My late father, Harold Adelman Kimball, loved to draw. For his fine draftsmanship he won a scholarship, but the stock market crash snatched it away — along with the house and its cellar full of apples and pickles and homemade wine. Instead he worked, and after the war, realized the dream of self-employment.
At retirement he sold his stores and created a new life to last another 20 years. He joined the Jewish community’s Oral History Project, interviewing oldtimers and recording their stories. He went on Elderhostel trips — to dude ranches and cooking academies and art schools abroad — with a once-estranged brother or a girlfriend or a group. He wintered in California with his children, making side trips to visit old friends now in Denver or Los Angeles. Knowledgeable about music, he recorded cassettes of the best of Mozart, Beethoven, Sibelius, and gave these to his friends. He researched morsels of history at the library.
And he joined SCORE (Small Business Administration’s Service Core of Retired Executives). There, he counseled people who needed his experience in business planning and promotion. He became regional director of publicity, led workshops and lectured at community colleges.
Through experience, he had overcome the lack of a college education. But about helping — “giving back” — he said, “you can’t beat it.”
As his body wore out, he regaled us with the heroic poetry etched on his heart in his youth, “a shepherd lad who never knew a harsher tone than a flute note.”