These Days, It’s These

Days We Must Treasure

By Tom Anselm 

I am of that certain age where I hate to hear the phone ring or to open a text because the news may be that someone also of that certain age has bitten the dust. Or at the least, contracted some unpronounceable disease that will lead to the eventual dust-biting. Or has a relative or friend in one to the categories mentioned above.

However, curious fellow that I am, I always answer or click the box, and steel myself for the incoming message. And 99.99% of the time, everything is just fine. It’s that .01% that makes the hairs on my arms rise up a bit.

On the other hand, this phenomenon of occasional sad news flashes should come as no surprise, I suppose.

Things wear out all the time. Roofs, cars, shoes… people. At 74 runs through the calendar, I and my counterparts have a statistically-significant of face-planting at any moment. Not a fun fact, but a fact nonetheless. We are the definition of ‘wearing out’, with knees and arteries and hairlines all having seen better days.

The Lovely Jill and I amuse each other sometimes by discussing our final plans. You know, burial or cremation, where to hold the Mass, can I have Snickers and Cheetos at the post-dirt nap luncheon. It is always in as light-hearted a manner as we can muster, given the topic.

As for me, I think a Viking funeral would be crackin’. The deceased remains, covered with dry hay, floating out quietly and solemnly into the open waters, as flaming arrows arch majestically toward the boat, soon to be ignited and roaring up into the heavens. Trouble is, I don’t own a boat and know of only one grandkid with any proficiency with a bow, and being landlocked in Missouri and at least 700 miles due south. So, a secluded lake would have to do. Not to mention, it’s probably illegal. Which leaves me with the basic wake/funeral Mass/party and pretty-much-forgotten- about-in-three-days scenario. Oh, well.

I used to fear that Final Reckoning. Now, not as much, although I still prefer the alternative. Staying one step ahead of The Grim Reaper is something we all have tried to do. Still, despite my best efforts, I have been at his doorstep a few times.

Once, when as an indestructible 18-year-old fresh out of high school, I went camping with a few other similarly indestructible 18-year-olds (a combination not usually synonymous with ‘great decision-making’) and we had this excellent idea that we could swim to that small island out in the lake after having spent the previous night consuming a bottle of Southern Comfort and various beers, without consideration of the resultant after-effects.

So, halfway there, we four amigos realized that this was not the wisest of moves. After staggering up onto the sandy shoreline, and resting for at least an hour, we came to the frightening conclusion that there was only one way back. Therefore, the most mature among us (again, 18-year-old boys here, so that was what one could call ‘a hard find’) dragged up a large log which we all grabbed onto and doggie-kicked our way, ever so slowly, to safety. It was, given the combination of the previous nights imbibing and the ‘macho’swim idea, a rather sobering experience.

I have also survived having a fly-fishing hook stuck in my neck, precariously close to that place where you don’t want anything sharp stuck… yes, the carotid artery, that’s right. The folks at the urgent care surely had a fun story to tell about that one.

And then a few years ago, there was another neck thing, this time requiring more significant medical intervention, when I became the happy recipient of a bunch of rods and plates in my cervical regions. They told Jill that everything went great, but did I really believe them? I mean, ‘great’ to me and my family meant ‘no complications,’ but to them it could have meant ‘well, we lost him twice, but got him back twice… so, all in all… ‘Great!’)

Not sure what to really think on that one, however, because I slept through the whole thing. So, phone calls and texts. Stupid moves. Medical interventions. Yeah, life, right?

On the whole, I have been abundantly blessed, with an unbelievably beautiful and loving wife, great kids and undoubtedly the most adorable and brilliant of grandchildren. So if The Big Actuary in the Sky feels inclined to grant me another 5-10 years, I will humbly accept. I do, however, proceed very carefully onto that one step into the garage.

You know, it might have been Aristotle who said something about time. He and his other bedsheet-wearing pals were sitting around one day, and Big A considered that the past is non-existent, as is the future, and the present is but the tiniest of moments that connects them both. Let’s improve on them Greeks and call that bridge ‘Today.’

It’s all we really have, after all. So celebrate it, and spend it wisely.

For as the late, great philosopher, former Cardinal pitcher Joaquin Andujar is reported to have said when asked to describe baseball in one word:

‘Youneverknow.’

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