As I write these words in late-January, I have the warm-fuzzies for a short trip taken a few weeks ago between Christmas and New Year’s.  The trip itself was a wonderful break from the rigors and rote of everyday life; my wife and I had a great time!  At the time, however, it just seemed like one of those standard getaways: shopping in little shops, taking in local attractions, sampling the provincial cuisine, and the like.  All good, mind you; I’m not complaining.  But it did not stand out in the moment as anything particularly unique, except for the break in the routine that it offered.

As I reflect now, several weeks removed from this short foray to flee the hum-drum, this little sabbatical takes on an entirely new aura in those nostalgic spaces of my mind.  I’ve begun to develop special memories of all of the little out-of-the-ordinary things that we did on that trip, and I find myself beginning to long for them once again.  Even recollections of simply walking down the street in sub-freezing temperatures—trying to reach the next little shop before our hands and feet became frostbitten—are well on their way to becoming fond memories, yes, nostalgia.

The more I think about how it is that nostalgia takes time to fully bloom, the more I have to believe that it is a stripping-away process.  It is a whittling down of the event—in the mind, over time—to its more important essentials.  In the moment, there is much of our daily routine that still takes place on a getaway from home.  We still get out of bed in the morning, we go through our grooming rituals, we have our morning coffee and breakfast.  As we move through the day, we still need to take care of the essentials—laying in plans for the day, filling the gas tank, dealing with the weather, perhaps standing in line for this and that, and so forth.

The seeds of nostalgia are simply planted during the time away.  Though at the time, we don’t much pay attention to either the seeds or the planting.  Upon our return, the seeds begin to sprout.  All of the routine parts of the trip fall away like dirt that is pushed aside by seedlings laboring to break through to the surface.  And just like plants that have sprung to life, nostalgia grows to become magical memories of what was, and what can never again be, at least not exactly as it was.  With the passage of time, all that remains is the unique and the extraordinary.   Those memories—that nostalgia—becomes incomparable, priceless treasure in our minds and in our hearts.

And unless we should forget just how long ago 1913 was, here are a few things to remind us and to help put the remarkable life and longevity of my grandmother into perspective:

1. The federal income tax went into effect on March 1, 1913, and the IRS began collecting taxes on March 8, the day after Grandma was born.  And they’ve been at it ever since.
2. The 39th running of the Kentucky Derby took place; 2011’s Derby was the 137th.
3. Civil war veterans from both sides held the largest ever reunion in 1913 at Gettysburg.  The Emancipation Proclamation was signed just 50 years before. There were lots of people still around who remembered the Civil War and Lincoln as president.
4. Stainless steel, a common construction material in so many products today, was invented in 1913.
5. The first parachute jump from an aircraft took place.
6. The Lincoln Highway opened as the first paved coast-to-coast highway.  It stretched from New York to San Francisco.
7. The Panama Canal opened.
8. The first drive-up gasoline station opened in Pittsburgh.
9. Charlie Chaplin began his film career.
10. And what about 1913 prices?  How does 32 cents for a gallon of milk sound? Or 6 cents for a loaf of bread, 30 cents for a dozen eggs, 12 cents for a gallon of gas, $490.00 for a brand new car, or $3,395.00 for a house?  Then again, you would buy all of these things on an annual income of around $750.00.

Yes, 1913 was a very long time ago.  Grandma lived all of her 98 years to the fullest, and she remembered it all vividly, right up until the last.

Grandma Keur was a part of my life at every stage, from my earliest memories right up until last month just short of my 55th birthday.  When I was a child, my Grandma would often look after me and the other grand-kids, providing rich experiences that we took for granted then, but that we cherish as wonderful memories today.

I remember spending much time in Grandma’s kitchen when she and Grandpa lived in the little white house on Maple Street in Fruitport, Michigan.  That kitchen table served as a venue for everything from simple snacks to extravagant holiday meals.  I especially remember the windmill cookies and milk that Grandma would put out for the kids and for Grandpa Keur, who loved his windmill cookies.

I remember rattling around in Grandma’s attic bedroom.  What a wonderful place to explore with its low, angled ceilings and many nooks and crannies.  And what was the most amazing thing about this place?  Books.  And not just a few books, but lots and lots of books.  Little low-to-the-floor cabinets lined both sides of this attic bedroom.  And the cabinets were full of books, every type imaginable.  I loved to look at all of the different titles and subjects of the many books.  She perhaps had as many books as a small community library, or so it seemed at the time.  Reading, I’m sure, is one of those things that kept Grandma’s mind sharp, right up to the end of her days.

As I headed into my teen years, Grandma was always nearby with her encouragement and her smile.  Grandma took a real interest in me and in what interested me.  That is the way she was, always showing first and foremost her interest in the people in her life. When we would see each other, she would greet me with a simple “Hi Mike,” followed in the same breath with a question on how I was coming along in pursuit of my interests and my dreams.  At times when I might think about giving up on a particular thing, I knew that Grandma would be asking me about it the next time I saw her.  That would be motivation enough to keep on going.

As I got older, Grandma continued to be a strong presence in my life.  She was there for my marriage, she was there for the birth of my two children (her great grandchildren), and she saw them grow to be independent and confident adults.  And she was there for the birth of two great-great grandchildren, the oldest of whom is now 9 and the youngest 7.  How many of us have the great fortune in life to still have our grandmothers with us when we ourselves have become grandparents?  To span five generations is a wonderful thing; for me to occupy that center-point of those five generations is a precious blessing and one of the great joys of my life.  And through it all, every time we would see each other, the first thing Grandma would ask me was how I was doing in pursuit of my dreams.

I last saw Grandma alive several weeks ago at a family reunion.  We talked as usual; she asked me again how I was doing in pursuit of my dreams, and we ended the day in a very special way.  I sat at the piano and played several of her favorite hymns, and other hymns that I just picked at random.  She sat quietly for the most part, content to just listen and enjoy our time together.  It was just her and me.  At times I would turn toward her, and I could see her appear to tear up.  I had no idea that this was to be the last time I would see her on this earth.  What an incredibly special time it was for both of us.

One of my most cherished photographs was one taken of Grandma and me on my 50th birthday, nearly five years ago.  For some reason, there was nothing planned on my birthday that year, so my wife and I thought it would be really nice to spend a couple of hours with Grandma.  After all, not every 50-year-old has the pleasure of spending a little time with his grandmother.  I’m sure as part of her greeting that day she asked me how I was doing in pursuit of my dreams.

Dreams come and go.  Throughout our lives, priorities change and life becomes driven by the nuts and and bolts of daily existence.  Abstract “what ifs” give way to practical “must dos.”  But my grandmother, with her keen interest in her grandson, grabbed hold of those dreams of my youth and preserved them for me throughout my life.  I will remember Grandma as an amazing person and for many wonderful things.  But perhaps I will remember my Grandma Keur most importantly for this one thing: my grandmother was a keeper of dreams.

Goodbye, Grandma; but for just a little season.  I will see you again someday soon!

It was the summer of 1987.  My family and I were staying at Sugarbush Resort in the Green Mountains of Vermont.  We stumbled into the sleepy little town of Waitsfield one day and happened across a little coffee shop known as Green Mountain Coffee Roasters.  I had never seen a coffee shop like this before. Actually, I had never seen any sort of coffee shop before.  The concept was very new then.  Up until that time, coffee was something you bought in a can—at the grocery store.

I was amazed at the sight of this place.  As we walked in the door, there were row upon row of little glass canisters filled with all sorts of varieties of coffee beans.  The penetrating aroma of newly roasted beans and fresh-brewed coffee was nearly overwhelming.  As I began to look at the canisters, I quickly discovered that the little coffee shop had this curiosity called “flavored coffee.”  I had never heard of such a thing.  We bought a bag of “Irish cream coffee” and then went back to the resort and brewed a carafe-full of the stuff.  It was like a little taste of heaven.  It changed my idea of coffee forever.  The rest is history, or at least a chronicle of the life and times of me and my coffee.

Fast forward 25 years, and now I’ve rediscovered Green Mountain Coffee with my new Keurig coffee machine.  There are several wonderful coffees that Green Mountain makes for the Keurig machine.  (Green Mountain Coffee Roasters has expanded far beyond the little coffee shop in Waitsfield, and they actually own the very profitable Keurig enterprise.)  My favorite all-time coffee is now Green Mountain’s “double black diamond” coffee.  I’ve never tasted anything like this.  What a phenomenally rich, dark, and captivatingly flavorful coffee this is!  My first cup of this stuff was like stepping back in time to that little shop in Waitsfield and being amazed all over again!

Coffee and I go back to my college days, but my coffee epiphany came several years later.  It was the summer of 1987.  My family was staying at Sugarbush Resort in the Green Mountains of Vermont when we stumbled into the little town of Waitsfield one day.  In a quaint little tourist mall, we came upon Green Mountain Coffee’s little coffee shop.  I had never seen a shop like this before.  It was completely dedicated to coffee.  And not just one kind of coffee, but lots of different types of coffee.  Up until that time, coffee was something you bought in a can . . . at the grocery store.  I was amazed at the sight, and doubly amazed that they offered something called “flavored coffee.”  I had never heard of such a thing.

Well, we bought a bag of “Irish cream coffee,” and then went back to the resort and brewed a carafe-full of the novel stuff. It was like a little taste of heaven.  It changed my idea of coffee forever.  The rest is history.  Little did I realize at the time that this little shop was the beginning of Green Mountain Coffee Roaster’s java empire.  They are now a multimillion-dollar corporation.  Chances are, you’ve had their coffee brewed from a Keurig coffee maker with those little plastic “K-cups.”

After nearly 25 years, I’ve rediscovered Green Mountain Coffee with my Keurig machine.  Like my experience with the Irish cream coffee of old, I’ve never tasted anything like Green Mountain’s “Double Black Diamond” coffee.  My first cup of this stuff was like stepping back in time to that little shop in Waitsfield and being amazed all over again!

As I approached these guys, I could see their rifles propped against a large boulder a dozen or so feet to the left of the fire.  It quickly became apparent that these were deer hunters settled into camp for the night, readying for opening day of the season that was to begin at dawn.

I startled the hunters as I walked up and politely said, “Howdy, guys!”  As I then drew closer to the saucepan situated in the center of the hot coals, I was taken by surprise as I witnessed–and I swear this is true–an egg cooking in this pan of nearly boiling water.

I cried out, “Hey, what are you guys doing?”  To which one of them, steely-eyed but calmly, replied, “poaching.”

I beg to report that as of this morning the coffee machine is once again working just great for me. Was it just on a one-day strike yesterday? Was the strike only against me?  If so, why was I singled out?  And, more importantly, why was the strike called off and things put back to normal this morning?

I expect that the game—the tease—is now afoot.  I will be awaiting my Keurig machine’s next move.  If it makes demands, then we will negotiate.  If I had to speculate, I would think it is probably looking for one of the following outcomes:

1. It wants me to cease and desist using coffee other than official Keurig coffee.   (It is in league with Green Mountain Coffee, the purveyor of all cups Keurig.  I, however, like to experiment with my own coffee to save a buck here and there.)
2. It is seeking a new union contract, with better health coverage.
3. Perhaps, ultimately, it just wants to go work in a government office somewhere, where its benefits will be far better than anything I could ever hope to offer.  To this end, it will periodically and randomly sabotage my morning coffee-making efforts in an attempt to string me along past the current contract period (i.e., the warrantee term).  Then it will head off for that cushy government job.  We’ll have to wait and see, I suppose.

One thing is certain, however: unlike death and taxes, there is no certainty, no finality, with coffee makers.  They will continue to filter into our lives and—over time—earn our confidences and be granted special places among us.  But it will all be an elaborately constructed fantasy, a hoax of grand proportions.  For in the end, these percolator wannabes will dispose of us like used-up coffee grounds whose last hint of flavor has been extracted, and they will move on to the next caffeine addict to take out once again, and for whatever reason, their twisted form of dark-roasted vengeance.  Beware these coffee makers: they are a sinister breed for sure, constantly brewing up new schemes, and then simmering in their own extracts, awaiting the next opportunity to burn us royally.

Herman Cain’s 9-9-9 plan is bold, and it is straightforward.  For true conservatives, it is also disturbing.  Simply stated, Cain’s plan would impose a 9-percent corporate tax, and 9-percent personal income tax, and a 9-percent national sales tax.  It is the national sales tax component that has me running for cover.  While I see the merits of moving away from a tax on production to a tax on consumption, the problem with this plan is that one does not replace the other; rather, a consumption tax, i.e., a wholly new national sales tax, would be implemented alongside the existing income tax—and it would be added to the myriad of already existing state sales taxes.

Can you imagine the increased paperwork burden and additional accountability for businesses?  And what about individuals who are now paying 8- and 10-percent in state sales tax?  What kind of burden will it be to pay 17- or 19-percent of every purchase to the government, on top of a 9-percent income tax, a 15.3% social security tax, property taxes, and other taxes, licenses, and fees?  The federal government is already a money-starved, out-of-control monster.  Let’s not make things worse.

A uniform, nationwide sales tax would expand the federal bureaucracy and further empower the federal government, two things that conservatives reject as part of their fundamental philosophy.  And, as Chris Wallace of Fox News so astutely asked Mr. Cain in an interview the other day, “How do you guarantee that 9-9-9 down the line doesn’t become 12-12-12?”  How indeed!

While I very much like Herman Cain, 9-9-9 is enough for me to take my vote and look elsewhere for a candidate.  A national sales tax should not be even part of the mix of tax reform unless it wholly supplants the income tax, and in one step, not incrementally; we all know that we will never get there if we try to do this in several pieces.  As Michele Bachman recently stated, ” . . . when you take the 9-9-9 plan and turn it upside down, I think the devil’s in the details.”  And with this plan, you don’t need to sift too many details to find the devil.

Our family has lots of traditions: Christmas morning with the kids and grand-kids; Easter dinner at mom’s; Labor day fish-fry at the in-law’s; and, of course, family get-togethers for every single birthday, which happens a couple of times a month.

And I like starting new traditions.  I like the concept of  “reinventing” things as I get older.  My extended family has started some new traditions in the last few years.  For one, we had a wonderful night-before-Labor Day campfire in the back yard for the first time this year.  It was a great time together, and something that I hope will become a new tradition.  I look forward to many more “first time” family traditions in the years to come.

I also enjoy starting new “personal traditions,” if they can be called that.  There are a number of things that I’ve done “for the first time” lately; I hope they become personal traditions.  Only a year ago, for example, I began kayaking.  I have always loved the water, and I’ve always loved boating.  What a great way, I thought, to get on the water and also get in the exercise that I want and need.  So kayaking it is.  And I love it!

It gets harder every year to reinvent myself, especially now that I’m in my mid 50s.  But so far I’ve managed to do so, and that has kept life interesting.  I hope I am still reinventing when I’m 80 and beyond!  There is no reason why life can’t remain interesting until the very end.

I remember well where I was.  I was working my job, just as I had been doing for over 20 years.  A fellow employee poked his head around the door to my office and asked, “Did you hear what happened?  A plane just flew into the World Trade Tower.”  We talked for a minute or two, and I dismissed it as a pilot error or mechanical trouble, something similar to the B-25 smashing into the Empire State Building at the end of World War II.  (See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cUlWpqLsOVs.)

In the hours that followed, however, we learned that this was no ordinary aviation misstep; we learned that evil had descended upon humanity in its most sinister and most destructive form.  We also learned that the goodness of humanity was on full display that day: neighbor helping neighbor; firefighters and police running “toward” the danger, risking their own lives to help others; a government coming together, resolving to do whatever it takes to overcome this scourge visited upon the earth from the pit of hell.

It was, indeed, a day of contrasts, a day of paradoxes.  In my own little bubble, I watched events unfold on a small television set in the office that morning.  I was a spectator, but nonetheless immersed in the mayhem and the slaughter.  In the evening, I was sitting in my boat, anchored in the quiet backwaters of my favorite lake.  Overhead were a few high streaks of clouds in the mainly bright, blue sky.  Eeriness was to be found in the stillness above: there were no airplanes or other man-made objects in the sky that evening; the stillness was broken only here and there by a flock of passing geese with their distant honking and nearly imperceptible sound of flapping wings.

The worst of humanity; the best of humanity.  Unimaginable violence.  Peace.  9/11 captured the full range of human experience.  This is why 10 years later we relive the day in our minds as if it happened yesterday.  This is why the day has been forever seared into our consciousness; and if we live another 50 years, we will still relive it in our minds like it happened yesterday.

The well-lived life is one that is lived for other people—for family, for friends, or maybe even for strangers.  The well-lived life is not about what we accomplish for ourselves, but about what we do for others.   It is all about time, influence, and meaning.  It is all about answering that time-honored question, “What is the meaning of life?”

“Meaning” in life, I believe,  is derived from investing in the next generation, and in the generation after that.  And investing means spending one’s time in order to positively influence those around us.  There  can be no influence without putting in the time.  When we imprint ourselves upon others with a positive influence, we leave a lasting mark; we help give rise to aspirations, values, and hope for a bright future.  We, thus, help shape the lives of those around us, while at the same time adding deep meaning and infinite value to our own lives.

One day, I hope it can be said of me, “His was a life well lived.”