Just Carpe-ing the Diem

For some reason, we all love movies involving preparatory schools. A Separate Peace, School Ties, The Emperor's Club, and whatever ones I'm just not remembering right now.

One of the great morality tales of my youth was Dead Poets Society.

Maybe in part because of it, sure everyone is familiar with the loose translation of "carpe diem". I'm also sure most of us occasionally have that thought come through our head when a great challenge or opportunity approaches us. But the opportunity to actually seize something worth keeping in our grasp is a rare opportunity, indeed.

Of the movies listed above, A Separate Peace was actually my favorite. Of all the books assigned to read during four years of high school English, this was the only one I actually read all the way through. I have authority issues, but that's another topic.

I even once reserved the name Phineus for my first-born male child. Until I saw To Kill A Mockingbird, which I have since read and enjoyed very much; thank you, Bonnie. After that, Atticus was my name of choice. If anything, you'll notice the strong Roman influence in my names.

Let's face it, most days are ordinarily mundane and average. For example, the best thing that happened to me yesterday was I used my too-often-forgotten wok to make some delicious Chinese food and then my new ceramic pie pan to make an apple pie. And that was a better day than most.

I received Joan Didion's latest book, "The Year of Magical Thinking" last week. If you're not familiar with the book, she recounts the year in which her husband of forty years suddenly suffered a fatal coronary the month after their daughter, whose wedding only occurred five months previous, entered a septic shock-induced coma.

It is a tale of grieving and coping with the cruelties Life tosses at us.

Didion's late husband, John Gregory Dunne, was an author, as well. It was not uncommon for them to spend all day in each other's presence. Each had his or her own separate home office for working, to be sure; but they were rarely more than a shout away from each other. At four o'clock each day, they would halt work, retire to the garden for conversation, then sit down for dinner together that evening.

Exactly two years ago today, after visiting his daughter in the hospital, John Gregory Dunne sat down to enjoy a pre-dinner scotch. As his wife prepared his second glass, he recounted a World War I book he recently started. Somewhere in there, he fell to the ground and died that night. What sounded like a relatively typical day ended up being his last.

Reading this book has brought with it my own realization of mortality. I'm in my early 30's and should reasonably expect another half-century or so of living.
However, I'll never be sure of the moment my life is scheduled to expire. As I've been reading this book, I've often paused with the thought: "Is this the last time I'll [insert activity]."

Then today, I read in the paper of a gentleman who, having just bowled a perfect game, collapsed in the lanes and died on the spot. All his bowling buddies said that is how he would have preferred to go. Maybe so.

It reminded me of the bumper stickers you often see. "I'd Rather Be Driving A Titleist" or "I'd Rather Be On The Beach". I, too, have a Better Vision of Me, but not anything I could cleverly encapsulate or slap on a bumper sticker.

So while I may be often unaware of the next hanging fruit to be plucked, I wonder if the last nectar I sucked will be my last. But if I want to remain true to the saying, it's not anything to sit around and ponder.