A friend of mine is retired, but his wife isn’t, and he says that occasionally provides him a source of amusement .

“She gets on me because I don’t know what day it is,” he says, “and I tell her, ‘I’m retired. As far as I’m concerned, every day is Saturday,’ and that gripes the hell out of her!”

With that in mind, here’s an e-mail a friend sent me:

A Retiree’s Thought

My wife said, “Whatcha doin’ today?”

I said, “Nothing.”

She said, “You did that yesterday.”

I said, “I wasn’t finished.”

——————

Since we’re on the subject of maturity, I get to read my friend Maude McDaniel’s column before you do and invariably find myself agreeing with what she says about it.

Today is no exception. Her thoughts about the uncertain benefits of extending human lifespans to an unnatural length reminded me of a recent conversation I had with a buddy who is also 60ish.

A couple of people told me he had been looking for me to ask me something, so I asked him what it was.

He thought about it and said he had wanted to talk to me, but couldn’t remember why.

I told him that was OK. If I happened to think of it, I’d remind him.

He said that would be fine.

——————

If you didn’t understand that exchange, it’s probably because you don’t have enough years on you. As Earl Johnson, my old landlord from Morgantown, once told another guy who roomed with him, “Go ahead and laugh. You’ll be old someday.”

Along those same lines, a number of folks who are my age and older have said they appreciated last week’s discussion of spanking and could relate to it.

One told me about a mutual friend of ours — we’ll call him Tom — who retired from the teaching profession and frequently returned to the classroom as a substitute. (My old mentor Frank Calemine did the same, but gave it up for good after a little girl brought him an apple pie and told him, “You taught my great-grandmother in school, and she says that’s your favorite.”)

“This kid was acting up and Tom couldn’t do anything with him,” my friend said, “so he told the kid to go to the principal’s office and bring back the paddle.

“Back then, in West Virginia, you had to let 12 hours go by before you could spank a student. Can you imagine what that would be like? Having to wait all that time, knowing that in a few hours you’re going to be paddled?”

The kid told Tom he couldn’t spank him for 12 hours. It was the law.

“I’m retired,” Tom said. “They can’t fire me. Now, get yourself down to Mr. Whatshisname’s office and bring me that paddle, because I’m going to show you the fastest 12 hours you ever saw!”

I once watched a televised interview with an inmate who had been on death row in France but lived to tell about it because capital punishment was abolished in that country in what for him was a most timely fashion.

He said the condemned were never told what day they would be going to the guillotine. Only when the hallway lights suddenly came on at an unusual hour in the morning did they get a hint of what was coming next, and it wasn’t breakfast. For that reason, he wound up sleeping all day and staying awake all night.

Imagine that.

The prospect of punishment can be almost as bad as the punishment itself, which is why my cousin Craig started to cry while Aunt Frances was chasing him and his sister Cyndy around the dining room table.

Another friend said she read that and remembered chasing her son around the table with the same purpose in mind.

“He was 10 or 12 at the time,” she said, “and we got to laughing so much I had to cancel the program. And that was the end of spanking in our household.”

That’s about how it was the last time Uncle Abe took Cyndy to her bedroom and applied his belt to her backside.

“Even though you’ve hurt me,” she said through her tears, “I still love you.”

She said Abe dropped the belt onto the bed, walked out of the room without a word and never again laid a punishing hand upon his children or anyone else.

Funny, isn’t it? Sometimes, it’s the kids who teach their parents.