One might reasonably note the creeping fashion to malign success, the preoccupation with which is viewed as the unintended cause of irreparable harm to the maturation of young people in particular. The corporate push towards success is seen by many as an artificial objective and one without proven advantage. Success isn’t merely the attainment of a goal; it carries with it the typically suggestive hint of higher social status and – in the plainest of terms – the covert threat of failure. While it may be a stretch I am reminded of the learned observation of Lord Alfred T. Denning, Master of the Rolls, viz., a bastard is a child (a judgement considered at the time to run counter to the law). Viewing success as a bad thing still has the same cachet, somehow contrary to popular thinking. In Denning’s time it took the ingenuity of Parliament to reverse the Common Law; and likewise I suspect it will require what is tantamount to statutory authority to reverse years of tradition in our social perspective.

Before entertaining propositions in favour of or against success it is perhaps useful to ask whether it matters in the first place. I am not convinced that it does. Let’s be honest here, success is as amorphous as beauty. Never mind that both concepts could never be battened down; more importantly one has to ask what bonus would be achieved in being a “winner” of such a contest. Surely it is a hollow victory. Even if one seeks to argue that the avoidance of success is equivalent to closing one’s eyes to reality, it requires little examination to conclude that defining anything as successful is not self-explanatory but rather self-fulfilling – namely, success will be what you say or believe it is, just like beauty.

Nonetheless there persists in society a convenient model of success which we customarily apply to our superficial analysis of others. The standards of success are arbitrary milestones of achievement. It may however be a small compliment to a successful person that he or she has attained such markers of conduct and exposition. Of course one can readily pooh-pooh such liberality by noting for example that people like Angela Hewitt are clearly successful by any standard. Herein lies the rub – the difference between the invaluable rock and the polished gem. Are we not however embarking on the wrong inquiry? Quite aside from any standards which might be imposed by the “common man” I wager that Ms. Hewitt would achieve universal approbation with or without our piddling standards. That is, the cream will rise to the top whatever construct we may engage. There remains the question whether being labeled a success has any bearing whatever upon the likes of Ms. Hewitt who (while no doubt happy to have you purchase her albums) is conceivably quite unmoved by the applause and public adoration; I’m guessing that her satisfaction is more personal than otherwise. So, if the denomination of success is a feckless pronouncement one has to ask whom does it benefit? The quandary is especially disturbing when it is recognized that the bestowal of success is nothing more than an after-the-fact recognition of what already exists and which would undoubtedly have existed without the benefit of the gesture.

Stories unfortunately abound of the graduating student voted “Most Likely to Succeed” who ends by practicing death scenes off the local bridge. Being a success can become an abominable imposition. Left to his or her own devices, the successful person will normally advance with the same avidity and motivation in later life as he or she did so previously; and if not, then it will hardly be the fault of lack of recognition. It is useless to add to the list of psychiatric train wrecks another person who felt needlessly pressured to be or become a success.
If one accepts that the majority of people do not fit the customary mold of success then the further debate arises concerning the possible damage to those people who have by default failed. When precisely will the sense of defeat take hold? What are its ramifications? Is success merely a puerile gimmick that we must learn to outgrow? Does anyone really remember or care who got 95% on the history exam in public school? Is he or she truly a success who pursues the model in spite of subsequent inner turmoil and rejection? Is the mad fear of defeat something we want to teach our children? And if not, when do we tell them the gig is up?

Most of us know that the charmed existence of being a student eventually gives way to the comparatively cruel world of adulthood and private commerce. Certainly there persist some organizations and institutions which measure their chosen inductees by the strength of their report card alone. But I can tell you of many other instances where such arbitrary assessment was not only wrong but also needlessly limiting. The number of times which the gauge of success has proven to be inaccurate can only invite a reconsideration of its merit.

The way we look at people, the way we decide upon whom we love or with whom we work, is far too complicated to pretend that it depends in any realistic sense upon their success. Successful people do what they do with or without our endorsement. And I cannot fathom any reason to burden others with what amounts to an alternative cloak of deficiency. Furthermore anyone who imagines for a minute that luck has nothing to do with it is deceiving themselves. You’re neither a success nor a failure – we are human beings and have only to do what contributes to the happiness of ourselves and others.

If ever you’ve had an acquaintance in the past which though fervent at the time eventually dwindled into nothing, you may be tempted to renew it. I am not suggesting that you write a sequel to the event, just a step into the past for the sake of interest, catching up as it were. Whether the temptation is serendipitous or by design, it is a high-risk business. Primarily the risk is that what you recall is greatly removed from what now exists. Cold water doesn’t begin the describe the sensation. Alarm and disillusionment may be the unwelcome and unanticipated results. Even if the the ramifications are not ill-fated there is also the gamble that you’ll entirely forfeit all those cherished memories some of which may even have strengthened with the effluxion of time. Nonetheless if the initial zeal were genuine it is hardly dishonest to reawaken the once heartfelt enthusiasm. Besides every good love story contains an element of intrigue.

Turning back the clock – offensive as it is to both logic and nature – is for most people generally unexplored territory. Special forensic talents are required and mastery of the effects of time demands exceptional philosophical resource (essentially the avid use of charitable rationalization). It would of course be injudicious at best to imagine that the evolution of the atomic world has not wrought its metamorphosis upon all that once was. Knowing this one must be alert to the original motivations of the acquaintance. It is exoteric that youthful romantic ardour is an unreliable thermometer of commitment clouded as it no doubt was by erstwhile elemental urges. If however you can get over that provocative hump there may well have been a more profound nexus between you two and perhaps that constitutional strain can be rediscovered in the relationship.

As odd as it may sound, when it comes to people to whom we were once attracted, we often fail to take into account that in spite of the lapse of decades they may have actually had other relationships and involvements. Strangely they did not remain inert upon the dissolution of the former connection. Becoming alive to this redundancy can astonishingly spark a degree of jealousy or may at least be off-putting in spite of its illegitimacy. Such a reaction makes as much sense as suffering disappointment when attempting to fit into a dusty tuxedo that fit you twenty years ago – not going to happen! – as marvellous as it may have once appeared. What is more likely than not is that the other person has moved on to a more complicated relationship and one which is bound by years of experience and interdependence. Throwing yourself unprepared into that web may have some sticky consequences!

There is also the fundamental threat that the co-conspirator no longer harbours the same cheerful view of the former liaison. As improbable as we may imagine it to be, people are not always as captivated by us as we might prefer to believe. For this reason alone one should be cautious when reigniting the flame to portray the semblance of mere dalliance lest the perceived motivation precipitates immediate and unrequited rebuttal. Such a casual approach to the affair enables you to extricate yourself with limited exposure not to mention the avoidance of total embarrassment.

Even if you manage to make it through all those obstacles the proof of your determination lies in the reception of that hackneyed line, “You must come and visit” failing which you have hit a dead end. All the prior assurances about how wonderful it was to hear from you are for naught if those follow-up words are missing. Indeed their omission is the height of social rejection. It is an austere conclusion to a hapless adventure.

In the end you may consider it best to ignore the urge to relive the past in any respect. Why tarnish the glow? Why risk translating the experience from memorable to forgettable? Why magnify to the point of harshness the disparities that initially caused the separation? Why suffer the sanctity of your memories to follow the same course of erosion as the rest of you (remember, you’ve changed too)? Renewing acquaintances is a treacherous path and perhaps even unnatural. To fly in the face of the ordinary course of things is not only uncommon but also laboured. It may be best to wall your eyes and sigh, a private reminiscence of no consequence.

Whatever people may think about politicians and the political process, there is little that gets them talking more volubly than an election. Many constituents take an avid interest in what is about to transpire in the public affairs of our Province. Awakening one morning to the overnight proliferation of election signs at every public corner is the first taste of the bloodsport that is politics. We may be sadly reminded of the nastiness of the business when we witness the first of successive sign mutilations, spawning a debate whether the attack is that of youthful vandals without an agenda or whether there is indeed something shifty about the foot soldiers of competing delegations. Whatever the conclusion the activity lays bare the raw side of humanity, a trumpet to the battle that is to ensue.

With equal gravity and polarization the division of parties, candidates and interests follows. The normal wishy-washy discussion of one’s health and the weather is instantly replaced by adamant and uncompromising statements as plain as the teeth of an angry dog when encroaching upon its bowl of food. There is plenty of jealous nourishment here for the voter no matter how involved he or she was only days before in the machinations of the Province’s elected officials. Some electors are even prompted to display their brazen armour, sword and spear by a proclamation of intractable bias in the form of a lawn sign. Gossip is rife with innuendo about party politics, corporate bagmen and general self-interest. Social niceities quickly give way to elemental and sometimes base causes of every description. Marginal differences on issues become epic idealogical disagreements.

Frequently the political stew is spiced by the candidacy of a new face, often a younger one. This natural concession to the evolution of society nonetheless raises the spectre of stock prejudices which in their most charitable form are characterized as the conflict between energy and experience. The over-riding party mantra ensures the disparity is seldom about initiative and tradition but the creeping favour for dark hair and a clear compexion is compelling. Only occasionally is there the novelty and humour of the likes of the Rhinoceros Party; politics is largely a serious business and the erstwhile mockery of our elected representatives gives way instead to grim-faced pronouncements.

It is the privilege of the masses, much like the former Roman citizens at the Flavian Amphitheatre, to watch with greedy and sometimes barbarous delight the unfolding campaign tactics of the unctuous candidates. The spectacle is at times circus-like with particularly enthusiastic contenders taking to the street to wave like a puppet at on-coming traffic or to pretend to be your long-lost friend in front of the local hardware or grocery store on a Saturday morning. Others confine their election operations to the somewhat less contentious custom of door-to-door confrontations, a model which historically has received mixed reviews but which for some voters is the deciding factor one way or the other. In our riding we have the singular advantage of being able to attend an “All Candidates” evening which – even if you’re not dedicated to hearing the details of each political plank – is rather like the annual country fair, an opportunity for mild amusement and communion with one’s neighbours. The opportunity also affords the rank and file the chance to demonstrate its interest and determination in the political process, one to be crowned eventually with the hard-won right to cast a vote.

Until voting day however there are likely to be far more intrusions upon our private life about the pundits’ predictable results than we would prefer. The media is thrown the proverbial bone upon which to gnaw to its heart’s content. Some members of the pubic have satisfactorily aligned themselves with the process to guarantee modest employment at polling stations. When election day is at last upon us there are few who can resist the temptation to learn the results. It is the public lottery in which we all have a stake and a ticket.

I don’t imagine the phrase “semi-retirement” is a term of art having a specialized industry connotation. It is however a step up from jargon and shop talk. No doubt the expression was spawned by the business culture generally, so for example it isn’t what you’d expect to hear from a housewife in her late fifties. Apart from that limitation the scope of the observation is fairly broad, dignifying everything from the former cop who works three days a week in the local hardware store to the 90 year old former CEO of a gasoline distribution company who insists on regularly checking the washrooms of its various outlets for cleanliness. Some might argue that even those who continue on full salary and who make an appearance five days a week are already semi-retired, a more flattering description than being called redundant.

It might offend certain industrial leaders and business entrepreneurs to think about semi-retirement either because they are currently too busy even to contemplate the subject or because they consider it an affront to their capacity for productive output. The truth is that there really are people whose sole source of meaning in life is making money, which at first appears to speak to the hardness of their very soul but which in fact is probably little more than an indication of their general shallowness. Hobbies (as these often serious cerebral diversions are euphemistically called) are not developed overnight. It is much safer for the unimaginative to refrain from such adventure and to prolong the monotony of what they already know, having practiced it tirelessly since the age of fourteen when they made their first two dollars selling lemonade on weekends at the hockey rink.

For others anything approaching the description of retirement is something to be ardently desired. This after all is the foundation of the “Freedom 55” mantra which until recently plagued the work force to the point of intimidation and embarrassment, making early retirement the object of idolatry, couched in images of smiling grey-haired couples on white sailing yachts in turquoise waters off remote Caribbean islands. This is an image which hardly coincides with the reality of a deteriorating house requiring long overdue maintenance, accompanied by a crumbling and rusting motor vehicle, while the proprietors are clothed in nothing more fashionable than sweat pants and polyester. The determination to race to early retirement suffered a global shift when the sub-prime asset-backed securities began to fail in the United States. All that cheap money came at an extraordinary cost to the ambitious investors who, like the NASA officials counting the seconds after lift-off of its latest shuttle, were oblivious to the fact that it had already blown up in mid-air. It is no surprise we haven’t heard from London Life recently and that its annoying refrain is no longer universally touted on overhead signs and the internet.

Somewhere between these two extremes lies the true meaning of semi-retirement. If one removes the whimsical image of Freedom 55 from the landscape the reality is that many of Canada’s work force, whether employees, sole proprietors, directors, managers or others, are quite prepared to work until what was once considered the respectable age of 65 years or even longer. In the context of sole proprietorships, closely-held partnerships and private corporations, it is not uncommon to see the owners working into their early eighties, as seldom as one hears of it. The attrition of workers in those environments is the natural product of physical decline and the very real need to structure a transfer of both wealth and management from one generation to another before it is too late to do anything about it. Given some realistic planning the process can become a thoroughly pleasant venture, vitalized by new, foreseeable and achievable objectives. Semi-retirement becomes merely a new way of doing business, not necessarily withdrawal from it. It is less about giving up than giving in. Let’s face it, after a certain point in one’s career it is no longer fun to do anything hard. Fortunately for us when we were young, we were incapable of distinguishing what was hard from what was new, so both challenges were treated with equal magnanimity. But the generosity of one’s spirit understandably wanes with time, and there is even prudence adopting a more restrictive scope to one’s undertakings if it translates into greater efficiency. The only reason we’re inclined to trivialize our own talents in later years is because we’ve performed them so often and learned so much by doing so. Likewise casting off the complicated undertakings to others more experienced is nothing more than admission of practiced skill, not one’s own inability.

To the dedicated industrialists and money-makers semi-retirement offers a sophisticated approach to what might otherwise be viewed as mere defeat. Keeping a paddle in the water is far from putting oneself in dry dock. Most of us lack the ability to see ourselves as anything other than the robust individual we’ve always known ourselves to be; however, assuming the years have not been entirely kind, a small concession to limitation is likely not a bad idea. The enthusiasm of middle-age must eventually give way to the modification of time and maturity. Besides, how much more elegant it is to leave the room on one’s own two feet rather than upon a stretcher!

The decision to entertain semi-retirement commands as much thought and planning as it did to open one’s business in the first place which paradoxically can mean either a great deal or nothing at all. In either case it may amount to a leap of faith, which is to say there are undoubtedly adjustments to be made along the way. The former business models will no longer sustain an alteration. Whether the conviction and confidence required is any more or less than in one’s early years of business is unclear, though my personal belief is that reliance upon one’s instincts is a safer bet now than then. It must of course be admitted that current fortunes tend to buoy our more arrogant views of the future and what it has in store for us, although such prospects are really quite extraneous to the altered and pressing demands of aging. In the end semi-retirement may be only a new way of looking at an old thing. It does however have such a nice ring to it!

Evan (who hated his name even though there really wasn’t much offensive about it) sat outside the large downtown hotel on a damp concrete wall with his small leather suitcase beside him, waiting for the bus to the airport. Meanwhile he intently scratched at a piece of rampant fingernail on his right index finger. If anyone chanced to notice him as they passed by, they would have taken him for someone enjoying much the same preoccupation which attends picking one’s nose. At last he was able to catch the shard of nail and dislodge it quickly, but painfully, leaving a bubble of blood behind. He instinctively stuck his finger in his mouth to soothe the throbbing.

Looking up from his erstwhile duties, with his finger still stuck in his mouth, Evan scanned the geography about him through squinted eyes. It was a sunny July day, and it promised to be hot, though at 7:30 a.m. it was still pleasantly cool. He had already had his breakfast at the small and uninspiring restaurant in the hotel, and a good bowel movement afterwards. Because he had nothing but the prospect of the flight back to Nova Scotia, he really didn’t care much about the weather. What did it matter? He wouldn’t be here to enjoy it anyway. And once you’re on a plane and above the clouds, the weather is always sunny. Evan finally withdrew his finger from his mouth and examined the damaged keratin. Even with his finger in his mouth, Evan could never look preposterous. His incredibly thick and perpetually messy yellow hair, off-set by a summer tan which he acquired from being out-of-doors constantly or sailing, immediately distracted everyone from anything but his handsome features. His legs were unusually long, making his narrow torso seem rather wispy. There was almost something sylph-like about Evan, as masculine as he was in every other way.

It had been a short and speedy weekend as usual. He wasn’t sure how many more times he could convince himself to make what were fast becoming expensive monthly jaunts to be with his girl friend, Pippa. It didn’t help that they had had a disagreement last evening, walking back from the Gallery. It was one of those stupid arguments which are more the product of sleep deprivation than anything else, where one’s body is just screaming to be let alone and to retire. But, given enough lubricant (they had each had too much to drink at dinner), the irksomeness assumed a dimension far beyond what was merited, and before long they were blowing their stacks. He knew that. He had called her this morning (she refused to stay at the hotel last night) to apologize. She said she was sorry, too, but both of them lacked the energy to bring the matter full circle. They were drifting apart, and they knew that too.

As Evan pondered these matters, he stared blankly across the boulevard at the water fountain in the park beyond. He hardly blinked, so mesmerized was he. All his life Evan had been more visceral than cerebral, responding to life’s messages more out of instinct than rationality, much as an animal would do. Something was telling him now to flee the territory, for good. It did, however, break his heart to think that he was being so harsh with Pippa, who by all accounts was an extremely generous person and someone whom many considered to be the best thing that had happened to Evan in years. For all his charms, Evan was essentially a selfish person, and the older he grew, the more he reluctantly accepted his faults, though he knew not how to overcome them. It could nonetheless be said of Evan that he was no free-loader, and he had no intention whatever of riding on Pippa’s coat tails to redeem himself. His independence simply wouldn’t allow such a concession, no matter how useful it might be.

Indeed there had been other instances in Evan’s life when he had turned away from paths which, on the face of it at least, offered calculable rewards of the kind to which most aspire, having chosen instead something which was not only more personally digestible but certainly less “driven” by the mere prospect of monetary or social gain. The effect of such decisions was partly to distance him from society, but also to cultivate a burning and generally uncompromising individuality, sharpened by his commitment to detail in all that he did. He knew that it was that and that alone which distinguished him, so he clung to it.

Because Evan had moved about so much during his life, from one educational institution to another, his private world was oddly like a patchwork or collage, colourful but lacking in continuity. As a result, even the people in his life, as close as they may appear to have been, were for Evan easily estranged when the utility or meaning of the relationship was exhausted. It bothered Evan that he could be so seemingly callous about people, but at the same time he cushioned the sting of the observation by satisfying himself that it was best for all concerned. Evan became attached to very few things in his life, preferring to view everything (things and people) as temporary delights at best. It was perhaps for this reason that he particularly enjoyed small, expensive items, things which were possibly portable if need be, though he acknowledged he had never been compelled to put the theory to the test. Yet he often found himself interested to hear about what people removed from their burning dwelling, or how the persecuted Jews secreted some of their objets d’art or fine jewellery. This all further exemplified that, apart from very few items, everything in Evan’s world was replaceable, a concept which at once disturbed and pacified him. In one respect, it made little sense to become needlessly attached to anyone or anything, although he wasn’t entirely convinced of the propriety of such philosophy.