Mr. Vaitkus - 74

One ordinary day in the life of 74-year-old man in Estonian urban retirees in Tartu, Estonia

Short Bio

Mr. Vaitkus is a silver-haired retired civil engineer with wire-rim glasses, a neat mustache, and the broad shoulders of someone who has spent much of his life carrying plans, tools, and groceries home on foot. He lives with his wife, Liis, and their adopted 6-year-old daughter, Mari, in Tartu. His adult son, Andres, lives in Tallinn with his own family. A graduate of Tallinn University of Technology, Mr. Vaitkus spent his career working on streets, drainage, and municipal infrastructure. Retirement has not made him idle. He keeps the household accounts, watches prescription dates, handles small repairs, skis when the weather allows, and plans family visits with the seriousness he once brought to public-works schedules.

Supilinn, whose name translates as “Soup Town,” sits beside the Emajõgi River in Tartu, Estonia’s university city. Narrow streets run past wooden houses, small gardens, apartment buildings, and sheds that lean slightly with age. The neighborhood is close enough to the center for errands on foot and near enough to the river and sports park for a retired skier to reach both without a car. In winter, river mist can settle between the houses, and yellow streetlights remain reflected on the packed snow long after dawn.

Before the House Wakes

Mr. Vaitkus wakes at 6:35 a.m. in the smaller bedroom. He and Liis sleep on separate narrow beds along opposite walls, an arrangement that began when his snoring became too disruptive and stayed because both of them now rest better that way. The radiator clicks steadily beneath the window. On a shelf are old engineering manuals, rolled maps, and binders from his municipal years, when he could identify a drainage problem by the shape of a puddle after rain.

He dresses quietly in long underwear, wool socks, and a navy ski jacket. His glasses go into a hard case until he reaches the trail; they fog quickly when he starts moving in the cold. In the kitchen he fills the kettle, makes coffee through a small filter cone, and eats dark rye bread with cheese while standing at the counter.

Liis appears in a thick cardigan, her gray hair clipped back, and begins packing Mari’s school snack. The kitchen table holds colored pencils, a half-finished worksheet, a utility bill, and a small plastic box of screws waiting to be sorted.

“You are skiing before breakfast again?” Liis asks.

“Before the tracks become crowded,” he says. “And before Mari asks me to pull her sled.”

He checks the thermostat before leaving and glances at the heating estimate for the month. The flat is mortgage-free, a major protection for the household, but their pension income is still measured carefully against electricity, food, school needs, pharmacy costs, and train fares. A squared notebook beside the telephone contains the dates and amounts. Mr. Vaitkus does not regard the notebook as a burden. It is how he makes sure a small surprise does not become an expensive one.

Across the Snow to the Trails

Outside, the streetlights are still on. Mr. Vaitkus pulls an orange reflective vest over his ski jacket, adjusts his wool cap, and carries his classic skis over one shoulder. His insulated boots compress the snow as he passes the wooden houses of Supilinn. A few chimneys release thin smoke. Cars parked overnight have white ridges along their roofs, and someone has already cleared a narrow path to a gate with a wide shovel.

His route takes him toward the Emajõgi, which sends a faint mist into the cold air, and then to Tähtvere Sport Park. The maintained trails are one reason he can ski in a winter when natural snow around the city may be thin or uneven. At the park entrance, two parallel grooves have been prepared for classic skiing, with a wider lane beside them for skiers using the faster skating technique.

Mr. Vaitkus clicks into his bindings and begins with a slow diagonal stride. He learned to ski as a boy and still prefers rhythm to speed. The first small hill reminds him of both knees, but after several minutes his breathing settles. He is not trying to prove he is young. Skiing keeps his balance dependable, gives structure to winter mornings, and makes the rest of the day easier to face with patience.

Near the second loop he finds Peeter, a former electrician from the neighborhood, crouched over a binding. Peeter’s red beard is mostly hidden behind his scarf.

“Engineer,” Peeter says, “did you design this ice?”

“No,” Mr. Vaitkus replies. “If I had, it would drain properly.”

They ski part of the route together, discussing a pothole that will reappear when the thaw comes and whether snow has been cleared adequately near the bus stop. Their complaints are practical rather than angry, softened by jokes and the knowledge that neither man is responsible for fixing the problem anymore. Peeter mentions a visit to his sister in Viljandi. Mr. Vaitkus says he may take the train to Tallinn the following weekend if Mari’s school schedule permits and the tickets are not too costly.

After nearly an hour, he stops at a bench, drinks water from a small thermos, and watches younger skiers overtake him. By the time he starts home, the sky has brightened to a pale winter blue.

Digital Errands and Breakfast

Mari is awake when he returns, arguing against the wool tights Liis has laid out. She sits at the kitchen table in a striped shirt, eating oatmeal with apple pieces and swinging one socked foot beneath her chair.

“Papa, did you win?” she asks as he comes in rosy-cheeked from the cold.

“There was no race,” he says.

“Then you should make one.”

Liis smiles while closing Mari’s school bag. “He has been competing with himself for fifty years.”

After a shower, Mr. Vaitkus changes into corduroy trousers and a blue sweater and opens his laptop. He logs into Estonia’s Health Portal with secure digital identification to review his prescriptions. His blood-pressure medication will last another month, but a second prescription needs renewal before the planned Tallinn trip. He sends a request through his family doctor’s digital channel, then writes the expected date in his paper calendar as well.

He trusts digital records, but he also trusts handwriting. At the pharmacy, he can collect a digital prescription after identifying himself, without carrying a paper form. Even so, he reads each date twice before closing the laptop.

The next task is the household account. He pays the electricity bill, checks the building-maintenance charge, and compares a recent grocery receipt with the amount he had expected to spend. Liis manages much of Mari’s daily routine, especially school clothes, meals, and the small emergencies that arise around a 6-year-old. Mr. Vaitkus handles the bills, forms, repairs, and appointments. When the washing machine began making a grinding sound the previous week, he cleaned its filter and inspected the hoses before accepting that a technician would be needed.

Shops, Pharmacy, and a Family Call

Late in the morning, he walks to the pharmacy and grocery store with a cloth bag folded in his coat pocket. The pharmacist recognizes him and confirms that the renewed medication should be ready later in the afternoon. He adds vitamin D tablets to the purchase list, a usual winter expense when daylight is limited for long stretches.

At the grocery store he chooses potatoes, milk, carrots, frozen peas, onions, and a small piece of smoked pork. He considers imported oranges, checks the price, and leaves them behind. Dinner will be mulgipuder (a southern Estonian potato-and-barley mash), served with fried smoked pork and rye bread. It is filling, familiar food, and it stretches across a family meal without straining the week’s budget.

At noon, he and Liis eat yesterday’s vegetable soup. Afterward, Mr. Vaitkus calls Andres in Tallinn. His son answers from an office corridor, speaking quickly but warmly. In the background are the voices of Mr. Vaitkus’s grandchildren, 9-year-old Kertu and 7-year-old Martin, who have been collected early from school.

“Grandfather,” Martin calls after taking the phone, “will you bring the tiny screwdriver?”

“Which tiny screwdriver?” Mr. Vaitkus asks.

“The one that opens everything.”

“That one opens almost nothing,” he says, although he writes himself a reminder to pack it.

They discuss the next visit. Elron, Estonia’s passenger rail operator, runs trains between Tartu and Tallinn, making a weekend trip possible without a car. Mr. Vaitkus likes the train because he can read, watch snowy fields pass, and arrive without worrying about slippery roads. He prefers to buy tickets in advance, but waits until Andres confirms the children have no other plans.

At 2:30, Mr. Vaitkus and Liis walk to collect Mari. The schoolyard is loud with children in padded coats and reflective accessories, their breath showing white in the air. Mari comes through the door carrying a page of printed letters and a drawing of a fox. She has a short reading assignment, manageable but not something to be ignored after a full day at school.

Tools, Reading, and Dinner

Back at home, Mari reads at the kitchen table while Mr. Vaitkus repairs a loose cupboard handle. His small workbench occupies one end of the enclosed balcony, beside two geraniums that have survived the winter light. Labeled drawers hold pliers, calipers, files, hand drills, and a dented metal box of fasteners collected over decades.

Mari pauses over a long word and frowns. He does not correct her immediately. Instead, he taps the syllables softly with one finger and waits until she works through them herself. When she finishes, she asks whether the fox in her drawing can visit Tallinn by train.

“Only if it has a ticket,” he says.

“Foxes do not have money.”

“Then it must travel with its grandfather.”

Liis starts dinner while he peels potatoes. Together they make mulgipuder, stirring cooked barley and potatoes until the mixture is thick and soft. Mr. Vaitkus fries pork cubes with onion and puts rye bread on the table. Mari receives a smaller serving, then negotiates successfully for more pork before taking a second spoonful of mash.

During dinner, Liis says Mari needs new waterproof mittens. Mr. Vaitkus suggests comparing prices after he collects his prescription the next day. He had hoped to repair the old pair, but the palms are worn through.

“We can repair some things,” Liis says. “Not every winter.”

He nods. It is not an argument, only a necessary correction to his first instinct.

Quiet Hours Before Sleep

After the dishes are washed, Mr. Vaitkus opens the train website and compares Saturday departures. He selects a midmorning journey but waits to purchase tickets until Andres sends final confirmation. Mari builds a railway from wooden blocks on the floor and announces imaginary stops in a solemn voice. Liis folds laundry nearby and occasionally corrects a city name Mari has invented.

Later, Mr. Vaitkus plays an Arvo Pärt recording at low volume. Estonian choral music and Pärt’s spare compositions have been part of his evenings for years. He does not sit idle while listening. He wipes moisture from his skis, checks the bindings, and sets them along the hallway wall for the next clear morning.

At bedtime, he reads Mari one chapter from a children’s book. She tells him she will someday design trains “with beds and fox seats.” He says engineers must learn to measure carefully. She says she will measure later.

In the bedroom, Mr. Vaitkus places his glasses on the nightstand and checks that his phone is charging. A message from Andres confirms the Saturday visit. He buys the tickets, pleased by the small completed task, and turns off the lamp. Outside, Supilinn is quiet beneath yellow streetlights and snow. He thinks briefly about the pharmacy, Mari’s mittens, and the cupboard handle that now closes properly. By the time the apartment settles into silence, he is asleep.