• 46°

Write Again … Our sunset years

When one reaches an age when the challenges, responsibilities, demands of the work-a-day would belong to the past, the tendency to look back over the journey can exert a strong tug.

Such is only natural, I suppose. A bit of reflection, remembering-when, even nostalgia, isn’t necessarily a bad thing, as long as one doesn’t dwell there too often, or for too long.

People, places, events. So many memories across the years, across the miles.

We who have been blessed with a very good measure of longevity have in our memory banks those who were, for however long or brief, a part of our lives. A part of our history.

Once one reaches a certain age — an advanced maturity, let’s call it — we know that there are many who were a part of our story who are probably, quite probably, no longer in this world. It’s just that we don’t know about their leaving.

This is especially true for me with respect to many of those with whom I served in the military, some six decades ago.

I often find myself returning to certain places, people, events both large and small, through the mists of my memory. Especially those service days.

I have very special memories of those youths with whom I worked in the AYA (American Youth Activities) program while I was stationed at Fort Skelly, in Regensburg, Germany. They were the children of military families. This special opportunity and experience undoubtedly influenced my desire to become a teacher and coach. I will always remember those young people as I knew them then. Always.

If it were possible, to each person from that time of my life who is still here, I would like to tell them that I hope they’ve had a good life.

To those who have received their final promotion, I am hopeful that we might see one another again in that place we all hope for. Hope is a good thing, isn’t it?

To all with whom I shared our growing up days, our athletics days, our singing days, may we also be together again, in the next dimension, even if for only a while. I’m not really sure how time is measured, or indeed it even is, in eternity.

From time to time, I have wondered if those who are born and live in the same place, without even being away for school, work or service, have memories of other people, other places, other experiences. Living thus would make it hard to not have a rather parochial view. So it seems. But what do I know?

Perhaps all that I might wish for, hope for, in the next world will actually come to pass. Perhaps.

In Christmas correspondence with those too few service friends with whom I’ve managed to maintain at least a yearly contact, I often say that if we don’t meet again in this journey, may it happen in the next.

Should that be the case what a happy reunion awaits.

P.S. — I hope to see all my former pets too. That would be a little piece of heaven to me.