FIRST PERSON

The Road to Retirement: Not This Year

An administrator who considered giving up his job finds the decision made for him

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By J.C. CREIGHTON

Last winter I thought I was ready to retire from my job as director of grants at a small university in the upper Midwest. I wrote a column for The Chronicle outlining my reasons: shrinking memory, decreasing tolerance for tedious meetings and difficult colleagues, growing interest in grandchildren, increased consulting opportunities.

Responses to that column were interesting. Several readers e-mailed encouragement. One had retired early from a high-stress administrative job and never looked back. Another liked retirement a lot — camping in the Colorado mountains, research into the history of his family's small town in Kansas, writing for historical magazines, occasional presentations. His wife had trouble adjusting to their increased togetherness, but separate trips were easing the tension.

One former administrator had cut back to a half-time appointment, the model I hoped to follow. He found that he worked a good deal more than half time but still enjoyed the increased freedom. A former colleague of mine, with whom I discussed the idea, expressed caution, however: "I've known several people who have gone half time," he told me, "and all of them wound up working almost full time for half pay. Don't do it!"

A couple I know, who recently retired from faculty and administrative positions at a research university, said getting away from your campus town is a good idea. Shortly after retiring, they moved to Japan, their area of research. They continue to enjoy the prestige they had earned through years of collaborations and sabbaticals with Japanese institutions, and they don't have to witness the foolish decisions their successors make on their former campus. Their tale reminded me of a principle I learned years ago from a career counselor: When you announce your departure, you're dead meat; it's wise to get out of town before you start to stink.

The most interesting response came from my 94-year-old mother. "What do you know about retirement?" she asked. Not much, but neither does she. Mom left her full-time job as a commercial artist relatively early but worked as a freelancer until just a few years ago, although her work commitment decreased as she aged.

One of the toughest issues for me has been going public on my campus with my intention to retire. Colleagues occasionally ask me when I might pull the plug. I usually dodge the question. Why? Partly because I'm naturally reticent, but mostly because I don't want my work conversations derailed by questions about termination dates, annuities, Medicare, and other geezer topics. I'm a 64-year-old geezer, and those topics are certainly relevant to my life, but I'd rather talk about grant proposals, thank you very much.

Besides, what if no one cares? Of course I think I'm almost indispensable — I'm a one-person grants office, and no one else on the campus knows much about what I do or how I do it. So far the few senior administrators I have confided in have encouraged me to keep working. But what if someone says, "Sorry you're leaving — can I have your budget and your office?"

Alas, all of those concerns are suddenly moot. Our country's banking system is flirting with collapse, the stock market acts like a Slinky on an escalator, and I'm afraid to look at my retirement funds — one-eyed peeks at the most recent quarterly reports show five-figure declines. I don't think I can afford to retire — not this year, anyway, and maybe not for a very long time. What's more, the real-estate market in our area tanked a year ago. So much for getting out of town.

No one my age has experienced this much financial turmoil in the United States. Talk in the hallways is genuinely scary: Gray-faced economists trade their parents' or grandparents' horror stories from the Great Depression; aging counterculturalists say it's time for the revolution at last; young faculty members wonder if they will ever get tenure at a state-supported institution like ours. Who knows what will happen?

I have to remind myself daily that those of us who work in higher education are quite fortunate compared with many. My state's economy isn't the greatest, but it's relatively stable. I'm sure university budgets will shrink somewhat, but that happens every few years, and we're sort of used to it. Besides, the grants office is one of my university's few profit centers, and the proposals I write produce money via indirect costs that more than pay my salary and benefits. I think my job is safe.

And I still have faith that the markets will recover in time, the economy will grow, and our pension funds will be replenished. I'm less confident about the housing market, but at least we own our house and can stay in it indefinitely.

Most important, my job is still satisfying enough, and some of it is downright enjoyable. I still have to work with dopes and klunks — part of my angst a year ago — but I've been declining invitations to serve on search committees, task forces, and other voluntary assignments, so I can minimize the pain.

Murray Sperber's recent column in The Chronicle was instructive. He retired from Indiana University at Bloomington to the San Francisco Bay area a few years ago and was delighted, at first, to ditch the day-to-day grind of faculty life. But after a while he had a hard time filling his time; being on permanent vacation became boring. Last year he was a guest speaker in a professor's graduate seminar at the University of California at Berkeley. It went well and he enjoyed it, so he leaped at the Berkeley program's offer of a long-term, part-time teaching appointment. Now he's happily filling some of his time with meaningful work, and his off days feel like real vacations.

A friend and colleague who just turned 65 runs a nonprofit higher-education organization in Washington. She loves her work but has a time problem: "I'd just like to work less," she told me.

I can relate to that. Even a few extra days here and there would make a difference. Perhaps I can cut back from working 12 months a year to a nine-month contract, with some of the time off in the summer. If I reduce my contribution to my 403(b), I can probably maintain my income. Maybe I can even talk my administration into using the salary savings to hire a part-timer in my office. That will help me avoid the trap of working full time for half pay.

In the meantime, I'll see my grandchildren on weekends, burn vacation days consulting with other universities, and start pestering my boss about a nine-month appointment. And when people ask when I'll hang it up, I'll say, "not this year."

J.C. Creighton is the pseudonym of a director of the grants office at a small Midwestern university.