Tempus Fugit, I Say

Today is January 27, 2004. There’s snow on the ground and my driveway is a sheet of ice. My dad, or Pop as we always called him, used to say quite often and for really no particular reason at all: "Tempus fugit,"or “Time flies” in our English vernacular. And he was right. Case in point? Just this morning as I swam through the fog of sleep on my way to awakening, it occurred to me that this was indeed January 27. My, my, I thought to myself. Can it possibly be that just 60 years ago today I walked across the stage in the auditorium at Herbert Hoover High School in Glendale, California, to receive my graduation diploma?

It was 1944. World War II was in full bloom. The D-Day landing at Normandy was five months away and some of my classmates were already packed and ready to ship out to various boot camps and other basic training facilities. It was the time we lived in; the way things were. As for me, a skinny, blond 17-year old kid, I was destined to wait until my 18th birthday in early September to follow my friends into the service. Alas, I had less than perfect vision -- mixed astigmatism, they called it -- and I wasn't qualified to join the navy with many of my friends. I would have to wait until my 18th birthday and a draft notice, or "Greetings," from President Roosevelt before I would wear the bell bottoms and blues of the navy.

A lot has happened since those early days. Time has really flown by for me. A photo taken graduation night at the old Florentine Gardens in Hollywood, still among my souvenirs, showing the faces of friends smiling across that long-ago table brings Pop's statement swirling up to the surface of memory. Indeed, time does fly.

Since then, WWII has been fought and won; the Korean Conflict, as they called it in those days, finally managed a shaky cease fire; and the involvement in Vietnam turned the US of A upside down. The bitterness still lingers in many of the survivors. Presidents have been elected; some have since died; one was assassinated in Dallas; and the century’s long civil rights conflict has been somewhat resolved. Tempus fugit! The Gulf War lasted 100 days and ended before it should have, and even now a resolution is being worked out in Iraq. Remember Pearl Harbor shares the stage with 9-11-01 as another day of infamy and life will never be quite the same again.

We were married, Betty and I, in 1948, a few months before Israel was declared a nation, and we raised three sons. We buried Pop in 1955, Betty’s dad in ’72, my mother in ’73, and my brother, Jack, in 1979. In January, 1982, we retired and moved to Western North Carolina. A massive stroke took Betty in April, 1997, and time continues to fly for me; even living alone as I am now.

And so, today is January 27, again seemingly for the first time, and the realization that 60 years have somehow scurried by without my really being aware of their passing is somewhat disconcerting. How have all those days weeks, months and years flown by so quickly? Frankly I haven’t a clue. Perhaps it’s best that I don’t. I’m sure of one thing, however: The days I have left to live on this old planet are unknown to me, and graciously so. However, flying by as they have done all these years, the thing that’s a bit puzzling is the way they keep gaining speed: Tempus fugit times two, you might say. And my driveway is still a sheet of ice, don’t you know?