The Alternate (Part Two)

The Alternate (Part Two)

Copyright Wayne Baker writing as Austin Jett

7

It wasn’t all that difficult to become one of the fourteen chosen to sit in the jury box. Not twelve. Fourteen. As it was explained to us, in order to cover unforeseen circumstances, such as sickness, death, inappropriate behavior, et cetera, it is common to choose a couple of alternate jurors. All fourteen of us would listen to the case as if we would be deciding it. Once the jury went to deliberate the case, any remaining alternates would be dismissed. If a problem arose after that with a sick juror, or whatever, those remaining would be charged with coming up with the verdict. The idea, I suppose, is that once deliberations have begun, it only muddies the water to bring in someone who has not been a part of that deliberation from the beginning. Makes sense.

I was the second alternate. If I was going to be of any help in preventing an innocent man from going to prison for many years, I had to come up with a plan, find a way to get not one, but two jurors out of the way sometime before the end of the trial.

8

My mind wandered as the prosecuting attorney presented the state’s case against Blake Allen. It wasn’t really all that important that I take it all in. After all, I already knew the defendant was innocent. The important thing was for me to come up with a way to get rid of two jurors.

When I say get rid of, I don’t mean dispatch them like I did Harvey Wilson. No, I had punched his ticket to Hell for a just cause. The world was a little bit safer now that he was gone. I likened it to a story I’d read once about sheep, the sheep dog, and the wolf. Basically, most people are like sheep, unable or unwilling to protect themselves or their loved ones from the wolf, the evil ones. Then there are sheepdogs, those who risk their own welfare to defend the flock. I suppose you could say I’m a sheepdog.

9

There were five witnesses who testified that they had seen Mr. Allen shove Harvey Wilson and heard him threaten his life. The details, such as the exact wording of the threat (“I’m gonna effin’ kill you, you mothereff’er” vs. “You mess with my kid, you’re eff’in’ dead,” whether he shoved him with the left or right hand, or both, things like that) varied slightly from one individual to another, but the theme was common and left little doubt that threats were made, even though the defense acted like it was a big deal. One detail that they all agreed on, though, was that Blake Allen did in fact say “eff’in’” rather than the genuine Queen Mother of all swear words. I can’t speak for anyone else, but I found that amusing.

One witness, a little old lady who was in the habit of monitoring the comings and goings in the neighborhood, confidently pointed out the defendant as the man that she had seen walking toward Harvey Wilson’s house on the night of the murder. She kept looking at me, which was quite unnerving. No doubt, the prying old bitty had seen me on numerous occasions. I could tell that she was itching to say something, but the prosecutor kept his questions to a minimum, and the defense attorney kept focusing on the subjects of her eyesight and her memory. Unfortunately for him, she had no trouble at all reading an eye chart that he had brought in, even when the judge granted him permission to have the lights dimmed. As for her memory, well, she was sharper than most people I know. I was glad to see her step down from the stand. I looked down, as if studying my notes, but I could still feel her icy stare as she made her way out the courtroom.

As I said, there was no doubt in my mind the old lady had seen me before. Once I had committed myself to the task of bringing Harvey Wilson to justice, I began looking for an apartment in the general area where he lived. In the process I found something even better. One day, sitting at an outdoor table at a local coffee shop, perusing the classifieds, I struck up a conversation with Lucy, an attractive woman a few years my senior. I soon realized it could work to my advantage to befriend her. So, I did. Saved me the trouble of finding a place, putting down a deposit, moving. I would drop by Lucy’s place once or twice a week, and we’d go for coffee or lunch, occasionally a movie. One thing led to another.

I never moved in with Lucy, but I did spend a lot of time at her place, if you get my meaning. I made a point of driving past Harvey Wilson’s house on my way to and from Lucy’s, doing drive-by surveillance. I was able to learn when he came and went. From that minimal information, I learned what time to be in position to intercept him and follow him to and from work, and his route, which rarely varied. Good things to know if you are planning an ambush, but then I needed more detail on his neighborhood. How to get in and get out unnoticed. For that, I needed to find a way to spend time doing a more thorough reconnaissance.

I found the perfect solution at the animal shelter. I surprised Lucy with a Labrador puppy for her birthday. By this time, most nights, Lucy would cook my supper, so I’d come over early and take the puppy for a walk. Three or four times a week we would go by Harvey Wilson’s home. I established my presence in the neighborhood, never stopping to talk, just nodding and saying “hello” only when I had to, careful not to give anyone a good look under my wide-brimmed hat. The only time I stopped was when Oscar — the name Lucy had given the pup — needed to do his business. I always made sure to carry a plastic bag to clean up after him. Almost always. There was the one time when I forgot.

10

The first day of the trial came and went. That night, I barely slept at all. My back was hurting, still protesting from my encounter with the washing machine over the weekend. On top of that, I was worried about the outcome of the trial, how an innocent man could go to prison for something that I did. Some sheepdog I was. Blake Allen’s kid not only suffered at the hands of Harvey Wilson, but now might lose a father as well.

Not that Mr. Allen wouldn’t or couldn’t have committed murder himself, given enough time and opportunity. I had just gotten there first. The fact that he had murder in his heart was not enough for me to let him do time for me. But, hell, I didn’t want to go to prison either. How was I going to get myself in on the deliberation? If I didn’t get some sleep, there was a very real chance that I could be removed from the jury myself if I couldn’t stay awake during the trial.

I got up to go to the bathroom and decided to take some Tylenol PM. They would knock me out, and provided that I set a couple of alarm clocks, I’d feel better in the morning. I walked into the bathroom, plopped three tablets into my mouth, filled a glass at the sink and took a sip of water. Suddenly, I spit them out! I looked in the mirror and said, “That’s it!”

11

The second day of the trial began with even more damning testimony against Blake Allen. The entire shoving incident was caught on video surveillance, which the prosecutor presented as Exhibit # 1.

Harvey Wilson had worked at a convenience store, ironically the very one I’d stopped at on the way to report to jury duty. I’d been buying gas there lately, even though it was not the cheapest in town. Something about being in the place where Harvey Wilson had once been an established presence made me feel good, at peace with myself. I didn’t pretend to understand it. Maybe I need to talk to someone about that someday.

Nah.

Remember I told you earlier the defendant was a dumbass – I mean, come on! Is there anyone out there who does not know that all convenience stores have video surveillance? Duh!

The fellow sitting next to me in the jury box began to nod. After a while, his head would jerk up. Seconds later, he started the head bob routine again, and it wasn’t long before he leaned in on me. I flinched, perhaps a bit more dramatically than I would have normally, but my intent was to draw attention. I turned and placed a hand on his shoulder to shake him. “Whaaah?” he snorted, then sat upright, looking around, obviously dazed and confused. It wasn’t his fault, really. No one could be expected to remain alert after having four Tylenol PM ground up and sprinkled on their scrambled eggs at breakfast.

The judge called for a recess, during which time he met with Sleepy in his chambers, scolded him for sleeping during the trial. When Sleepy nodded off yet again— this time while listening to the judge—he was promptly dismissed from jury duty. Unfortunately, the judge appointed the other alternate, an older woman with a permanent scowl on her face, to take Sleepy’s place on the jury.

One down. One to go. I estimated it would be another hour or so before the next one began having problems with the laxatives I had provided.

12

The video showed someone who bore a strong resemblance to Blake Allen shoving and yelling at Harvey Wilson. A very strong resemblance, but – the video was grainy, and the subject was wearing a Rays baseball cap, which partially obscured his face. When combined with the eyewitness testimony, it wasn’t really much help. It did, however, clearly show that he’d used both hands to shove Harvey. For whatever that was worth.

And then, there was the dog shit.

On the night of the murder, or as I preferred to think of it, the night that justice was carried out, I had taken Oscar out for a walk. Lucy was working late and wouldn’t be back until around midnight. We were less than half a block away from Harvey’s house when Oscar decided it was time to take a huge dump. And I do mean huge. Oscar was still a puppy at heart, but he had grown to full size by then, and when he went, he went big.

I had been so focused on the task at hand – I knew this was going to be the night – that in my haste to get out the door, I’d forgotten to take along a plastic bag. It didn’t matter. I wouldn’t be coming back to this neighborhood again anyway. I got to Harvey’s house, dropped the leash and let Oscar find his own way home.

Well, it’s all in the details, isn’t it? When the police picked up Blake Allen, they found dog shit on his garage floor. They found dog shit on the floor of his car. And when they looked at the pair of sneakers he’d discarded in the trash, they found dog shit on the bottom of his right shoe. The fact that the shoe was a perfect match for the photograph of the print that was made in the steaming pile left by Oscar was –– I had to chuckle in spite of myself – Exhibit # 2!

Something about that grabbed my attention, though. And the wheels began to turn in my head. I felt a wave of relief, the left corner of my mouth turned up slightly as I suppressed a smile and nodded. I put my pen to paper, jotting down notes that could be significant later, if I could only manage to position myself on the jury come time for deliberation. Why hadn’t the laxatives kicked in yet?

13

The trial didn’t take long. Both sides had presented their cases and closing arguments. The judge turned to address the jury. I was certain this was the moment I would be dismissed. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he began, then abruptly stopped, interrupted by a loud gurgling not unlike a cappuccino machine.

The juror who’d unknowingly taken an overdose of laxatives suddenly rose from her seat, “Excuse me Your Honor,” she cried out pathetically. Without further explanation, she squeezed by those seated between herself and the aisle. She shuffled slowly, miserably, out the door.

The bailiff looked to the judge for instruction.

“Go check on her and report back to me.”

“Yes, Judge,” the bailiff replied.

After a couple of minutes, the bailiff came back. “She’s no good to us, Your Honor.”

“See to it she gets any help that she needs. Tell her she’s dismissed and thank her for serving. We’ll go with the remaining alternate juror.”

The judge sequestered us in a nearby hotel with instructions not to discuss the trial to anyone.

The next morning, we reconvened. It was time to decide the fate of the accused.

Prior to our being sent to deliberate, the judge told us, "Your verdict must represent the considered judgment of each juror. In order for you to return a verdict, it is necessary that each juror agree thereto. Your verdict must be unanimous.” He then proceeded to say that we were to consult with one another, but to vote as we honestly believed appropriate according to the evidence that had been presented, and not to allow others to coerce us to do otherwise.

FOG

FOG

The miracle never came.

When you lose someone you love, it’s devastating, to say the least. Each of us has our own unique experience as we deal with it. What happened with you would be different from what happened with me. Even people within the same group of family or friends will each have their own feelings, their own memories of the loss of the same person. We all see, think, and feel differently, and we all grieve differently. There is no one way that is correct.

I would anticipate, though, that anyone who has lost a loved one can in some way relate to what I’m about to share.

When I try to recall the events surrounding my wife Marsha’s death, it’s like on TV, or a movie when you see someone dreaming, or struggling to remember, and there is this one tiny circle in the middle of the screen that is almost clear, but everything else on the screen is obscured. I call it fog.

If I had given it any thought before, I would have expected that by now I would be over the grief. No more mourning. And my memory would be clear. But that is not the case. I don’t grieve constantly, but I have done a lot of crying as I put this all together. And my memory is still a dense fog.

A lot of things I know. But I don’t remember. A few things I remember, but not clearly.

I remember driving Marsha to the Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville. I remembered we talked. But I can’t remember what we said. Maybe we were making plans for a cruise to Alaska to celebrate her return to good health. I know we made those plans, but I’m not sure when.

I don’t remember our final words before she went in for surgery.

I remember the initial excitement our granddaughter Annika and I felt when the doctors told us they had successfully removed the tumor. I remember high-fiving and making a pact with Annika  that when Grandma woke up, she could be the one to tell her they had gotten the tumor out.

I remember that Marsha didn’t wake up. Annika had to tell Grandma while she was still sleeping (in a coma) the good news about the tumor. We were hoping that the sound of our voices would help her wake up. But no.

That was February 24th, 2017.

Annika and I were at the hotel which connects to the clinic. There was a call late that night. Marsha was bleeding and they needed my permission to do some sort of procedure – the fog keeps me from remembering exactly they were going to do – and I consented.

And I know that a few days later I had a conference with the surgical team and ICU staff. I remember some of it, but not clearly.

I know we waited for my daughter Angi to arrive. I do clearly remember standing out in the hallway in ICU as Angi and Annika were in the room with Marsha, saying their goodbyes. I remember breaking down as I listened to Angi singing “Amazing Grace” to her dying mother.

I remember taking them to the Orlando airport, with a stop at our house in Clermont, Florida. And I remember vividly what I consider to be a miracle that happened while there. More about that later in another upcoming post.

I do vividly remember a dream I had. I was in our house, and I heard Marsha coming in from the garage through the utility room and I jumped up from the couch to meet her in the kitchen. She was the picture of health. And she was smiling. She always had the most beautiful smile.

I said something like, “I can’t believe how good you look! And how much better you are doing. It was only a few hours ago you were in a coma!” And then, of course, I woke up. I’ll remember that dream as long as I live.

Back in the real world, after dropping Angi and Annika off at the Orlando airport, I drove back to Jacksonville.

One clear memory I do have is when I got back to the Mayo Clinic, after parking in the lot and getting out of my truck, a young lady, maybe still in her twenties, said in a weak and trembling voice, “Excuse me …”

I said, “Yes?”

“Could I have a hug?”

I admit, I was unprepared for that. A complete stranger asking for a hug. It was broad daylight, in a hospital parking lot. Anywhere else, I would have been more suspicious.  But I could see the pain in her eyes. 

Her mother was a patient in the clinic, and not expected to survive. And she needed some comfort. So I of course gave her a hug, and sat with her on a bench next to the duck pond to listen as she unburdened her troubles onto me, a complete stranger. And I shared with her what we were going through, watching Marsha slip away from us.

I probably should have given her my email address and asked her to keep me informed on how she and her mother were doing, but it didn’t occur to me at the time. It helped us both, I think, to support one another, even for a brief moment.  Sometimes, I believe, people’s paths cross for a reason. I probably wouldn’t’ recognize her if I were to see her again, but I’ll always remember and be grateful for her.

I remember that life support was removed, but due to the fog I don’t remember if I was in the room at the time it was done. I kind of think I was, because I have these images in my mind. But those images are blurred, so I’m not sure enough to say one way or the other.

I remember my brother Jim flew down from Illinois to be with us, but I can’t recall when he got there. I do know that Marsha was still alive. I appreciate him coming to be there for me when she died. I remember thinking before he came down to Florida for me that I just wanted to be alone when the time came. But now, looking back, it was good to have him there. I’m grateful for his support.

I remember sitting in Marsha’s room, updating friends and family with texts and Facebook posts. And then, when Marsha stopped breathing, I remember pulling my chair next to her bed, holding her hand as her heartbeat faded away and finally stopped.

I’m sure I was talking to her, but that part is also foggy, and I don’t know what I said.

I do remember crying.  Sobbing. Even now, almost seven years later, my eyes are filled with tears, and my nose is stinging as I type my recollections on the keyboard.

Now What?

I remember continuing to hold Marsha’s hand for a while after her heart stopped beating.

I remember kissing her forehead.

I remember my brother coming into the room to comfort me. And I remember both of us sobbing.

After that, again … fog. Dense fog.

I sort of remember …  texting our daughter, letting her know.

Calling Marsha’s mother to deliver the news.

And posting on Facebook so that other family and friends throughout the country would know.

I’m not one of those who has to post everything on Facebook, but I found that it was helpful in getting the word out without having to contact everyone individually.

I was hurting, and the last thing I wanted was to have to go over everything time and time again.

I remember staying in the room until they came to take Marsha’s body. That was hard, seeing her being wheeled out, knowing it would be a few days and a thousand miles before I would see her again.

One of my cousins, Dan Young, and his wife Cindy were flying down to be with us that day. Marsha was already gone by the time they landed in Jacksonville. My brother Jim and I met them at the airport and from there we drove to our – technically now my –  home in Clermont. We all spent the night at the house, and the next morning Jim flew back home. Dan, Cindy, and I then drove from Florida back to Olney, Illinois.

Marsha and I had made living wills, and trusts which made things a lot easier when the time came. The one thing we had not done, though, was to pre-arrange our funerals.

I recommend you do consider doing that. Think of it as a parting gift for your loved ones. It will relieve them of having to make all the arrangements after you are gone.

I had to notify the funeral home back in Olney, so they could contact a local funeral home in Jacksonville, and arrange for Marsha’s body to be flown back to Illinois.

Back in Illinois, I had to arrange the funeral. Talk with the preacher who would deliver the eulogy. Pick out a casket. Buy a plot in the cemetery. Arrange for a headstone. None of these things are particularly difficult to do. It’s just that I had to do them right away when I was still numb, and feeling my way along in the fog. I don’t know how I got it all done, but I did. I also went ahead and pre-arranged my own funeral, so that my daughter won’t have to do all that when I pass.

There was visitation, and the funeral. I only remember a few of the people who came, even though there was a huge turnout – especially when you consider that for most of our adult lives we had lived hundreds of miles away from our hometown.

One thing I do remember vividly is seeing our granddaughter standing at the casket, alone, talking with Grandma before the funeral. She looked so tiny, and at the same time, so grown up. It broke my heart. I wanted to go to her and scoop her up, hug her tight and comfort her. But I didn’t. I knew she needed that time alone with Grandma. I still cry when I think of it. And yet again now as I share with you.

I remember my sister-in-law and her mother going to the nursing home in Flora, Illinois to get Marsha’s mother. I sat next to her at the funeral. She held up pretty well, all things considered. I myself broke down and sobbed. I can’t tell you one word the preacher said, or the music that was played, although I expect Amazing Grace would have been one of the songs.

I barely remember going to the cemetery. Then, more fog.

A few days later, we drove to Richmond, Indiana. We had lived there several years and had many friends who loved Marsha. One of those friends made arrangements for us to use a building at the fairgrounds to host a gathering to celebrate Marsha’s life. We had an excellent turnout. People we hadn’t seen in ten years. Lots of good stories, lots of laughs, and more than a few tears.

From there, we drove to Florida for yet another celebration of Marsha’s life in our church’s basement with friends who live there. Several people stood up and talked, sharing memories of her.

It may seem to some like we did too much. Like we should have just had a funeral and buried her. But to know Marsha was to know that she touched a lot of lives, and it helped us – my daughter, my granddaughter, and myself to feel all the love and support.

Then, we were done. My daughter and granddaughter flew back to Colorado. I stayed behind in Florida, with intent to come see them in a few weeks.

That was the first day of the rest of my life. The future had arrived.

I remember thinking, ‘Now what?’

The Alternate (Part One)

I, like many other retirees, enjoy writing. As you know, I have my blogs. But I also enjoy writing fiction. Every writer has dreams of one day making the best-sellers list, or seeing their work on the big screen or a TV series. For most, that doesn’t happen, but that is no reason not to pursue it if it brings you enjoyment and allows you to express yourself creatively.

I am currently working on a fictional story I plan to pitch to agents in an upcoming writers conference. Still lots of work to do on that project. I’ll keep you posted on how it’s progressing. Right now, it’s in the plotting stage – which means the story is brewing in my head – and not much has actually been written.

In the meantime, I thought it would be fun to post some of my earlier fictional stories written under my pseudonym Austin Jett. If you care to read them, I hope you will see some improvement from one story to the next as I gained experience. My hope is it will inspire others to pursue their dreams of writing, painting, or anything that makes retirement (and life in general) more fulfilling. Time is precious. It is our most valuable resource. Use it wisely, because when we are sitting on the porch in our rocking chairs, reflecting on our lives, we will not regret what we did nearly so much as we will regret what we did NOT do.

Let’s start off with one I wrote just for fun –  

The Alternate

Copyright Wayne Baker writing as Austin Jett

 (Part One)

1

 The jury summons said I was to report at the courthouse at 9:00 a.m. the following Monday. The trial on the docket would require the jury to be sequestered and for my trouble I could expect to receive just a bit over thirty dollars per day.

I considered blowing it off, disregarding it completely. Then I remembered a neighbor lady from when I lived in Indiana, whose summons didn’t arrive until the same day she was supposed to report. They actually sent a deputy sheriff to her house to harass her and threaten to place her under arrest. Eventually, she got it all straightened out, but who needs that kind of hassle? So, I figured I’d honor my obligation and report as ordered. Other plans would have to wait. And, I’ll be honest, I had more than a passing interest on a case that was going to be tried that week.

2

Monday morning, I awoke from a vivid dream in which I’d been throwing snowballs at Al Gore from the bed of a moving pickup truck. I lay there, trying to make some sense of it while still in that groggy, not quite awake but not asleep either state for a few minutes. I yawned and rolled over, burrowed back into the pillow and closed my eyes. Then, just a millisecond before drifting off again, I realized something was wrong. My eyes popped open, and immediately I saw the digital alarm clock, which read 8:21. “Oh, Geez!” I cried out. I had thirty-nine minutes to get to the courthouse.

 I jumped out of bed and grabbed my pants off the floor. I tried putting them on while hustling down the hall to the bathroom, got a foot caught in the pant leg, hopped a couple of times, and then fell face first onto the floor. The fall caused my back to begin to spasm, and it was a full two minutes before I could get up.

The back spasms had begun the previous evening, after having spent all day Sunday helping my friend Lucy move into her new apartment. Washing machines should come equipped with wheels, all apartment buildings should have elevators, and middle-aged guys should know to pay someone else to do the grunt work.

I had taken some Tylenol PM to kill the pain. The pills made me drowsy, and I had evidently failed to set the alarm clock. I was out the door by 8:32. I just might make it in time, if all the traffic lights were green, and I drove like a maniac.

3

All the lights were red. Traffic was heavy, at times barely moving. A repeating chime directed my attention to the amber LOW FUEL annunciator on the dashboard. I glanced at my fuel gauge, then the clock. 9:02, and I was only halfway there. I was officially late. Nothing could be done about it. No sense in running out of gas to make things worse. I pulled into the 7-Eleven, swiped my credit card and set the fuel nozzle to run while I hurried inside for coffee and a doughnut.

It was 9:24 when the courthouse came into view. Naturally, all the parking spaces were full, and I had to park three blocks away. By the time I made it into the building, my back was really hurting, and I could barely shuffle along. On top of that, the coffee had found its way through my plumbing system and I had to piss like a racehorse. Finding the men’s room was fairly easy. Not counting the fact that my back was still hurting like a son of a bitch, I was optimistic enough to think that maybe the whole day wouldn’t be so bad after all.

4

“You were supposed to be here at nine o’clock,” said the bailiff, a gruff-looking, middle-aged woman.

On the way there, I’d concocted a story. I sighed, exhaling heavily for emphasis, smiled, and shook my head, “You wouldn’t believe what happened. I was—”

“You’re right,” she scowled. “I wouldn’t believe it. Take a seat and wait.”

5

Jury selection began about ten-thirty for a murder trial. Some of my fellow potential jurors were excused because they admitted to having heard about the case. Heck, who hadn’t heard of the case? It had been all over the news for the last eight months. One or two in the jury pool had been represented by the defense attorney sometime in the past and, although technically eligible to serve by virtue of a Not Guilty verdict, were deemed unacceptable by the prosecution for the obvious reason that they might be biased toward the defense. The defense also blackballed a few that they found unacceptable.

I could have – should have – been excused, for you see, I had first-hand knowledge of the case. In fact, I was the only one in the entire room – the entire world – who knew for a fact that the defendant, some poor schmuck named Blake Allen, was not guilty. How did I know, you ask? I was the one who had done it.

6

Harvey Wilson was dead. He was supposedly the victim, but the truth was the world was a better place as without him. He had committed the worst offense against humanity, again and again, stealing the joy of life, the innocence, from defenseless children. The man was pure evil. He had ruined lives, destroyed families, and was responsible for at least one person committing suicide. His victims were so terrified of him that he had never paid the price. None dared accuse him nor testify against him. Not one. I don’t know about you, but I find that to be unacceptable.

I’d spent months researching and devising my plan, and then when the time came, mere seconds executing it. A lowlife predator got what he deserved. Harvey Wilson was dead, and I had killed him. Suffice it to say, I had my reasons. Turns out, killing him was the easy part.

When I had taken action to remove the threat of him ever harming another child, I believed, as I still do, that it was morally justified, necessary. I took care to cover my tracks, but certainly had no intention of framing someone else. Now this dumbass father of one of the kids manages to get arrested for it. Blake Allen had foolishly drawn attention to himself, threatened the guy in front of witnesses.

The prosecution could probably phone this one in, unless the jury was sympathetic to the defendant. So much so that they would return a Not Guilty no matter how damning the evidence. Hey, it happens. Just ask O.J.

 The real question – the one that I still hadn’t answered – was what I would do if Mr. Allen were to be found guilty. Would I write an anonymous letter to the police, or the prosecutor’s office, providing details only the true killer could possibly know? And, if I waited until the verdict had been rendered, would it then be too late? Would anyone care at that point? Anyone other than Blake Allen? Maybe I should write that letter sooner, rather than later.

I gave that one a lot of thought and decided against it. If I did it now, it might very well remove suspicion from Blake Allen, or at the very least provide reasonable doubt. But there was also the danger that it could reopen the investigation and there might be one minute detail, one small shred of evidence, that would lead them to me. No, like it or not, Blake Allen had placed himself under suspicion without any help from me. You don’t go around making threats on someone’s life, even if they don’t deserve to live. He was going to have to go through the inconvenience of temporary incarceration and trial. But, unbeknownst to him, he had an ace in the hole. All it would take would be one Not Guilty vote. One juror who would not bend.

Sunrise … Sunset

It can be overwhelming, transitioning into our retirement “Golden Years”.

We don’t know how many grains remain in the hourglass, but we know they are getting fewer and fewer.

There is still time. As long as there is a breath still in you, there is time. You can still decide what you want to become and make it happen, or you can let outside influences determine what you do with your time.

Life = time.

We see the innocence of time in our children and grandchildren.

To them, a year is forever, measured by the time between Christmas and birthdays, or promotions from one grade to the next at the end of the school year.

For them, life is filled with imagination and wonder. The world is an enormous playground, a place to be explored and enjoyed in perpetuity while learning who they are and dreaming who and what they will be when they grow up.

If we close our eyes and tune out the noise of the world, we can go back, if only for a few moments, remembering how it felt.

Sunrise. Sunset.

In the blink of an eye they are adolescents, navigating their way through the teenage years, on a quest to carve out their individual identity while at the same time trying to fit in with their peers.

Time is measured by rites of passage. Sports. Dating. Driving. Graduating and getting out into the big world, living on their own with no one to tell them what to do ever again. (I used to think that, too.)

Sunrise. Sunset.

Young adulthood brings its challenges one day at a time.

Finding work. Struggling to find themselves, starting a career, falling in love and starting a family.

Sunrise. Sunset.

Time's significance continues to evolve as we journey through different stages of life, shaping our experiences, relationships, and aspirations. We begin to think in terms of obligations.  

Some dreams had to be abandoned or at least postponed along the way.

Time is still on our side, but we have to start using it efficiently if we want to achieve our hopes and dreams.

Time management skills not only make you more productive, they allow you to take control of your life.

 They provide you more free time to do the things you enjoy.

 Play with the kids or grandkids.

Get in a round of golf. 

Go fishing. Better yet, take the kids or the grandkids fishing.

You aren’t chained to your desk because you got your work done on time.

Time is like water.

 Once it flows away, it never comes back. If you wonder where the time went, just remember that wherever your focus goes, so goes your time.

One day.

One hour.

One seemingly insignificant minute at a time, affecting our productivity, our relationships, and our personal development.

Like compound interest, it adds up.

Everything in life is a tradeoff.

You trade your time in exchange for results.

Those results can be either good or bad, depending upon how you use your time.

You trade your time for money. Hopefully you are adequately compensated. If not, it’s time to make some sort of change.

Time, like money, is a finite resource.

The main difference is that if you lose money, there is always a chance you can learn from the experience and gain it back.

Time, once it is gone, is gone forever.

The best you can hope for is to take the lessons learned and apply it as you go forward, not making the same mistakes again.

The Cost of Procrastination cannot be overstated.

Paralysis by analysis, waiting for everything to be just right, waiting for the approval of someone or everyone leaves you permanently stranded at the starting line.

Time mismanagement, while just as costly, is perhaps more forgivable by virtue of the fact that you were at least making some effort. But that is the difference between working hard and working smart.

Don’t mistake activity for productivity, or achievement. Work smart.

Years ago, I was a pilot in the employ of a successful businessman, Jack Graham. Mr. Graham had businesses in various locations throughout the country, and frequently travelled. He relied upon key individuals to see to the daily details of the individual businesses while he was away.

On one such occasion, he left the sales manager in charge of his automobile dealership which was located on a busy street in a small Illinois town while he was attending to business at his marina in Florida.

Upon his return to Illinois a week later, Mr. Graham called his sales manager into his office. “How’d we do this past week?” he asked.

“Oh, Mr. Graham,” the sales manager said, “I am so proud! Everyone worked so hard while you were gone!”

“I’m glad to hear that, “Mr. Graham said. “Did we make any money?”

“Well … business was slow,” the sales manager admitted, “but, like I said, everyone worked really, really hard.”

Mr. Graham stood, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a roll of cash. He peeled off a few bills and handed them to the sales manager. “I want you to go downtown to the sporting goods store and by a canoe paddle.”

“A canoe paddle! What for?”

“I want you to go downtown to the sporting goods store and buy a canoe paddle,” Mr. Graham repeated.

The sales manager knew better than to argue with the boss. He went to the store and came back half an hour later with the paddle.

“Come with me,” Graham said. “And bring the paddle.”

The two men walked together to a large flower bed at the entrance to the dealership lot. Graham pointed to it and said, “Get in.”

“Wha…?” the salesman almost asked one question too many, then caught himself. He got in the flower bed, trying and failing to keep his pants and shoes clean as he sat in the petunias 

Mr. Graham looked over his bifocals. “Start paddling.”

Reluctantly, the manager began paddling slowly, embarrassed that all the people driving by would see him. No doubt it would be the topic of conversation at the downtown diner and the barbershop.

He was hot and sweating, and he was dirty. More than that, he was humiliated. But his boss didn’t care about any of that. “Row harder,” Graham commanded.

Finally, the sales manager could remain silent no longer. “But I’m not getting anywhere!” he shouted.

“No,” Mr. Graham agreed as he removed his glasses and pointed them at his employee, “but you sure are working hard!” 

Use your time wisely if you are to be productive. Identify and pursue what truly matters. Work smart.

As we progress into middle age and beyond we begin to reflect on the passage of time more than we did before.

We begin to realize and assess the missed opportunities that have come and gone.

We wonder if there is still time to do the things we dreamed of not so long ago. We look at others and wonder how they managed to accomplish so much more …

This is the point when a midlife crisis can appear as we reevaluate and reconsider our priorities.

Two tests present themselves at this point.

The first is do we set worthy priorities?

 And the second is do we take appropriate and consistent action?

It’s not a matter of luck, keeping busy, or “hard work”.

It’s about having clearly defined intentions, targets to aim for, goals to achieve along the way, and working smart.

Winners are disciplined to work their plan and guard their time like it is gold.

They do not allow distractions or the expectations of other people to derail them. All of which enables them to use their time productively - to work smart.

What is the difference between today and tomorrow?

Today is right here. Right now. It is tangible. We can use it.

Tomorrow does not exist. Tomorrow never comes.

It’s all about what you’re doing right now.

It has nothing to do with what you say you will do tomorrow, or “when things settle down,” or “when I can find the time.”

Guess what? Time is elusive. It’s not going to come to you.

You have to make time.

You create it by diving into the “must do” projects and getting them out of the way.

 You do it by saying “no” to things that don’t matter and to people who think you should drop everything to do what they want this minute.

If it’s going to happen at all, it has to happen today.

 You won’t get it all done in one day.

That’s why every day, especially today, is important.

If it’s important to you, you will make the time.

If it’s not, you will make an excuse.

If it cannot possibly be done today, then prepare today.

Make at least some progress.

Find a way to make every day a victory.

Get the must-do’s out of the way.

Study.

Train.

Sharpen your skills.

Gather the tools you will need.

Make the best use of your time by doing what has to be done.  

While others play, we train.

Do more than your competition.

Do what others won’t.

Do what others believe can’t be done.

While others sleep, we get up an hour early and we train.

While others coast, basking in their past achievements, we work.

 While others procrastinate, we are busy defining our moments.

Do whatever it takes.

 This is how winners use their time.

 Take advantage of opportunities to use spare moments of time to train yourself.

 This is the ultimate test, and it will determine victory or defeat.

 It’s so easy to take it easy. To become a couch potato. To spend time watching television or surfing the internet.

What could you achieve if you cut your Facebook time down by 75 %?

What would you really miss? Arguing with strangers?

What if you cut your tv viewing time by half?

What if you were to define your moments by doing what needs to be done when you don’t really feel like doing it? Doing it when it isn’t convenient?

You are either moving toward the prize or you are moving away from it.

 You are either using your time or you are wasting it.

You are either doing it, or you are not doing it.

What are you doing right now?

Which way are you moving?

What are the top 1% doing right now? That is what you and I should be doing.

Time wasted can never be recycled. Use it or lose it.

Once it is gone, it is gone forever.

Ask yourself this: How many people succeeded at anything by waiting until everything was “just right” before they got started?

 Same question for people who waited for all their friends, family, and peers to give their blessing and encouragement?

 Every day that goes by, another 86,400 seconds are spent agonizing rather than living.

You can destroy today by worrying about tomorrow.

What is holding you back from investing your time and effort into doing what you are called to do?

What sacrifices are you making? Hint: Ultimately, it all boils down to time.

What’s on your bucket list?

 What are the most important things you want to accomplish before you die?

 If you never do them, how will you feel about yourself when you are sitting on the porch, in your rocking chair, and it is too late?

 You won’t regret the things you did nearly as much as you will regret the things you didn’t do.

Use your time, enjoy your health while you can.

And it’s not about working all the time, either.

It’s just as important … it’s MORE important to spend time with your children and grandchildren.

How long can you wait?

 At what point will there simply not be enough time?

At what point will there be NO time?

The way things are now is not the way things will always be.

Everything is temporary. Nothing lasts forever.

Time brings change. Learn to adapt, survive, and thrive.

The future is coming at us at the rate of one second per second.

 None of us know our future. Not even five minutes from now.

Now IS the future!

Just look at how fast your children or grandchildren are growing.

Sunrise, Sunset.

Yesterday is gone, and we can never get it back.

 Don’t ruin your present or throw away your future by wasting your time wishing you had a better past.

With regard to the future, we can’t see what is coming.

We don’t know what is just around the corner.

All the more reason to make the most of the present.

All we really have is now.

Your decisions create tradeoffs.

 When you say yes to one thing, you are saying no to everything else.

Unless you are one of those people who say yes to everything, and then you can’t get anything done.

How you spend your time will determine virtually everything about your life.

You have to establish priorities, boundaries, and limits.

There just isn’t enough time to do everything.

 You can have or do almost anything.

You can NOT have or do everything.

You have to choose.

You must be realistic, or you’ll be chasing unrealistic goals all your life, going from one unrealized dream to another without accomplishing anything.

There is no reason not to dream big.

 But do learn what it will take in terms of time, effort, and expense in order to succeed, then make your decision.

Dream big by all means, but break it down into manageable smaller chunks in order to avoid becoming overwhelmed.

Don’t say yes to everything, even to yourself.

Set priorities. Then do one thing at a time.

Don’t fool yourself into believing that multi-tasking is the answer.

What criteria will you use to make your choices?

The secret to getting anything done is really quite simple:

Decide.

Stop talking about it.

Begin.

I WILL NEVER FORGET THE FIRST TIME I SAW HER …

I will never forget the first time I saw her.

I cannot address the future, cannot plot my course through whatever time I have remaining without acknowledging the past. The person who I fell in love and grew into adulthood with. My wife Marsha, God rest her soul. She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen in my life. I remember that I was sitting in the junior college student union, talking with some friends. Oddly enough, I can’t recall today who the friends that I was talking with were. I only remember her. It was as if she glided into the room. Everything around her is blurred in my memory. There is only the image of her, and the way she looked in that tight sweater. Wow! I could feel my heart rate increasing.

As I said, Marsha was – in my eyes – easily the most beautiful girl on campus, and to this day, the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my entire life.

I asked who she was. “Marsha Leak,” someone said. “She’s really nice.” I knew that I had to meet her. I knew that somehow, I had to persuade her to go out with me. How I knew this is a mystery to me, because normally a girl who looked like that would intimidate me, leaving me lacking the nerve to even say hello. Yet, somehow, I knew this time it would be different. She was way out of my league, the kind of girl I’d never find the courage to approach.

And yet … somehow … I overcame my shyness.

I think it was because, besides her obvious physical attractiveness, I noticed something more. There was kindness in her eyes.

I don’t remember what we talked about during our first conversation, nor do I remember asking her out. The next thing I remember about her is when we were dating in November of 1973, just as I was about to turn 20 years of age.. And not long after that, I was totally in love. By February, we were married. Such a whirlwind romance is not the sort of thing I would recommend.

When Marsha and I started dating, I was working at as a line boy for Triangle Air Service at the Olney-Noble Airport – a small country airport located between the towns of Olney and Noble, Illinois. A line boy is primarily responsible for fueling and cleaning airplanes, and putting them in the hangars at the end of the day. In my case, the job description also included mowing the grass, climbing the tower to replace burnt bulbs on the rotating beacon, sweeping the office and hangar floors, and feeding the boss’s hunting dogs.

 Any money I earned working at the airport was spent on flying lessons. Within six months I tested successfully for my private pilot license. I was pretty proud of myself. To celebrate, Ed Smith, my flight instructor, his then-girlfriend and later-to-be-wife Susan, and I flew over to Flora, Illinois to pick up Marsha. From there we flew to Coles County Memorial Airport to eat dinner at the airport restaurant. It would be a good opportunity for me to officially get a night checkout and at the same time show off for my girlfriend.

The landing at Mattoon was not the best of my career. In fact, it was so bad that Marsha screamed because she thought we had crashed. I was embarrassed, but what can you do?

A few weeks later, against all common sense, I asked, and Marsha agreed to marry me. We tied the knot on a sunny February day, barely three months after our first date. The following morning, we were up with the chickens and flying to New Orleans for our honeymoon. I was proud of myself. I had the most beautiful girl in the world as my new bride, and I was flying an almost-new Piper Cherokee on a long cross country. I remember John Schnepper, Chief Pilot at Triangle Air Service, telling me that if I was worried about getting lost I could fly west to the Mississippi River and follow a barge all the way down to New Orleans.

Through good times and bad, we stuck together.

In time, we became parents, and then later, grandparents. Through it all, for 43 years, she was the wind beneath my wings. I would have been nothing without her.

Marsha worked as a teacher at a preschool. She was really good at her job. She loved the kids, and they loved her. She was always coming up with new craft projects for them to make in class, for the kids to play with and take home to show their parents. She never ran out of ideas.

Then … one day … Marsha started having headaches.

At first, we attributed them to stress and anxiety. We were going through some family issues at the time. Although she and I were pulling together, we were both under a lot of stress. So it only made sense that she would have headaches. I’m surprised I didn’t, too.

Marsha’s doctor didn’t seem too concerned. In fact, he even said it was probably stress. Then later, he said maybe it was her vision. She went to an eye doctor, who suggested she see a neurologist, but her doctor still would not refer her.

The headaches just wouldn’t stop … and they just kept getting worse and worse.

Eventually, the headaches got so bad she couldn’t keep working. She gave 2 weeks’ notice at the preschool. It broke her heart to do it, but by then, the headaches were all consuming. Her only relief from the pain was to sleep.

On her last day at work, a little boy got under Marsha’s feet. She didn’t see him, and when she began to move, she tripped over him and hit her head on a window ledge.

She was taken to the Emergency Room by ambulance.

In the Emergency Room, they did an MRI and discovered that she had a brain tumor.

Marsha’s official diagnosis was craniopharyngioma. Basically, it’s a rare type of brain tumor that mostly affects children, but adults get them sometimes, too. In Marsha’s case, it was not only causing her headaches, but it was damaging her optical nerves.

Over the next few months, she became blind in her left eye, and was beginning to lose sight in her right eye. And the headaches were getting worse. Marsha told me, “Wayne, I don’t want to live like this.”

We made several trips to the Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville. The surgeons there determined that they could get the tumor out … and we … well, we were so hopeful … If the headaches would just stop … if she could maintain what vision she still had … that would have been wonderful. Of course we were hoping for more. We were hoping her vision would come back. Hoping she could resume a normal life …

There were no guarantees, of course. And with every surgery there is risk. I think we were told there was something like a 2% chance that there could be excessive bleeding, and that could cause more problems. But a 2% risk means 98% chance things will go right! So, we scheduled the surgery.

February 24th, 2017, I, along with our granddaughter Annika, took Marsha to check in for surgery.

I don’t remember what we talked about during the last minutes we were together. That part of my memory is blocked out. I don’t remember kissing her, although I’m sure I did. And I don’t remember the last words we said to one another.

At the time, I’m sure I wasn’t thinking in terms of her never coming back to us. I do know that whatever we said to one another, we never said goodbye.

They did get the tumor out, but she never woke up.

While in a coma in the Intensive Care Unit, she suffered a series of strokes due to bleeding in the brain. Days went by with no response to any stimulus.

I even tried reading Junie B. Jones books to her, hoping to connect with her in the process. For those of you who don’t know … Junie B. Jones books are written for young children. I used to read them to our granddaughter, Annika. Marsha would listen, and she always laughed at the misadventures of Junie B. I thought maybe that would help. But still no response.

Marsha and I had living wills that spelled out our wishes under such circumstances as we were facing at that time. It was clear what she wanted me to do. All spelled out in the living will. I would have wanted the same thing if it were me in the coma instead of her.

It would be hard. And even though it broke my heart … I felt certain I knew what I had to do.

The time to make a decision was at hand. I knew that Marsha would want me to advocate for her, tell them to remove life support. But I needed to make sure I was making an informed decision.

One doctor on the ICU staff spoke with me, suggesting that the right thing to do would be to remove life support. It was hard to hear, even though it was exactly what I was thinking.

Then later, her neurosurgeon indicated to me that he was not yet ready to give up on my wife. He was somewhat upset that the ICU doctor had taken it upon herself to speak with me. I personally appreciated the fact that she had.

I asked for a meeting with the surgical team and those involved with caring for Marsha in ICU.

There are parts of the story, and this is one of them, where my memory isn’t clear. I was walking around in a fog much of the time. The things I do remember are of little importance, and out of sequence, meaning I don’t know in what order they happened.

Even preparing this script, I had to stop and break down a little bit. It just goes to show, you never really “get over it.”

So … what I remember about our meeting was there were several of us, maybe six, maybe a dozen … that part is shrouded in fog. I do remember Marsha’s neurosurgeon, Dr. Q, was there.

I asked what was the best case scenario if we kept Marsha on life support and waited to see what happened.

The answer sounded to me like a hellish nightmare. Bottom line was, after having a series of strokes following her surgery, she would not be able to do anything for herself. She would be bedridden, unable to communicate, most likely would not know who she was, or who anyone attending to her was.

There was of course the possibility that she would continue to survive in her coma state even without life support. And her existence would be pretty much the same.

Either way it was, as I said, a hellish nightmare. For Marsha. For me. For the family.

I couldn’t do that to her. To any of us. I can’t say I felt Marsha’s presence at that moment, but in my mind, I knew what she would say.

Other factors were also in play. Our daughter was flying in from Colorado. She would be leaving in a couple of days and would be taking our granddaughter back to live with her. I wanted them both to have a chance to say goodbye. And I didn’t want our granddaughter, who loved Grandma Marsha so much, to know we were removing life support. She wouldn’t understand.

So, at the close of our meeting, I told the staff my decision was to remove life support, but to wait a couple days until after my daughter and granddaughter had a chance to say their goodbyes and leave for Colorado.

After the conference, I went back to Marsha’s room in ICU. I pulled a chair up next to her bed, took her hand in mine. I told her we would be removing life support soon. “If you and God have a miracle in the works, now is the time to make it happen,” I said.

I had to tell her. Had to give her and God a chance to sort it all out and decide what was best. And I had to give myself some time as well. Time to accept the reality of what was going to happen. Time to cling to hope.

But time was running out for a miracle. It was now or never.

ONE SECOND PER SECOND!

ONE SECOND PER SECOND …

Hello, and welcome! I created this blog for – but not limited to – those of us who are of the Baby Boomer generation. All who remain young at heart and cling to a sense of adventure are kindred spirits here. We will cover a wide range of topics which affect us as together we venture into the great unknown in however much time we have in this exciting next phase of our lives, traveling forward in time at the rate of ONE SECOND PER SECOND. We will emphasize the significance of time. There are 86,400 seconds in each day. We all waste too many of them when we need to be creating our own bucket lists and relentlessly pursuing them! So, LET’S GET STARTED!

OK, What now?

We are Baby Boomers. Senior citizens. We have, or soon will have finally made it to retirement. We have no way of knowing what lays ahead. It will be what we make of it. Or how we deal with it. Or more accurately, both.

Our future is both exciting – we now have the freedom we have worked, sacrificed, and saved for – and at the same time, frightening. We go from being vital and necessary, to “I used to be ….” And we fear our future will never be as good as our past. I don’t know about you, but speaking for myself, “The older I get, the better I was.”

“I used to be …. a pilot.”

My last flight

It was well past midnight. We were just east of St. Louis and would soon begin our descent into the Greater Cincinnati International Airport. “Ready for the approach briefing?” the First Officer, Bob Ranson asked.

I nodded. This was it. I would be landing the Boeing 767 for the last time, taking an early retirement at the young age of 56. But I knew it was time. Someone once said that you begin your flying career with a full bag of luck and an empty bag of experience. The goal is to fill your bag of experience before you empty your bag of luck. I’d pushed my luck too many times over the past 37 years. I began flying at age 19 at the Olney-Noble Airport in Southern Illinois. I loved flying. It gave me a great sense of pride to say I was a pilot. Of course, I made a lot of amateurish mistakes early on, like everyone does. And I pushed too hard in weather, trying to prove myself. Not wanting to disappoint my bosses or my passengers by cancelling flights or missing approaches due to poor visibility. I’m not proud to say it, but I busted minimums more than once in order to get in, avoid diverting to an alternate airport. It was foolish. There’s an expression in aviation that summed up my flying career. “There are old pilots, and there are bold pilots. But there are NO old, bold pilots.” I was bold, back in those days, young and cocky.

I paid dues and built flying hours working as a flight instructor. Then, later, I flew as an air taxi and corporate pilot for people who thought nothing of working me around the clock, 24/7/365. Weekends, Christmas, anniversaries, and birthdays meant nothing. I was there for their convenience.

I stuck with it and eventually became a regional airline pilot - still working for peanuts. Then, sixteen years after my first flying lesson, I finally got a break and became a “freight dog” with Airborne Express. The operation at Airborne was much more disciplined and professional. No busting minimums but flying night freight meant that sleep deprivation would become a routine part of my life. Now, 21 years after coming on board with Airborne, the company had evolved to become ABX Air, an ACMI carrier – meaning that we provided Aircraft, Crew, Maintenance, and Insurance for other companies. We were basically a contract carrier for DHL and others. During that time, I made steady progress, career-wise, from flying as first officer (copilot) on the YS-11 turboprop and DC9 (my first jet!) to captain on the YS and the 9. I eventually found myself in the left seat of a Boeing 767. Not bad for a kid who grew up on a pig farm in Southern Illinois!

It was a good life, once you adjusted to the weird hours. And the pay was good. Really good. Looking back, after all these years, I sometimes struggle to understand why I wanted to take the early retirement incentive the company offered us. I mean, I did have it pretty good.

The company had been “junior manning” crewmembers a lot, basically requiring us to fly on our days off. That made it nearly impossible for me to get caught up on my rest. I had trouble staying awake while flying all night long from our sort center in Cincinnati to the west coast. And once there, I had trouble sleeping during the day at the hotel. Then, in the evening, when the rest of the world was winding down, I had to drag myself to the airport to fly back to Cincinnati. Then to somewhere else the next day. And so on for the rest of my duty block. I was wrung out, and burned out. Through the years, I accumulated a lot of knowledge, experience, and judgment. Dare I say wisdom? I knew my limitations. No longer bold, I was feeling old beyond my years.

“Approach briefing?” Bob prompted me again.“

I sighed heavily, turned to him and said with a grin, “Hang on Goose, We’re gonna buzz the tower!”

Bob’s eyes widened. “You’re gonna do what?!!!”

I laughed, then proceeded to brief the approach for real. Initial approach altitude, touchdown zone elevation, approach speeds based on aircraft weight, and missed approach procedure. We would be landing to the east on a snow-packed runway with a quartering crosswind from the left. I wanted to make it a good one.

I couldn’t help but wonder what my new life was going to be like. I would now have to find out if I could live full time with my wife, for one thing. We had been married for 36 years by then, but being a pilot, I was gone half the time. If she got tired of me on my days off, Marsha knew she would only have to tolerate me a couple more days and then I’d be out of her hair again. More than once she would ask, “When are you going back to work?” So yeah, it would be a challenge. Probably more for her than for me.

Just a couple days prior to this, my retirement flight, we were laying over in San Diego. I was sitting at a table in the hotel restaurant, enjoying a leisurely breakfast with another ABX crew. The waitress overheard us talking about my upcoming retirement. She’d gotten to know me over the years, so she joined in the conversation, saying, “What are you going to do? You’ll need to feel needed.”

To which one of our group replied, “It won’t be long before his wife says, ‘I NEED you to GET OUT OF THE HOUSE!” I remember thinking he was probably right. (*Note: To any retired husbands who want a boat … spend LOTS of time at home with your wife … It worked for me, and it didn’t take long!)

Normally, I made smooth landings in the 767, but this, my final one, was not so smooth. I guess you could say I arrived with authority. (Which is another way of saying I pranged it in.)

We taxied to the ramp, shut down the engines, and for the final time, completed the shutdown checklist. I took a moment, listening to the sounds of the ground crew offloading the freight containers, looking at the cockpit, burning the images of the instruments, the overhead panel, the view of the ramp through the cockpit window. I wanted to linger, just a while longer. But the crew van was pulling up to the airplane. It was time to go.

A short ride on the crew van to our crew lounge, a call to flight control to debrief the flight, and then my final act, turning in my company manuals to the chief pilot on duty. I was so tempted to tell him I had changed my mind at the last minute, that I wanted stay with it a few more years. But, like I said, it was time. I said goodbye to a few friends, knowing I would never see most of them ever again, turned in my ID badge, and next thing I knew I was leaving the parking lot for a nearby hotel. In the morning, I would drive home to Florida. I was now a retiree. A new chapter in my life was about to begin.

I soon learned that I was nowhere near as ready for retirement as I thought I was.

The fatigue, the burnout, the sleep deprivation, combined with the junior manning – messing with my days off – had all combined to convince me I had nothing left in me. I, like most others, frequently bid to fly an extra trip or two a month, but that was different. I could pick and choose the days I volunteered for, based on how well rested I felt, where the trip was going, etc. When they arbitrarily threw me onto another trip in the middle of my days off, it only added to the fatigue and frustration.

After a few months of retirement, I was rested. All I really needed was a long vacation and for them to not make me fly on my days off. But it was too late. So I started looking for something to do. I took a couple of jobs working security. It was something to do, and it let me make a few extra bucks, but not much. And then one night, there was a gunshot. I was alone, unarmed, out in the middle of nowhere. It took the police 16 minutes to get there.

So, working security was a short-lived career for me. It did provide me with material for a fictional book I wrote – Walkabout – Taking a Mulligan. It’s a story about Ty Hamilton, a retired pilot, bored out of his mind, working as an unarmed security guard in the middle of nowhere. One night, he sees something he is not supposed to see happening on an adjoining property. One thing leads to another, and before you know it, someone is hired to kill him.

Our retired pilot/security guard manages to turn the tables, and the hired killer is the one who doesn’t live to see the next morning. Then, a funny thing happened. Ty realizes that there is a strong physical resemblance between himself and the assassin. Easy as falling off a log to assume the other fellow’s identity and start life over with a clean slate. Go wherever he wants. Do whatever he wants, with whomever he wants. For as long as he wants. All. The. Time. Sounds like a heckuvva deal, eh?

Well, Ty soon learns the hard way that as Erma Bombeck used to say, “The grass is always greener over the septic tank.” But it’s too late to turn back. And of course, with a title like “Walkabout,” you know he ends up in Australia.

So, that’s what I do to amuse myself. I write. And now, beginning today, I am a blogger

Finances and health permitting, many of us now have time to do things we’ve always dreamed of.

Hopefully, we have by now already checked off several items on our bucket list, replacing them with new ones as we went along. My wife Marsha died at the age of 63. I am glad that we took advantage of opportunities to do enjoyable things along the way, before her health prevented it.

We raised horses on our small farm, camped and rode trails with our “horse friends” in Indiana. We rode trails with outfitters in Alaska, the Canadian Rockies, and on beaches in New Zealand.

We attended a performance at the Sydney Opera House, and rode in a hot air balloon while in Australia. Later, when we lived in Florida, we cruised the lakes in our pontoon boat, stopping at lakeside restaurants for lunch. The boat was also great for fishing. Some people take fishing very seriously, and they carefully choose their boats, not to mention fishing equipment to enhance the enjoyment of their hobby. There are many fishing campgrounds throughout the country where you can come and go as you please, and lodges to choose from if you prefer to do it that way.

And we raised a daughter that we loved with all our hearts, and we had a good life together. But all too soon, Marsha was gone. She knew and loved one grandchild, but never knew the others that would come along later.

Somehow, life goes on.

We are now … I can hardly make myself say it … Senior Citizens. Baby Boomers! Who among us knows how many grains of sand remain in the hourglass? By now, we’ve lost friends and, some of us have lost spouses. We understand that life is short, and nothing lasts forever. I myself had a couple of wake-up calls with regard to my health. In December of 2020 I had an eye stroke that left me permanently blind in my right eye. And more recently I had a close encounter with the Grim Reaper in September of 2023. My heart was about to give out on me. I went in for surgery to replace the aortic valve, and when they opened me up, they discovered an aneurysm that was about to burst. Following my surgery, the surgeon told my daughter I was a “dead man walking” when I came into the hospital.

If I’d known I was going to live this long, I certainly would have taken better care of myself!

I don’t know about you, but when I was young, I had no idea how quickly the years would fly by. All my life, I took my health for granted. Now, I realize that was a mistake. All I can do now is do better. Eat right. Exercise. Use my BIPAP machine when I sleep. Take my meds. Go to the doctor. (I seldom went prior to my eye stroke.)

So, ok, what do we do now? How do we make the future the best it can be? While we can afford to? While we still have our health? Do we go into a version of the two-minute drill, packing as much as we can into every day? Or do we pace ourselves? I personally would rather wear out than rest out.

I am a firm believer that the time to do things is NOW!

While you can afford it. While you are still healthy and able.

Let’s face it, we aren’t getting any younger!

I am reasonably healthy, but finances and family circumstances prevent me from having a new adventure every week. Even so, I do still have several opportunities. And so do you, I bet. Some of us want to travel. Some want to pursue hobbies. And others want to continue working. Or maybe a combination of these options. That’s the best part about being retired. You can pick and choose. And if you don’t like something, leave it, forget it, and choose again.

I’m constantly working on my version of a Bucket List –

adding to, deleting from, modifying it. And I’ve checked off quite a few items. I’ll mention some of them here, just in case you are looking for ideas.

A bucket list is essentially a list of things that you want to do or accomplish in your lifetime. The term “bucket list” comes from the phrase “kick the bucket,” which means to die. Therefore, a bucket list includes all the different things you want to do before you die, including dreams, goals, and adventures.

Bucket lists can also include major accomplishments, small pleasures in life, and everything in between. It’s good for our well-being to have a north star, and bucket lists give us something positive (and uplifting) to focus on.

Some people’s bucket lists might include traveling to exotic destinations, skydiving, or running a marathon. Others might include more personal goals, like learning to play a musical instrument or getting a tattoo. No matter what’s on your list, a bucket list is a great way to keep track of the things that are most important to you. That way, you don’t miss out on any of the amazing experiences life has to offer.

Tips for creating a bucket list in 2024

To help you brainstorm and prioritize all the different bucket list ideas below, here are some quick tips that might be helpful:

1. Think big!

Don’t limit yourself to small or practical ideas. Your bucket list is a chance to dream big and push yourself out of your comfort zone.

2. Don’t be afraid to get creative

Your bucket list doesn’t have to be traditional or conventional. It can include unconventional or offbeat ideas that reflect your unique interests and personality.

3. Make it personal

Your bucket list should reflect your values, goals, and passions. Don’t worry about what others think or try to conform to societal expectations.

4. Be open to new experiences

Your bucket list is a chance to try new things and step out of your comfort zone. Don’t be afraid to experiment and be open to new ideas.

5. Seek inspiration

Look for inspiration from friends, family, books, movies, and other sources. Don’t be afraid to ask for suggestions or borrow ideas from others.

6. Prioritize your goals

Decide which items on your list are most important to you and set goals for when you want to accomplish them. This will help you stay focused and motivated.

7. Have fun and enjoy the journey

Remember, the purpose of a bucket list is to have fun and enjoy life to the fullest. Don’t stress about completing everything on your list or worry about perfection. Just have fun and make the most of every moment.