I don’t know about others, but I spend a fair amount of time taking note of how many years ago something happened, or how old someone was at a certain time and, last but not least, how old I was at certain times. It’s an emotional journey for sure, and I don’t mind at all. …
I don’t know about others, but I spend a fair amount of time taking note of how many years ago something happened, or how old someone was at a certain time and, last but not least, how old I was at certain times.
It’s an emotional journey for sure, and I don’t mind at all. After all, we wouldn’t be given the capacity for emotions if we weren’t supposed to have them in the first place.
The mother of a childhood friend of mine, who knew my parents and me from the beginning, said, “When you look back at things, make a note of how old people were at the time.”
The clarity this guidance has given me over the years is one of life’s treasures. Realizing that when my Poppop, my mother’s father, joined the Army and went to fight in World War I, he was just 17. My father was 27 and his younger brother was 26 when they joined the Army in World War II.
Finding out that Woodrow Wilson was president when my father was born and that Grover Cleveland was president when my grandfather was born, are humbling and precious realities in my life.
The intrigue in finding out when doesn’t stop there. The dates and times my favorite books were published, and the dates my favorite authors wrote the books are as delicious as any lasagna I’ve ever had.
This may sound silly, but at age 72, I’m fine with that. Moreover, I am deeply proud that Dwight David Eisenhauer was president of the United States when I was born. He’d been the General of the Army in World War II and was the Supreme Commander of the Allied Expeditionary Force on D-Day. A lot of our dads had fought in that war when I was growing up.
