It is the year 2015.
This year has special significance for me. For on June 15, I will turn 59.
Now, if you were in my presence, this is when you would involuntarily gasp, then say in utter disbelief, “No! There’s no way! You don’t look a day over 40!”
Well, maybe 50.
It is strange entering the last year as a young man in my 50s. For one thing, the years don’t last nearly as long as they used to. A school year, at one time, was an eternity.
Of course, if you drive a school bus, they still are.
The four years I spent in the Air Force seemed a lifetime that I thought would never end. Especially after I met Susie and active duty was keeping us some 700 miles apart. The days I counted down until we could be together were agonizingly slow.
It’s impossible to fathom that 24 hours then are exactly the same length as they are now.
One of the lessons that nearly six decades on this earth have taught me is to be realistic. For example, 80 is realistic. If I’m fortunate to be live to 80, that means I have some 20 years of living left.
If you’re twenty, that’s a long time.
When you’re my age, it becomes a reality that you have to face. And contemplate. And mull over. And, ultimately, accept.
Note that I didn’t say lay down and die. On the contrary, I’ve only begun to live. Heck, I may make it to 100, and I’m going to try and do just that. But on the off chance that I don’t, I’m going take the life lessons that I’ve learned thus far and put them to good use.
For instance, take a four-foot putt for par. At one time, that was a life-or-death moment. If I made it, life was perfect. If I missed, life may as well end right then and there. A putter might be thrown farther than my last tee shot. Expletives that would make a sailor blush would be screamed toward the heavens.
Could things be any worse?
Yeah, they could.
And, as you get older, you begin to truly understand that. Now, when I miss, instead of screaming, I laugh and simply appreciate the fact that I’m playing golf. Every round could be my last. Why worry about a dumb putt?
There are far, far more important things.
A six-month-old grandson who holds your thumb while you’re feeding him is one thing.
Hearing your grandchildren laugh while swinging on the swing set you just built in your backyard is another.
Hearing your son’s voice, safely back in the states after a year in Afghanistan or Iraq, is still another.
Seeing the pure joy on your son’s face as he’s holding his first child, and remembering what that felt like, is pretty amazing. Way more important than any ol’ putt.
Joni Mitchell sings, “Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you got ’til it’s gone?”
I think that’s what I’m going after here. All any of us have is time. And until we run out, a lot of us don’t appreciate it. At least not like we should.
A few months ago, I lost my sister, Becky, to cancer. She was only 52. Her time ended way, way too soon. And, in the two and one-half years she fought this terrible disease, time was, far and away, the most important thing in the world to her. Quite literally, nothing else mattered.
Time with her husband. Time with her two children. Time with her granddaughters. Time with her family and friends.
Because of her, I no longer take my time lightly. I savor every minute of every day. I don’t sweat the small stuff. I change the things I can. I forget the things I can’t. I understand that, sometimes, things don’t go the way we want them.
For example, while writing this column, my grandson, Caleb, woke up. He’s almost seven months. He smiles all the time. I had to stop and spend some time with him. I changed his diaper, fed him and played with him for a while.
I tried to write some more. Granddaughter Izzy woke up. She had her second birthday in December. She waddled in, held her arms up to me and said, “Hold me, Papa?”
Sure. And I also held her hand. The one that has the finger she’s got me wrapped around.
And as I held her, I thought to myself, could making any putt come close to feeling this good?
No. Not even if it was to win The Masters.
That would be pretty close, though.
Written by Rick Jacobs, a regular columnist for The Bartlett Express. Contact him at rick45@aol.com.
