I was surprised, and kinda disappointed.

The wildlife and fisheries folks had been taking turns, presenting plaques and roasts of the two retiring members of our outfit.But when the ex-boss' boss, a friend of mine for 20-some years, came to the two flat boxes wrapped in silver paper, and bound together by ribbon, he just asked my ex-boss to open them "before you leave." And to make sure he opened the larger one first, as the smaller one kinda gave away what was in the big one.

Me, I would have had him open them then and there, under the gazebo in the park, with all ~100 people watching. But probably I would have been wrong.

The other retiree, who had a only few more years in the outfit, although exactly how many is under dispute, opened his gifts, which were an expensive flyrod, and a spool of string around a spindle. Only after they had properly appraised his stunned face at the bundle of string was the real reel brought out and handed forward.

The outfit's plaque said he had given 39 years of service, starting in 1965, yet several tales were told of fishing surveys being taken in his company, using dynamite, in 1963. With photo documentation as proof. Proof not of the year, but of the survey technique. They would float down the river, bearing buckets of dynamite, and launch a stick out in a likely pool to stun the fish and see how the populations were doing.

A single stick for the small holes, doubles for others, and bundles of five or six sticks of dynamite fused together for the really big holes. And since you did not want the dynamic drifting or rolling too far from where you threw it, especially since you were floating on the same body of water, the bundles had extremely short fuses. With a match head tied to each fuse, so you just grabbed the stick, struck the match on something rough, and threw.

And yes, there was a tale about a bucket of dynamite igniting itself in the boat, presumably the fault of the retiring fellow, since someone else was telling the story. And since the fellow telling the story still has both arms, I will assume he was quick enough in flinging the bucket over the side.

In 40-some years (or 39, depending on who you believe), this man had accummulated a tremendous amount of material in his office (and nine kids). He suggested at this potluck luncheon that he could clear that office out with just a stick or two. The observation was made that perhaps whoever clears that office should be careful to look for old wood boxes, or suspicious long tubes with fuses in them amongst the debris.

One of the bosses from Capitol City came forward, and called up all the other individuals present who had ever supervised this fisheries biologist. Spreading his arms wide to encompass the other four, he confessed to us all, "We... never supervised Allen." This man had been at the forefront of his profession. Those who supervised his administrative reports were professionally his students, not his peers. When a federal agency argued with the Corps of Engineers on the reconstruction of a river, the Corps simply announced the project was going to be done as written, because "Allen said so."

And so it was.

But my boss held off on his silver boxes, waiting until the crowd had broken up into small groups of visitors, many of them retirees themselves, as the outfit seems to stay together even after leaving its employ. He dutifully opened the larger box first, his wife at his side, as we of the local wildlife crew waited. Unfortunately, the boss' boss had gotten them mixed up, and it was the larger box that gave away the surprise, or part of the surprise, of the heavier box.

Inside the large box was a nylon handgun case.

So he wasn't surprised as he picked up the heavier, smaller present. He had to be reminded by some impatient witness that he didn't need to save the paper. Underneath it he found a heavy plastic case, and being a frequent gun buyer, he knew to expect a handgun inside. Which, by his face, was surprise enough.

But inside, he found not a new gun, but an old one. A revolver, in perfect condition, of a model the manufacturer had quit making years ago. A model this man had once owned and, as he so frequently had told us all over the many years, foolishly sold. First thing he did as he lifted the shiny firearm from it's recessed case was pop the cylinder open and check it, just the standard habit of a person who handles guns often.

His voice was a little weak, and more than a little choked, when he announced "I've been looking for one of these for 25 years!" I suspect, if he had been allowed to open these gifts before everyone, he would never have found the voice for his short farewell speech.

It wasn't until he had finished his thanks to all of us for a gift much more than he expected, and was preparing to replace it in his case that the second part of the surprise was pointed out.

There, under his palm, was the logo of the outfit. A game warden's lapel pin, neatly recessed into the grip.