The Good Seeds

The old tin had been hidden away for 80 years. What promise did it hold?

- MIKE FREZON

One of the first things my wife, Peg, said when I re-tired was “Good news! Now you’ll have time to clean the garage!” Not exactly good news—it was the one task I’d been putting off. I pushed at the garage’s wooden doors, but they were as stubbornly stuck as I felt in this new stage of my life. This detached garage— along with our house—was more than a hundred years old. I finally got the doors open and stepped onto the wide plank floor. Inside were gaps so big you could see all the way down to the ground. We’d even discovered a family of foxes denning underneath last spring. Not that it was safe for parking, but there was no way to squeeze a car inside anyway, with all the junk that had piled up over the 32 years since we’d moved here. Since I’d started my job.

I’d earned my degree in broadcast journalism at Syracuse University and gotten a job as the news director of a radio station north of New York City. After our first child was born, we moved farther north, to Albany, where we could be near family. I hosted radio and television programs with the state legislators. I felt as if God had led me to a place where I could use my skills, helping lawmakers communicate with their constituents. I’d even worked my way up to director of the office. Then I developed some serious medical issues and, after 30 years’ service, knew it was time to retire. After decades of long hours and stringent deadlines, now what?