Time Capsule Best Left Burried

 Time Capsule Best Left Burried

Like many children, I was saddled early in life with the burden of “great potential”. The label was first affixed by my presumably well-intentioned father, and later driven deep into my brain by a battery of optimistic educators. Due to the recent chance discovery of an old 10^th Grade English assignment, I am now well positioned to evaluate how my actual performance in life stacks up against youthful aspirations.

Miss Pischke was an innovator. Her assignment: Write a letter to yourself to be opened in the future, sort of your own personal time capsule. I should tell my future self, not about my present circumstances, but rather describe my hopes and dreams so that my eventual reality could be measured up against the vision. The letter could address whatever topics I felt important, from education to career, from hobbies to romance, anything. I would pick the date the letter would be read. 

Figuring that a date in the far distant future might forbode a long life, I went with my 65^th birthday. Eight years past the affixed reading date, the letter and the assignment had long been forgotten and would have stayed that way had I not decided to get organized one more time before I died. My efforts to clean out the attic came to a screeching halt when I found the wrinkled and faded envelope at the bottom of a beat up box full of high school memorabilia my dear mother had saved.

 It came back to me in an instant, the assignment, Miss Pischke, the classroom. The envelope was addressed to “Old Me”, and it was from “Younger Me.” Though I recalled the task, the years had erased the memory of the message. I couldn’t wait to see what I had written to myself almost 60 years ago, so I immediately sat down on a dusty old trunk, opened the envelope, and read.

Dear Old Me,

How are you? I hope you are still alive so you can read this letter. I’m going to get a grade from Miss Pischke, but the real grade will come from you as you will be able to compare the actual outcome to the goal. I hope you are a generous grader.

Everyone is writing about possible future accomplishments. They hope to be political leaders, successful businessmen, rich, a rock star, perhaps a wide receiver on an NFL team. I’ll keep this simple for you. I want to be…happy. That’s it, plain and simple, happy. Write back and let me know how we did.

                                                                                                                              -Younger Me

 I had to hand it to myself, simple but wise. I wanted to be happy. I guess that pretty much covers it, doesn’t it?

Are you happy? With all the complicated trappings of life stripped away, that gets right down to it. It is a pretty straightforward, uncomplicated question, but I would have to take a long break from my organizing project to answer it.

 I asked for a response, so I guess I owe myself one. I climbed down from the attic, grabbed pen and paper, and sat down at the kitchen table. It was a good hour before that pen touched the paper.

Dear Younger Me,

It was nice to hear from you. It seems you had a nice, simple but inciteful approach to life. Whatever one does, wherever you are and whomever you’re with, that’s pretty much the bottom line. Are you happy?

I will be honest with you. There’s no point in trying to fool myself. I’m not even sure what happy is anymore.

You see, Younger Me, when you were in the 10^th Grade, you were in a place where you were free to think of such things. You were in a world of very limited responsibilities, darn near carefree if you want to know the truth. I don’t what to depress you about your future, but Peter Pan isn’t real. We all grow up, and Neverland quickly fades into Never Will Be.

I remember you. You were a bright, funny kid. You were a pretty good athlete, but you didn’t quite have what it takes to be the star basketball player you dreamed of so many times on your backyard basketball court. You didn’t have girls throwing themselves at you, but you did okay. Everyone liked you. This won’t surprise you, but you will become your Senior Class President.

You probably also know that you will graduate near the top of your class and be accepted at a prestigious college. You will have an affinity for college life, and without a real plan, your default position will be Law School. All this will reinforce the “great potential” tag.

You could make people laugh. You wanted to make people laugh. I’m sure a little of it was the attention you sought, but you did like adding a little laughter to people’s lives. And you were good at it.

When basketball didn’t work out for you, you devoted yourself to football. You had to work hard for everything you got, but you ended up being an all conference defensive back. You even had a nice small college career on the gridiron. I know how hard you worked, and how much you sacrificed, but the closest you got to a professional football field was shoveling snow from the stands at Lambeau. It just wasn’t meant to be.

The best part of you back then, the wonderous, joyful part, was the freedom to dream. It was this massive book with all the pages blank. You could sit on the grassy hill at City Park in the warmth of the sun, or sit in a boat holding a fishing pole watching a red and white bobber bouncing atop the waves, and fill out those pages any way you wanted.

You liked to write back then. You thought about writing jokes for the late night guys, or maybe becoming a sportswriter. You’re going to end up writing a lot of creative, funny stuff when you get to college. You’re going to team-up with a guy from Iowa and write stories, skits, and plays that will make everyone laugh. After you graduate, he will invite you out to L.A. to write jokes and skits for a local TV show. I don’t know how to tell you this, but you’ll give up on it to make your Dad happy and go back to Law School. One day you’ll see your buddy on national TV while you’re reviewing contracts and statutes contrived by men and women you will never meet.

You will look good on paper, and the world will be suitably impressed, but you will hate every minute of it. You’ll hate getting up in the morning, putting on a coat and tie, and heading off to deal with bothersome people and pointless paperwork. The rush hour traffic will frazzle your nerves and the 3 block walk from the parking lot to your office will be miserable in the winter. Bowing to the alter of billable hours will leave you feeling sad and empty. The lyrics you once detested will find a home in your brain on the drive home one evening when you realize Pete Seeger was talking about you when he crooned, “They’re all made out of ticky tacky, and they all look the same.” But you got on that treadmill, marriage, kids, mortgage payments, insurance, credit cards, college funds, and you couldn’t get off. Dreams have a funny way of magically shrinking in the real world.

We have children, a boy and a girl. Having them around was the best of times. You loved every moment with them. They were an island of laughs and smiles amidst a sea of ceaseless waves eroding the foundation of your spirit- their first steps, the birthday parties, badminton games and “jungle croquet” in the backyard, digging form worms, bumping poor old dad back to Start in ruthless games of Sorry. Then I found out what “raising children” means- they grow up and leave. My heart is still as empty as the house.

You were a genuine romantic. True love would be the cornerstone of your life, so this is where I must deliver “the most unkindest cut of all”. It is with profound regret that I must inform you that you will never be Zhivago and there will be no Lara.

I settled. It was the ultimate act of betrayal. You had dated a number of girls, but there was one you will always remember- Rebecca, dear sweet Rebecca. You don’t need a detailed description. You just need to know the feelings were there. They still are. You were too young to understand those feelings, not ready to “settle down”, and you let it all slip away. You knew you’d eventually find true love, but you didn’t. All you friends were married, you were ready to “settle down”, so you did. It was all “tolerable”, an acceptable relationship, but it wasn’t the stuff dreams are made of.

You will try to make that glass look half full until your head hurts. No matter how hard you focus on the bottom half, your eyes will always drift back to the top, empty half. It will pain you to know that you once had the ability to fill it to the brim.

I sometimes find solace in the comforting adage, “Things could always be worse.” It is unsettling to think one can find comfort in the misery of others, but compared to what others suffer in life, I have little to complain about. I don’t expect you to rejoice to know that your life could have been worse than what it actually was, but it’s all I’ve got.

Rationalization. I excuse myself by thinking I was the victim of irresistible outside forces, a powerful undercurrent that dragged me through life. But we both know better. I should have been the one to write that book, and not just the one who would someday read it. I hope you can forgive me.

Happy? It’s been so long. I have forgotten what “happy” is. How would you feel about, “We’re doing okay”, or “I can’t complain”, or “It could have been worse”?

I think I’ll pop open a cold one, sit out on the back porch and watch the sun go down. Maybe I’ll listen to Peggy Lee’s doleful query, “Is That All There Is?” as I reflect on what could have been, should have been, never was, and never will be. Perhaps that unknown and largely unappreciated philosopher was right when he said, “ That’s the most you should expect from life, a really good apology for all the things you won’t get.”

Younger Me, I’m sorry.

-Old Me