Why? Retirees forage for time and resources, often consuming too many available hours that could otherwise be applied to the aforementioned "important stuff." Consequently, I've developed guidelines to help me decide how to separate important stuff from other stuff. A few illustrations from this past week will illustrate what I mean.

I SWAP MATH FOR MUSCLES.

Consider the case of 16-year-old Luke Baker, who approached me not long ago. "Do you have any yard work you'd like done—for free?" Sensing a scheme to separate me from my time, I cautiously replied. "Yes, I do have some projects. What's your deal?" "Do I have a deal for you! Help me with Algebra II, and I'll work for free."

So we agreed to swap math for muscles. He'll bring the polynomials, and I'll line up projects hour for hour. It's a good match when each of us thinks he's gotten the better bargain.

I SNAP FOR SUPPER.

Next, the Bolton scenario. We've had the pleasure of shooting several hundred photographs of the Bolton daughters for graduations and birthdays. They've perched on limbs and posed with pets, whatever makes for interesting shots.

So Connie's most recent call evoked no surprise. "Can you come to our house and take some pictures of us with our instruments? I'll feed you supper." They're quite a musical family, and we never tire of their bluegrass rendition of "Ghost Chickens in the Sky."

But trying to creatively situate Keith's bass, Connie's new guitar, Sara's banjo and Rebekah's mandolin in the waning evening light produced a set of unique challenges. But with picture snapping completed and results reviewed on the computer, Connie's taco salad supper proved the worth of good guidelines.

I FIX FOR FISH.

Jan Simmons' computer crashed several weeks ago, and her every attempt at resuscitation had heretofore failed. "I'm at a loss," she recently grieved, "because I use email and instant messenger to stay in touch with my family every day. But the worst thing is that my digital photographs are on that computer, and I really need to rescue them."

Then husband Keith offered, with a note of pleading, "You'd make me a happy man if there's anything you can do to help." Knowing of Keith's legendary affinity for and expertise in angling, I angled a bit myself—from my guidelines, of course. Just whispering "I fix for fish" set Keith to describing the steaming spread of crappie and hushpuppies he'd be thrilled to whip together if I'd take a look at the misbehaving hardware.

Unfortunately, three hours of flicking keys and feeding disks failed to produce results. Not so with Jan and Keith, who served up a splendid meal anyway. Perhaps I should revise my guidelines to consider failures.

I CRUNCH FOR CASH.

I have more guidelines, of course, for other circumstances, but I reserve this final one for corporations and political candidates needing "number crunching." They usually have the financial wherewithal to separate me from time I reluctantly relinquish for the right price.

Little things add value to life; that's what gives them an importance all their own. Even after retirement.