ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1996, Roanoke Times
DATE: Monday, October 7, 1996 TAG: 9610070126
SECTION: EDITORIAL PAGE: A-5 EDITION: METRO
COLUMN: Monty S. Leitch
SOURCE: MONTY S. LEITCH
A FEW weeks ago we passed the last official day of summer. We noticed. We remarked upon it. It was the last day of summer. The final one. For sure.
Over the weekend, nevertheless, a friend and I went skinny-dipping in the rain. The water was cold, cold, cold. But not too cold to bear. Not too cold to enjoy, in a last-of-the-season kind of way.
Was that swim, however, the last skinny-dip of the summer? Have all the days of sun and water slid away from me for this year?
Earlier in the week, I mowed the yard. Again. Again, again, again. All summer long, no matter how often I've mowed, the yard has needed mowing again. But this time ... this time I'm not so sure. Maybe this time of mowing was the last time for the summer. But maybe it wasn't. How can I tell?
Two summers ago, I went on a "tubing party" along the Cowpasture River. That day, the sky was clear and bright, the air hot and buzzing with summer excitement. Maybe the day seemed more beautifully summery than it otherwise would have because we'd just suffered through a week of rain.
The river was up a little, and fast. The water was cold. Cold, cold, cold. But we were in a festive mood. One fellow had brought along a special little inner tube in which to float his cooler of beer.
For some of us, however, the trip took on an edge. It turned ugly. The route was long; longer than we'd expected, and we were wet for hours. But despite the river's extra water that day, sharp rocks from under the rapids constantly banged and bruised our bottoms. Long before we'd reached the promised cook-out at the end, we were tired and frustrated and even a little scared.
"I'll never do this again," said my tearful companion. "This is my last river trip."
But then, she stopped herself. She considered what she'd said. "So," she remarked, "this is my last river trip."
How often do you know - really know - when you've done something for the last time? The first time is clear. That's easy to spot. But the last time? How often do you really know?
There is a possibility that I will skinny-dip again this summer. But I doubt it. I doubt it especially when October rains drizzle down over the eaves and drip off the ends of leaves. I doubt it whenever mornings are cloaked in a damping fog.
It's more likely that I'll mow again; the grass appears to be growing yet. But even that's not a certainty. How can I really know?
A friend is dying. He knows that he is. He knows that over the course of the next few weeks and months, he will be doing this, and then that, for the last time. But which time will, in finality, be the last time? And does it even matter to him? To those who love him?
These could be the last words I ever write. I certainly don't intend that they be, but who knows? Monumental changes explode across our lives with stunning suddenness.
But they also creep up on us from behind: When did that happen? we cry out in bafflement. When did I lose my ability to climb those steps, read fine print, eat cucumbers in comfort?
This is the way it is. We live in the present moment, and sometimes we see that moment for what it is, but often, mercifully, we do not.
Monty S. Leitch is a Roanoke Times columnist.
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