Waiting for Tomorrow
Life Goes By Fast
I learned another harsh lesson this week about waiting for tomorrow, about life going by so very fast.
When I was young, probably around six years old, we had a neighbor, David Juliano, who was restoring an old 40's ford in his carport and I was a curious pain in the ass kid. So I would go across the street and haunt him as often as possible.
This man had the patience of Jesus himself. He would explain and show me why he was doing certain things in a certain order; he was the first person to introduce me to Go-Jo hand soap which I thought was some nasty stuff. He and his wife occasionally had me over for supper; they introduced me to burgers with French dressing.
Bottom line, he cared. he took the time to help me with my curiosity, and don't get me wrong, I would get under his skin at times, but he would always handle me with a cool temperament.
Eventually, he moved away, and life went on. I went my way and Dave went his way, both of us carving out our lives and careers, and I got married and had my child.
Unexpectedly, some years ago, I ran into Dave again; we went to the same restaurant to have breakfast. Dave was much older and retired from his land surveying business and still had that 40 Ford and also a mid-forties truck which he would always drive one or the other to breakfast.
Dave and I enjoyed many conversations about life and cars and car shows, and he was still the same enthusiastic car nut I remember.
I remember a few years back when Dave was sitting at a local pizza joint with his daughter. I sat next to him, having a conversation, when I asked, "Where's the wife?"
His face went blank, and his daughter leaned forward and told me her mom had passed.
My heart ached for him at that moment because I knew that pain all too well after losing my wife.
We talked some more, and then I quietly picked up his tab and left. I then noticed every morning when Dave came to breakfast, he had his wife's dog with him; he always brought that dog out a treat too. He always had that dog with him, even at car shows. So they had a close bond, which I understood.
I looked forward to car show season because Dave would always see me at breakfast, pull out his personal planner in which he had every car show listed, and tell me which ones were good and which one he was going to. Most of the time, we would talk about cars and life.
When I was at the shows and saw him, it always put an emotional tear in my eye. Watching him and that dog it's something I can't explain. Of course, you had to see it, and I wanted to get a picture of him and his dog, but I always was in a hurry and kept saying I'll get it at the next show.
The next car show never came because of Covid and all the fear out there. So the organizers canceled the rest of the shows, and Dave wasn't at breakfast much anymore because he didn't want to catch Covid.
About a week ago, I went to pick up my breakfast sandwiches while on a salt run, and I asked my waitress Tanya, "Have you seen Dave lately?" I got that familiar look that spoke news that wasn't good.
I was told Dave had passed away about three weeks ago. My stomach went into a knot, and I could feel my energy drain from my body as I struggled not to have tears on my cheeks in public. I just wanted to get in my truck, so I could wrap my head around what I had just heard.
This news about Dave has really hammered life and its meaning home for me. You see, people never know what they are to some, how they may have touched a life, and we always put off letting them know.
I will never get that picture of him with his dog, nor will I get the moment to tell him what he meant to me and how he was such a mentor in shaping my future.
Lesson learned: don't wait, don't think you always have tomorrow because you don't. Living with regrets is a terrible thing, so don't put off telling and showing people what they mean to you. Likewise, don't put off visiting or hanging out because our days are short, and you will never know when the bell tolls for you.
Thank you, David Juliano, for being who you were, guiding me into cars, shows, and a very rewarding lifestyle. There will be a huge, empty place at every car show I go to, especially the ones you and I attended together.
I will surely miss you tremendously, just sitting there with your dog in total peace.
Godspeed, my friend.
Copyright © 2022 Bill Renda
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