With the onset of old age comes regrets and regrets about how I should have lived my younger life if only I had known then what I know now.
Why didn’t anyone tell me this would be the last time I stood in awe of the Grand Canyon, the mighty redwoods, the beauty of Lake Tahoe, and the haunting Badlands? If only I’d known it would be the last time I’d see a show in Vegas, listen to poets in Elko, raft the Rogue, or fly to Seattle and Sydney, Australia on a sunlit day. I wish someone had warned me that I wouldn’t get to experience charming New Mexico, the Alamo in San Antonio, the Lincoln Memorial, the village of Williamsburg, and the music of Bourbon Street again. If I had known, I would have stopped a little longer.
I would have said goodbye a little differently if I had known it would be the last time I would tell my mother I loved her, give my horse Gentleman one last carrot and my dog Aussie a big old bone. I would have been with my grandfather the day he died instead of regretting it for the rest of my life. I wish I had asked grandpa to teach me how to fish and grill a steak. I should have paid more attention when grandma tried to teach me how to play the piano. Who knew that I would one day become a furrier and that I would have benefited greatly from letting my mother teach me how to put on a zipper, how to build a reef, and how to properly maintain a sewing machine? After all, she kept us all fed by working 14 hours a day as a dressmaker.
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I wish I had made a list of all the books I’ve ever read so I wouldn’t read the same book again. Life is too short to read the same book twice.
If only I had taken the opportunities I was given to learn how to operate a backhoe, a crane, a milling machine and a lathe. Why didn’t I learn to speak Spanish better than I did after studying it for five years in school? I wish I had read more novels, less People magazines, and definitely more directions. (Hey, what can I say, I’m a man.)
You can laugh, but I wish I had raised a goat. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I raised sheep and cattle for a living, but I’ve always been curious about goats. They seem to have several advantages: they don’t need to be sheared, they aren’t the finicky horses that horses are, and the kids are so cute.
Speaking of kids, if I had known we wouldn’t be able to have any, I would have held more babies, been a 4H leader longer, and read to more toddlers. I wish I had known how valuable our first cars would one day be, and then we might have hidden them away for decades. And why didn’t I pick up dirt instead of old, rusty horse bits?
Why didn’t someone tell me that I always wear a leather jacket when arc welding, that I never wear flip flops in the shop, and the proper way to sharpen a knife? I should have paid more attention to my one computer class in college. If only I had properly appreciated the eight hours of restful sleep, I used to get up instead of having to get up at least twice during the night. If only I had known how to always floss, eat less sweets, run more marathons and walk every day. I should have taken more adult education courses, paid more attention to pool sharks, learned all about diesels from Uncle Buddy, continued working in leather after a couple of sessions in Cub Scouts, and gone at the auction school. If I had known I would one day be a writer, I would have taken a typing class in high school instead of trigonometry. I regretted not knowing enough about electricity. If I had known that one day I would become a cowboy I would have fallen in love with horses long before.
If only I had known… I would have fished more, worried less, doodled more and been less cushioned.
Why didn’t anyone tell me these things?
Maybe they did, and I wasn’t listening.
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