Posted By RichC on June 11, 2017
It was one short year ago (6/11/2016) that the the news shocked me that one of my college roommates collapsed and died while cycling near Columbus Ohio. My college orientation roommate and one of three 4th year roommates, Bill Gordon was an avid cyclist and was probably in far better physical shape than most, but like all of us, our days are numbered. In Bill’s case it may also have had something to do with his competitive spirit and not realizing he was pushing his body beyond it capability?
Even before the yearly reminder appeared, I thought of last years post and knew it would soon be in the center column "Year(s) Ago On This Day." Perhaps exerting on the edging of our many raised beds to spread new mulch reminded me of Bill? More likely it was the renewal of my life insurance policy and thinking about his wife Julie (and family); we definitely need to make the most of each day — carpe diem (see poem below). I’d like to think Brenda and I are doing that, but also know we could be making it more of a priority. For me personally I also need to be realistic and not push my body as much as I did when I was younger (still need to work on better eating habits and exercise).
To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love’s day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time’s winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.