Sometimes I forget important things, like neglecting the maintenance of my automobile or assuming that engines replenish their oil all by themselves. In fact, that takes me raising the hood, removing the dipstick, wiping it clean, reinserting it, and then withdrawing it to check the level of the oil. If it’s between the two etched marks on the end of the stick, I know I don’t have to add oil. Pretty simple. Yet sometimes I guess it can go without checking. But guessing is for game shows, not auto maintenance, which I otherwise do well.
On other occasions, I forget to turn off the sprinkler in my “beer garden” at the river, or “riv’ah” as slowly pronounced in the “Naw’thin Neck.” That place, bounded by the Potomac on the north, the Rappahannock on the south, and the Chesapeake Bay on the east, is where I do most of my book writing. Typically, I’ll turn on the sprinkler, go inside, get enthralled with scribing, and forget that I am mercilessly drowning my vegetables. Fortunately, it’s a raised bed, just about to hip level, so the water drains well when it occurs to me to stop the flood. Oh, and the reference to “beer garden?” That is because when I weed the garden, I can set my beer on the raised ledge to weed the bed. Easy on the back, while accommodating my thirst for a cold “bev’age,” yet another colloquialism.
Checking the oil and watering the gardens are important. But not that important. What is? At three-quarters of a century old, I still do some important things. Gone are the days of earlier significance, a 28-year military career, and another decade and a half in Virginia’s legislature. Now the important things tend to center on relationships.
Most recently, I built a toy battleship for my youngest grandson, who is 4, and lives in Kansas City. He’s a very bright lad who loves animals, but I had a piece of wood in my shop that gave every evidence it would make a fine replica of the USS Missouri (BB-63). Pulling the right pieces of spare wood together, I fashioned a reasonable facsimile of the legendary battlewagon for him to slay fleets of imaginary adversaries. Years from now, that toy may or may not exist. But maybe he’ll remember he had a grandaddy who made it for him, and think fondly of it. And then, hopefully, will do something similar for the future apples of his eye.
Not long ago, I spent time with fellow veterans of the 1st Infantry Division with whom I served in the First Gulf War. Those are special relationships to me, particularly since this year was the 35th anniversary of our successful effort to liberate Kuwait from Iraq’s aggression in 1990-I991. I wrote a book about that because I thought it was important to chronicle it. But more importantly, reuniting annually to be with my comrades in arms is very important. One day, we’ll be gone, but since this reunion stretches across multiple generations—Vietnam, the First Gulf War, and the conflicts in Afghanistan and Iraq—it’s an opportunity for old soldiers to pass the transcendent lessons on to younger ones. They will tell our stories and theirs, too. It’s important. As we like to say, half of the war stories are true, and the other half should have been.
There are other things I do that are important. A few weeks ago, I spent time with five other Army officers from my days as a young lieutenant. I was the junior fellow in the pack. They were all like big brothers I never had. And wise beyond their years, at least I thought so. In a fashion, they imprinted me with good thinking that I carried with me in my profession throughout my Army career. Occasionally, I would reach in and dispense that wisdom to others. Funny how that works, young soldiers equipping others to be old ones. These relationships are also important. They must be cared for and nourished, even until we join the immortal ranks of soldiers past.
So, there are some important things I do in relationships that are significantly more valuable than checking the oil and subjecting my vegetables to Noah-like diluvial punishment.
However, consider this relationship as found in an exchange between Jesus and a learned man in Matthew 22:35-40. A lawyer asked, “Teacher, which is the great commandment in the Law?” And Jesus said to him, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the great and first commandment. And a second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself. On these two commandments depend all the Law and the Prophets.”
Important stuff, indeed.
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