I turned 65 years of age two days ago.
For the past year or so, several people have asked me when I am going to retire.
My response usually is, “retirement? What’s that?!?”
In 1969, my grandfather, Henry Horn, retired at age 65 after working 50 years for the University of Nebraska in their power plant.
In 1991, my father, Clair Horn, retired at age 61 after devoting 39 years to Norden Laboratories in Lincoln.
I plan to outwork them both.
At least age-wise.
Last Friday evening, I attended a retirement reception for John Axtell at KCSR Radio in Chadron.
John spent over 40 years in the broadcast profession
He is letting it go at age 70.
Other retired broadcasters who attended were Kevin Mooney of KNEB in Scottsbluff and Mike Glesinger of KCOW in Alliance.
Both men can claim over 40 years of experience in the industry.
I was the baby of the four with 30 years.
My job as the Clerk of the District Court is an enjoyable one, despite the sadness and heartache that I see on a weekly basis.
I like to wear the badge of public servant and try to kick bureaucracy to the back of the lunch line.
If I could wave my magic wand and determine the future, I will work in the District Court Clerk’s office until I am 71.
We’ll see what God has planned.
65 years ago, here is a thumbnailed sketch of what God planned for me.
On Wednesday, July 1, 1959, at 8:14 a.m. Central Time, I was delivered at Lincoln General Hospital in Lincoln, NE.
I was screaming; all 21 inches, and seven pounds, 11 ounces worth.
Dr. Bernard F. Wendt billed my parents $100 for his delivery skills. Eggheads who dabble in statistics categorize me as a member of the Baby Boomer Generation.
Dwight D. Eisenhower was President, Johnny Horton’s “The Battle of New Orleans” was the most popular song in the country, the United States Flag had 49 stars as Alaska had become a state six months earlier and the U.S. was only 52 days away from proclaiming Hawaii as the final member of the United States Family.
Lincoln’s population was 125,000; the capacity of 36-year-old Memorial Stadium — the home of the University of Nebraska Cornhusker football team — was 32,000; and Nebraska was still a member of the Big 7 Conference.
I arrived fashionably late — three weeks late, mind you — and even though it was July 1, it was unseasonably cool. My mother wore the same spring coat to the hospital that she wore on April 14, 1955, when Mom delivered my brother Blaine, also at Lincoln General.
My exhausted mother had two reasons to be happy. I was healthy, and I wasn’t born the same day as Nebraska mass murderer Charlie Starkweather was executed. That historic event took place six days earlier at the Nebraska State Penitentiary in south Lincoln.
Mom’s biggest fear was that I would arrive the same day Starkweather was electrocuted.
It makes me wonder how the mothers of children born on December 7, 1941, November 22, 1963, and September 11, 2001, feel about their offspring.
My due date was June 11. But since Starkweather was still on this planet, I decided to wait before venturing down the birth canal.
Dad had taken a week’s vacation from his job at Norden Laboratory on West Cornhusker Highway to hang around the house in case I decided to show up.
I robbed Dad of a week’s vacation.
My baptism followed 40 days later during a ceremony at St. John’s Congregational Church in Lincoln.
Ten months later, I was walking on my own.
64 years and ten months later, I am still going strong.
I guess God isn’t ready for me.
There’s more to accomplish.
There are more people to serve.
There are more experiences forthcoming.
There’s evil to fight.
There’s more of God’s gifts to love.
There are more people that need my prayers.
And those are feats from which none of us should retire.