, was a hiker’s enthusiasm because, for Dusty, hiking represented the epitome of retirement living.

Dusty enjoyed recounting his conquest of Mount Whitney, the roof of California, which he had summited more than once in a grueling 20+hour roundtrip. On several expeditions, he had encountered snow, sometimes thunder, lightning, and rain. Years following his retirement, Dusty continued his excursions, climbing with children and grandchildren as part of an annual family reunion ritual.

This morning, as usual, the hikers gathered for juice, coffee, and pastries at The Silent Frog, an historic Sunset Gardens hangout. Before setting out, Dusty checked everyone’s hiking shoes for sturdiness and daypacks for adequate water. A hike leader must always be prepared when shepherding old folks around the wilderness, he would often be heard explaining. Dusty was adamant that club members carry hiking poles for stability on uphill and downhill trails, especially as extra support for complaining knees. In his own pack, he carried a cell phone for emergencies, First Aid items (in case of bone fracture), bug spray, an Ace bandage or two, Search and Rescue flares, and scripture from five of the world’s great religions. When asked about the holy writings, Dusty would reply dryly, With so many seniors accompanying me, I never know when I might have to offer last rites. Promoting his club in the Sunset Gardens weekly newspaper, the Clarion Call, Dusty urged fellow Sunsetters to join us in exploring the magnificent natural world just outside our entry gate.

Following their breakfast snack, the group left The Frog and headed for the Historic Buckeye tree. En route, the hikers skirted the paved paths to avoid golf carts and avid golfers intent on achieving par performance. Arriving at the trailhead, the day’s group of hearty hikers formed a circle to introduce themselves. Dusty noted their number (30) and appointed a sweep to lag behind in the event a hiker faltered or required assistance.

Please stay on the trail, Dusty admonished as the hikers began their ascent of the hilly range through live oak and redwood forests. Well into the climb, Dusty halted the group to allow members to catch their breath, drink water, and commune with Mother Nature. No need to rush, he advised, Let’s relish the view and smell the flowers. Club members paused, congratulating themselves on their uphill progress and commending Dusty for his choice of the scenic route.

It’s refreshing to get out of Sunset Gardens, Stephanie Ross commented to another hiker. While I do like our retirement community, it does feel confining at times.

Our longer forays into the desert and coastal areas offer even more contrast to this terrain, remarked Wesley Harding. That’s why our club is the best of the 200-some clubs in Sunset Gardens, he added.

As the hike progressed, conversations began to wane while club members focused both body and mind on the gradual ascent.

Hiking alongside Wesley, Stephanie asked, Did I see you at a recent committee meeting? The one that approved the purchase of all those vehicles by our Homeowners Association Board?

Ah…yes…maybe, Wesley faltered. I did some go-for work for Director George Blackburn. You see, I retired from Ford, so I know about cars. George’s in charge of buying all Sunset Gardens’ vehicles. But don’t ever call him ‘Blackie,’ Wesley added. He hates that nickname—gets real mad."

Stephanie observed Wesley’s belly tending toward overweight and commented, No nickname. I’ll try to remember. So ‘all the vehicles’ would be…pickups and—?

—Yeah, Wesley managed between long deep breaths. Pickups, golf carts…you know….

A retired elementary school teacher, Stephanie didn’t know and had little interest in the male vehicular world. Yet she responded, Yeah, I know, and quickly picked up her pace to join Dusty in the lead.

Now in front of the others, Stephanie welcomed the gentle autumn breeze. How like an emotion a breeze is, she mused. You can’t see either one, but you can feel the billowing effects of each.

With the other hikers behind them, she and Dusty trudged onward, eyeing a deer in the underbrush, watching a formation of geese overhead, and parodying the struts of an errant flock of wild turkeys.

Soon, Dusty touched Stephanie’s arm, and she followed his gaze upward. At the top of the range, he told her and the others now approaching, we’ll see the Historic Buckeye tree.

Viewed from below, the stately tree proclaimed its own autonomous verdant empire—one set of branches overseeing Sunrise City, the other reigning over Sunset Gardens. Gone with the long-vanished spring were the tree’s pinkish sweet-scented flowers. Once dark-green leaves, having fallen, now colored the trail and the forest floor beneath with a reddish amber carpet.

As the hikers rounded a bend and drew closer, Stephanie eyed a granite boulder displaying a bronze plaque that cited the tree’s historic importance. From her teaching days, Stephanie recalled how she would narrate to students the many events the ancient buckeye had witnessed through its years. Beginning with the Saklan branch of the Mi-Wok tribe of Native Americans, she would describe how Spanish invaders had wiped out the tribal people, leaving only traces of pottery, projectile points, baskets, and an occasional moccasin footprint behind. These events, she marveled, had all occurred under the gaze of the Historic Buckeye.

Suddenly, Stephanie froze in her tracks, dropping her poles and lifting her hands to her face in a silent scream.

Viewing the cause of his companion’s distress, Dusty shouted down the trail, Stop! Everyone! Don’t come any farther!

Several curious hikers approached nevertheless, disregarding Dusty’s command. What they saw was the body of a man swinging from the tree, a twisted rope knotted around his neck, vacant eyes bulging from his head.

Catching up to the group, Wesley exclaimed, I know that man! He was at the last Board meeting protesting Blackburn’s vehicle purchases. That’s Heinrich Gossard!

Ignoring the unrequested information, Dusty quickly dug into his daypack for his cell phone and deftly punched in the numbers 911.

Chapter Two

The American Mourning Dove

A warm gentle breeze blew silently through the Historic Buckeye tree. The breeze was silent because no living human was present to hear its sad soft lullaby or join its sweet song, as if a human listening was of any importance. The breeze, of course, cared naught about human acknowledgement.

High on a branch, a mourning dove issued its plaintive call, echoed by its nearby mate. Hark, Heinrich Gossard, and those who may care, the Mourning Dove doth mourn for thee. If a human had been near enough to hear, he or she might have recognized the notes of remorse in the dove’s song.

Chapter Three

The Sunset Gardens Security Protectors

The special uniforms of the Sunset Gardens Security Protectors (SGSP) had been created by a noted Milan fashion house, purportedly once a favorite of the 1930’s dictator Benito Mussolini. Any resemblance, however, to a fascist police uniform was strictly in the eye of the beholder.

A roof rack of blue and red lights connected to police-like sirens was mounted on each of the SGSP’s fleet of SUVs, patrol cars, and pickup trucks. Each vehicle’s door bore the SGSP logo—a shield with the scrolled letters SGSP, under which appeared an image of the Historic Buckeye tree.

The 911 dispatcher answering Dusty Rhodes’ distress call had alerted the on-duty SGSP operator, who, in turn, now phoned his boss. Commander, I have an incident to report.

Commander Enrique Vasquez here. Go ahead.

A body, apparently a hanging, has been discovered at the Historic Buckeye tree up on the ridge.

Damn, I’m on my way to the football game with my daughter. Do we know who it is?

The name ‘Heinrich Gossard’ was mentioned, sir, the operator added.

Has the Golden County Sheriff been called? Commander Vasquez asked.Yes, sir, came the answer.

Retracing his route to Sunrise City, Commander Vasquez alerted his wife at home and glanced at a photograph on his SUV dashboard. It showed his family’s villa, his future retirement home overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Next to the picture was a Post-It, reminding him, 2 years, 3 months.

The Commander’s pre-teen daughter, his pride and joy, seeing him look at the photo, asked anxiously, Papa, when you retire, will I have to change schools? I like my friends in Sunrise City. I don’t want to leave them.

The Commander replied as he pulled into their driveway, That’s a ways off, hija. Out you go now. I’ve got to go over to Sunset Gardens on security business. Mama’s going to take you shopping—no football game today.

But we were going to spend the afternoon together, his daughter whined.

I know, hija, I’m sorry, but there won’t be any retirement for me unless I deal with the sheriff and that nuisance, ‘HG’. Now go along.

Okay, Papa, but why are you always talking about this ‘HG’?

That, my dear, is police business. He paused. But I’ll miss being with you. Go now, Mama’s waiting The father dispatched his daughter with a tender kiss.

Chapter Four

Willy Herbst, Sunrise Sentinel Reporter

Sundays, after walking his dachshund Fritz, Willy Herbst, a middle-aged reporter, usually left his Sunrise City apartment for the stadium to watch a professional football or baseball game. Before leaving, he routinely checked his email.

It had been days, even weeks since Willy had latched onto a challenging news story. Perhaps, he hoped, the morning’s email might bring a good tip to follow up. In customary fashion, Willy dealt with each message in his Inbox, responding to those deserving attention and deleting the rest. Assuming he had opened everything, though sometimes his computer diverted certain messages to junk, Willy began planning his afternoon excursion. A familiar ding of a newly-arrived email interrupted him.

One more, Willy muttered. When he saw that the email sender was his City Editor, Carolyn Whyte, Willy was annoyed. It was Sunday, after all. Wasn’t he entitled to enjoy his Sunday football event? Sitting in the stands, he could lose himself in the contest down on the field and, during the time-outs, he might fantasize about retirement, even if it was a few years down the journalistic pike. The fact that Ms. Whyte was younger always bugged Willy. The young run the media, Willy mused, before turning his attention to his boss’s email.

Sorry to bother you, the message began. Yeah, sure, Willy grumbled. But I hope you get this message today, Sunday. There’s been a suicide at the summit of the Sunset Gardens hill range. I just heard about a 911 call. I remember you had an interview with someone from there a year or so ago—never produced a news story, I believe. You’ve been bugging me to let you write about those seniors at Sunset Gardens. So, maybe you want to have a look into this. The coroner says the victim’s name is Heinrich Gossard. Our new intern, Sally Saginaw, is writing the obituary. Anyway, if anything newsworthy turns up, email me. C. W.

The name Heinrich Gossard did look familiar. Ah, yes, Willy said aloud to Fritz, his sole household companion, I remember Gossard—he’s one of the leaders in that retirement community over the hill. Willy chuckled at his intended pun.

Hearing his master’s voice, Fritz wagged his tail and raised his long floppy ears, signaling attention.

Yeah, I interviewed Gossard, Willy reflected. That guy must’ve been in his 70’s then, maybe older. He had difficulty focusing his thoughts.

Willy’s own thoughts drifted to a recent feature story he’d read. It stated that 10,000 Americans a day were retiring. With journalistic curiosity, Willy wondered how many people were moving into active adult communities like Sunset Gardens. In his mind, Willy considered his own advance toward the promised Golden Years and suddenly wished he were younger, no longer aging. Truth be told, though, he was actually looking forward to retirement like everyone else he knew. Addressing Fritz again, Willy commented, I have to age a few more years, then added, not that many, actually.

Fritz continued his tail-wagging.

"Anyway, Fritz, that Gossard interview got canned. Carolyn said she didn’t see a news story in it. Well, maybe I didn’t