One of the days in Seattle that I think of most was about a month before
the end. The father of a great friend of ours died, and Carl and I went
to the funeral one Sunday afternoon. We got in late, so stood in a
corner by the door, and held hands, and seemed to own each other
especially hard that day. Afterwards we prowled around the streets,
talking of funerals and old age.

Most of the people there that afternoon were gray-haired--the family had
lived in Seattle for years and years, and these were the friends of
years and years back. Carl said: "That is something we can't have when
you and I die--the old, old friends who have stood by us year in and
year out. It is one of the phases of life you sacrifice when you move
around at the rate we do. But in the first place, neither of us wants a
funeral, and in the second place, we feel that moving gives more than it
takes away--so we are satisfied."

Then we talked about our own old age--planned it in detail. Carl
declared: "I want you to promise me faithfully you will make me stop
teaching when I am sixty. I have seen too much of the tragedy of men
hanging on and on and students and education being sacrificed because
the teacher has lost his fire--has fallen behind in the parade. I feel
now as if I'd never grow old--that doesn't mean that I won't. So, no
matter how strong I may be going at sixty, make me stop--promise."

Then we discussed our plans: by that time the children would be looking
out for themselves,--very much so,--and we could plan as we pleased. It
was to be England--some suburb outside of London, where we could get
into big things, and yet where we could be peaceful and by ourselves,
and read and write, and have the young economists who were traveling