Ah...Ah...Ah...Recuse Me!

Gesundheit!

My fellow citizens, I would gladly serve jury duty, but, alas, a mea culpa—Euro-American mutt that I am—may not be fair.

I am a dollop English, with nearly equal tablespoons of Irish, French, and German.

With the long-running aggravations between the Irish and the English—well, duh. Would have to sit out should someone’s ancestors linked to either side be on the docket. A shame, really. I liked London very much, and my mother insists that if I ever visit our Irish cousins, I would never return home.

Just hit me that those of Spanish ancestry will give me cause to step back. An English relative of mine was Lord of the Admiralty when Nelson won—and was mortally wounded—at Trafalgar. Too bad—loved Barcelona.

Which leads me to the French a la Trafalgar, Waterloo, Agincourt, Hastings, and all the rest. Loved Paris. Loved Toulouse. Loved the paella cooked over a flame in Port-Vendres by a retired contractor, who lived and worked in Algeria before returning to his native land. Okay, Algerians, too, just in case.

Oh, and the German connection. Need I even mention my English and French ancestors’ perceptions going back, back, back. Or the other way around. But I loved Bamberg and the Best of the Wurst tour I made in the surrounding region. Twice.

Hmmm, and the Italians allied with the Germans during WWII. Noooo! And the Japanese. Where does it end?

So many continuing hostilities not of my making in the previous generation and during mine, but not all can forgive and forget. And so in the spirit of fairness, Korean- and Vietnamese- and Afghan- and Iraqi-Americans can rest assured I will stand down for the greater good.

There now. May all your trials be swift and justice be served.

Got a Moment?

You do.

You most likely wouldn’t give it a thought. Unless. Unless I caught you dashing out the door because your dog was running toward the street. Or you were on the phone—talking, out loud, on your phone—or had half a dozen incoming work-related text messages.

“Hey, got a second?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

I remember how much I enjoyed my countdown to retirement. Set up the app and from time to time checked in and voila, readings like 4 months 2 days 23 minutes 17 seconds.  Seconds. One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand.

Let’s see. How about until Social Security payments begin. Nearly 99 million seconds. Spare a second? Absolutely. One one-thousand.

I several times joked that I not die as I was grading high school English papers. Red pen in hand, face plant onto essay. No, please let my last moment be sitting out back in the garden while sipping on a scotch. Or watching a baby bluebird make its first flight. Or maybe go out in my reading chair, book fallen to the floor.

“Got a minute?”

“Let me check.” Uh-huh, around 1.6 million minutes until SS kicks in.

I’ve got a minute to stop during the morning walk with my dog Max and watch a hawk slide by overhead.  I’ve got a minute to turn from my truck and walk over to the roses out front and see if they are still beetle-free.

A moment, a few seconds, a couple of minutes. No big deal.

Nearly 50 days to my next birthday in August. Now a day, a whole day, that is something to consider. When do you spend a whole day on something or with someone?

But that’s over 52,000 minutes. “Well, sure. I can stop by and take a look at that tree for you. Only take a few minutes.”

Mortality tables predict another 604,000,000 seconds for me.

“Hold on a second.”

There they are, seconds we can imagine set out like dominoes to be tipped over—tick tick tick.

“Hey, give me a second.”

My friend, it is not mine to hand out. They just go—away. Gone.

At a busy restaurant, if we were to hear: The wait is about 3,600 seconds. One one-thousand, two one-thousand.

Class of 2020 graduation: 3.65 million minutes or thereabout. “Meet for coffee?” What’s 20 minutes?

I brush my plants with my fingers as I walk by. I reach out and tap the trees. I look up and assess the sky—color, clarity, brightness. Where the sun is, where the shadows are falling. If the colors are compelling, I hold for a handful of seconds before getting in the truck. A long look at a sunset before crumbling into the final heap? Well, that would be a good final moment.

“Got a moment?”

Maybe so.

But the 1,893,456,003 seconds gone since my birth. Just that, gone. One-one thousand, two one-thousand….

May I reintroduce the word savor into your life?

This post may take more than 150 seconds to read.

I’m sorry.