Where Does the Time Go?

 There is no more perishable commodity than time. 

In June I began my 79th circuit around the sun and looking at the photos on the walls of my barn office it seems only yesterday that three friends and I loaded the string bass, a couple of guitars and assorted nutrients into the $50, 1940 Packard and sallied forth to make musical history. (The music was pure fun, the history fleeting. I wish I had that Packard back). 

We played for Legionnaires and Governors and even the retired Commissioner of Baseball, met Colonel Sanders and were conferred the title of Kentucky Colonel ourselves before it was all over. We were young then and took time for granted. We had tons of it.

As men in our twenties we faced the prospect of war. The draft was very much on our minds. Two of us joined the Navy, two the National Guard. We all could have been deployed; one was, the others prepared but were not needed. The ploys of man did not deny us the gift of more time.

We each eventually found our career callings: One is a financial planner, one a real estate executive, one is a minister, and that left me to be a corporate pilot. Somebody had to do it. We're all retired now, but we haven't retreated.

I can't write about the paths my three friends took, only mine. What can be said in my defense is that I have wanted to fly since I was a little boy, growing up in the mountains of western North Carolina. The prospect of going up and looking down has never diminished and I practice that art every chance I have to this very day.