Confessions of an Accidental Grandpa

I said, “I’m retiring,” and I figured life would slow down into something like a long weekend that never ends. I imagined coffee in the morning, naps in the afternoon, maybe writing a few stories, and watching the sunset in the evenings.

Sounded downright civilized. Then—bam!—before I knew it, I was sitting on my front porch every day, wondering, “When exactly did I turn into Granddad?”

Now, don’t get me wrong. My grandfather was a fine man, steady as a fencepost in a storm.

But I never pictured myself becoming him. I thought I’d stay somewhere between cowboy, reporter, radio announcer, and desert rat. Instead, I’ve somehow taken up the role of neighborhood porch-sitter, armed with coffee and an opinion on the weather that I’m entirely too eager to share.

At least, sitting out front has its advantages. Gives me a chance to wave at folks passing by.

I used to do a lot of visiting back when I reported the news in Virginia City. Four years of running around those streets, notebook in one hand and a cold beer in the other.

Most of my conversations back then happened in saloons. You learn a lot about a town from the barstools, and people will tell a reporter all sorts of truths after their second whiskey.

But you take away the saloons, and a man has to find new avenues for conversation. That’s where Mary, the bus driver, comes in.

Mary and I have been waving at each other for years. Every morning when she drives past, I give her a wave.

In the afternoon, sometimes another wave. That was the extent of it—just neighbors on different schedules acknowledging each other’s existence.

But now that I’ve got time to sit on the porch and notice things, we finally spoke more than “hello.” Turns out she’s got a sense of humor sharper than a barbed-wire fence.

She handed me some Mexican candy one day—something bright and spicy that nearly set my tongue on fire. I, in return, gave her the dot-com to my blog. Between you and me, I definitely got the better end of the bargain.

It’s funny, though. That little exchange made me realize something.

Retirement doesn’t have to mean shrinking into silence. It can mean new friends, new stories, and new laughs. They might not come with the background noise of clinking glasses and ragtime piano, but they show up all the same if you keep your eyes—and your porch—open.

Still, I’m wrestling with this “Granddad” business. My actual grandfather had a tie, a fedora, and a slow shuffle that said he wasn’t in any hurry to get anywhere.

I catch myself doing porch duty in a ballcap, tennies, and a sigh that sounds suspiciously like his. I even have a favorite seat, just like he did, with the permanent butt-shaped groove that proves a man’s been doing his thinking there.

The shocking part is how natural it feels. One day you’re chasing deadlines, the next you’re keeping watch over the neighborhood like it’s your kingdom.

A dog walks by with its humans, and you wave. Someone asks how you’re doing, and you launch into a five-minute weather report as if you’re the local channel.

Maybe becoming Granddad isn’t such a bad thing after all. He had time for people.

He never rushed a story, never missed a chance to share his coffee, and always knew who drove which truck. He was the kind of man who made the world feel smaller, friendlier, like a front porch was enough to build a community.

So maybe the truth is, I didn’t turn into Granddad. I just caught up with him.

And if you happen to drive by and see me waving from the porch, don’t be shy. Pull over, I’ll have some coffee waiting, like Mary’s got more of that Mexican candy tucked away.