TIME CHECK: IT’S NOT ON OUR SIDE?

Every time you look at a clock it’s a time check.

It’s time to do this, time to do that, time for dinner, time for bed, time to repeat it all another day.

And that, dear readers, is the story of life.

But, what about all the stuff that happens in between the time check?

What’s it called if looking at a clock is ‘real life?’

Let’s agree that we all share the same time. Twenty-four hours in a day, seven days in a week, fifty two weeks in a year. Then what?

There goes another year.

Oh, look, it’s 1973 and we all graduated from high school. (Fill in your own graduation year, the math works the same.)

Then it’s 1986 and a wedding day, 1987 and qualifying for Father’s Day, 1990 for real Father’s Day, 1991 for a college graduation that cured a drop-out hangover.

Stay with me.

Fast forward to 2022 and the thirty-sixth year of marriage, qualifying for Grandfathers’ Day, a proud Dad day because we didn’t raise dipsticks posting shit-talk and joining jerkwad groups to feel wanted and loved.

Besides, that’s my job, right boys?

Time has been good for the old blogger. Real good. No complaints.

And then what?

Then Time Stands Still

One moment it’s 1950 when you look at your own nineteen year old bad-assed father lined up for a group shot of his Marine Corps company before shipping out for Korea.

The next moment it’s 1974 and you’re nineteen and standing for a group shot of your Army company six months before the end of the Vietnam War.

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One moment you’re running the one and only marathon you trained six months for. (I found that top image in a box.)

The next moment you’re speeding your visiting mother-in-law to the airport because a friend called from LA. Her husband took a fall and landed in the hospital.

One moment you’re with your brothers on the causeway to Horsefall Beach cutting firewood out of washed up logs and the old man is running his chain saw and looks like he’s in heaven watching his boys lift and load.

The next moment you’re dressed for a graveside memorial service for him and decide you’d rather grab a shovel and finish up instead of letting a damn back-hoe fill the grave.

Then it’s you and the brothers shoveling and sweating it out in K-Falls before heading to the Marine Corps club and drinking beer and listening to the men who knew him before you were born.

The time check said 1995, but it could have been any time with the tradition of a hands-on, enthusiastic, family burial in nice clothes.

Time Check: 2-22-2022

From birthday to last day, time waits for no one. I hope that’s not a spoiler.

What happens in between are the memories you leave behind.

It’s who you are to the people you connected with, their memories of you.

For the long haulers of forty years, people you’ve known more than half your life or longer, the last day presents a choice:

The first memory you bring up when you think of those who’ve passed can either be from their last days, or from their best days.

By my personal count, and not to sound flippant, I have five examples of ‘last days’ to consider.

For each, I go to best days instead of last days

One moment you’re singing Knocking On Heaven’s Door to your mom in hospice care and she wakes up to say she likes it, the next moment you’re in a hospice room for a friend who isn’t waking up.

One moment it’s a headache that turns into a ‘last day’ soon after, the next it’s accumulated micro-strokes stacking up.

Instead, I see my Mom at her retirement party that pulled a hundred people from her DMV manager days.

I see Susan shooing me out of her house because she didn’t want to be late for her walking group.

My Dad stands in the dirt yard of his hundred acre spread on Sprague River holding two grandkids.

My father-in-law is driving a boat me on skis and heading for the river bank trying to dump me for fun.

My mother-in-law is out on the town for her birthday, May 5. And yes, she’s wearing the sombrero and drinking a CoronaRita.

Choosing best times can be hard, so why not help out. My lasting memory? I asked my wife:

“Huuuuuneee, what era do you think you’ll remember me from if I die first, my 30’s, 40’s, 50’s, 60’s?”

“I knew you in your twenties.”

“So, my 20’s, 30’s, 40’s, 50’s, or 60’s?”

“60’s. I finally got you where I want you.”

I had to ask, right? Otherwise I’d have to turn in my Memoir Blogger card.

Memories from just last year in Arizona.

It’s a dry heat, you know.

If I’ve never said it, we’re a Northwest couple.

Look for the best of times, even in the worst of times.