I Grew Up to be a Walmart Greeter

I didn’t worry about what I would do in retirement.  I always knew I could be a Walmart greeter.

But my husband fretted about me as the date drew near.  He feared that after I left my prominent, powerful position; when the bright lights dimmed and the glory faded, that I might retreat to what he called “dark times.”

Dark times would be characterized by fuzzy slippers and fuzzy teeth, devotion to daytime TV,  bouts of nostalgia, and yearning for the good ol’ days of chaperoning dances and monitoring the cleavage of teenaged girls determined to show it. 

Did I mention I was a high school principal?  Oh yeah.  Good times.

Actually, I loved my job, the students especially, and the work in general.  But after 30 years, I was not sad to leave it behind.

Still, along with my husband, I did begin to wonder how I might spend my days when they were wide open, up to me, and demand-less.

Then I saw a piece on the news about a man in Berkeley who was retiring from a position he had created for himself after he retired. 

He might have been an accountant, or a mechanic.  It doesn’t matter.  Whatever it was, he did it for 32 years, collected his gold watch, and went home. 

Then, and this is key, he designated himself a waver.  He must have dreamed of it for a while before he put his plan into action.

You see, he lived on a busy stretch of road in Berkeley where Highway 13 dumps onto city streets.  So every morning and evening, during rush hour, he stood on the sidewalk in front of his home and waved at the commuters.  He smiled and waved.

A simple thing.  A small thing, but a big thing.  His modest gesture said things those folks might have needed to hear:  I see you.  You seem alright to me.  You’re worthy of my attention.  Good luck out there.

And they waved back at him, the commuters.  Many of them did.  They broke from the trance of their routines and made eye contact and waved.

For 25 years he stood there. 

And consciously or not, those travelers looked forward to seeing him.  Maybe in the beginning, when they first saw him there in his dungarees and plaid shirt, they had a question in their minds about him, but it was a good question.  Something like, “I wonder why he does this?”  “What does he get from waving to everyone?” or  “What does he get from waving at me?” 

I’m pretty sure that if at first they dismissed him as odd, or eccentric, those assessments gave way to an appreciation for the comfort of seeing him each morning.  Full of goodwill.  Asking for nothing.  Like your grandpa when he showed up for your swim meets.  Someone who was glad to see you for no other reason than there you were, and you were you. 

Now that my husband is retired, we watch the morning news together.  When the traffic report comes on and a map of the city’s commute arteries fills the screen showing tangled intersections and ribbons of red where sig alerts throb, my husband delights in his carefree circumstances, cup o’ joe in one hand and the Chronicle in the other.  He toasts the screen with glee and says, “You poor bastards!”

The Waver wasn’t thinking that.  He didn’t stand there for 25 years to rub it in ~ you’re going to work, and I’m not!

No, he wasn’t like that.  I’m sure of this because when he decided to retire from waving, throngs of commuters slowed down to wave one last time, or honk, or to tell the reporter how they’d loved him from behind the wheel.  They knew he was a good guy.  They would miss him.  He made a difference.

I want to make a difference and that man in Berkeley showed me how.  The job matches my skill set nicely.  

And now, as it turns out, in these times that feel kind of dark, these days of sheltering-in-place, of masks and gloves and ‘keep your distance, buddy,’ a greeter might make a difference.  I think I’ll give it a try.

Maybe I’ll see you on the pedestrian path in front of our house.  Lots of folks are taking advantage of the sunlight, walking by. 

I’ll give you a wave and a smile.  You seem OK to me.