Time runs faster than I do

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My dear friend from high school and I reconnected after almost forty years, and we decided that for our sixtieth birthdays, we would celebrate with lunch at a restaurant. With that event in motion, we kicked it up a notch and invited other classmates to join us. We reserved a room, ordered a cake from a bakery, and spread the word. On a Saturday at noon, about twenty of us showed up for fried fish and hush puppies and remembering our teenage years. 

    The lunch idea took off and continues monthly to this day, but because I live in another state, I rarely attend. When I see the announcement of the next gathering, I sigh.

    I especially sighed after hearing that Mrs. Loggins, my tenth grade English teacher, popped in at one of the luncheons. Mrs. Loggins stands out in front of all my other teachers, and I would have given anything to see her.

    Considering that I would never have the chance to meet up with Mrs. Loggins, I settled on writing a letter, to tell her about such things as me sitting on the edge of my seat when she carried us through MacBeth, and that by picking my short story as the best one and reading it to the class, she gave me confidence in my writing. 

    Penning a letter to Mrs. Loggins was always the next thing to do. 

    But alas. Procrastination is one of my faults. I often put off until tomorrow or the next day what I could do today, and sometimes, I wish I could go back and do what I put off. One of those things I regret is not letting Mrs. Loggins know how much she helped me.

    I waited too long. For before sitting down and writing the letter, I read in an email that Mrs. Loggins passed away.

    A similar thing happened with my Sunday school teacher, Mr. Crawford. He taught college-age Sunday schoolers, and in my youth, I sat in a straight-back chair in his classroom, clinging to his every word. I can still hear him using a favorite phrase, not just wrong but sincerely wrong. 

    Penning a letter to Mr. Crawford was always the next thing to do, but again, I waited too long. He spirited away to a classroom in the sky before I even wrote Dear Mr. Crawford.

    You would think that after missing the boat twice, I would not miss another one, and that I would make every effort to tell those who influenced me and made a difference in my life that they influenced me and made a difference in my life. 

    But sometimes, it isn't as easy as going to lunch or writing a letter. Distance, death, and other obstacles get in the way.

    Mrs. Loggins was seventy-three when she died; Mr. Crawford was eighty-one. In both cases, I thought there was plenty of time, but as I sit here writing my heart out, Father Time whizzes past me. Minutes and hours are fleeting, and in the end, I will not have said all I needed to say, or done all I needed to do, or written all I needed to write.

    So, here I am with a blanket thank you and a blanket I'm sorry -- to the special people I have met along the way. Thank you. I'm sorry. Please excuse me for all that remains unsaid, undone, and unwritten, at least for the time being.

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