I had a piece of toast in one hand and a book in the other when I realized that, as a bookmark, I was using a delinquent vehicle tax notice. Illuminating realization: So this is who I have become. In a former life I paid all bills early. What shifted so that I not only fail to pay my dues, but now use the receipts to mark places in books like 7 Habits of Highly Effective People?
The delinquent tax notice was for a first-generation Jeep Cherokee that spent more time on the blink than in service. It was once four-wheel-drive, but when the driveshaft connecting the transfer case and the front axle developed a vibration, it was removed and it has been a two-legged jeep ever since. This strikes me as a working model for the maintenance of vehicles: Remove the offending part, commit appendicitis. It is in this spirit of minimalism that this Jeep has no AC, no four-wheel drive, the clock has developed an electrical short and scrambles itself so you might leave for work at 5:40 am and arrive at 11:30 pm.
I was driving to work one day when the engine quit mid-stride, so I coasted it off to the side of the road and let it sit, a monument to owner negligence. I found another vehicle or walked to work for two weeks until, in a fit of inspiration and more than a twinge of guilt, I winched it onto a flatbed trailer by alternating two ratchet straps and hauled it off to the mechanic.
I have no excuse for not paying my vehicle taxes by their due date. Neither am I trying to perpetrate a modern form of dark humor that makes a joke of procrastination and general lousiness (enter adulting memes). But given a piece of toast, a book, an overdue tax bill, we can triangulate accurately the priorities of the person involved. It was a come-hither moment, and I’ve never recovered. I’ve also used fifty-dollar bills as bookmarks, and this does not strike me as bad use of a fifty-dollar bill. I have also used bits of toilet paper and candy wrappers for the same purpose, but have no philosophical insight for that.
My priorities have clearly changed, and some days it feels like I’ve become a second-rate citizen. But in other respects, I’m enjoying my mid-twenties more than any other period of my life. For now, let’s leave aside questions as to whether enjoyment ought to be our primary measurement for life.
In moments of indulgent nostalgia, I like to recall the high spots of my childhood: opening-day whitetail hunts with dad and brothers; a float/camping trip on the Cumberland River with brothers and father; a smattering of smaller memories, most of them, oddly enough, having to do with the outdoors. Many were short excursions with friends, inexpensive, out-of-routine outings that created high spots in my life. I marked my childhood and teens with them.
I’m no longer a teen, and no longer mark my life into eras with camping and fishing trips. In fact, it is not only an immature, but also a futile attempt to recapture boyhood by repeating such activities. When I camp or fish or hunt today, I do it in a different framework. There are events like our marriage, the birth of our first child, and moving away from home to teach school that will mark time into blocks. How will I know, at age fifty, what my twenties will mean to me? Will they mean anything? Will they pass by as a blank spot in the timeline of my existence? If repeating my adolescent activities will not create times worth remembering, what will?
“How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.” That by Annie Dillard, and this: “A schedule defends from chaos and whim. It is a net for catching days. It is a scaffolding on which a worker can stand and labor with both hands at a section of time.”
I like that. For one, the quality of life will never transcend that of Thursday. Secondly, if we want to improve our Thursdays, we will need to integrate little bits of quality into each day by knowing what is valuable. Knowing what is valuable is not so easy as you think. We have duties as men, yes; providing, working, thinking carefully about our actions and choices because of the people they affect. But I think it is a necessity for men to prioritize a little room for something meaningful each day, something that diverts our attention for a moment and lifts our minds from the grind.
A friend asked us once what our Sunday afternoon inactivity consisted of. We replied that we read books. “Oh.” She said. “So not much.”
Not much! I shore much meaning in the reading of books. I think it’s a civil duty: I was lifting my mind from the grind. But alas, her husband has more money than I do, and he took a nap.
You’ve got to choose, I think, what not to do. (One should pay his taxes immediately.) I have, by reason of strength, fifty-five years left on this earth. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and this is the frame for the rest of my life. It’s a pretty small bucket to pour the rest of your life into. Someday, it will be the last day for everything; the last chance to write, the last chance to read, the last chance to work, the last chance to go to church, the last chance to go looking for the red-shouldered hawk’s nest, the last chance to call my brother, the last chance to watch my newborn sleep. What we prioritize now will make up our lives, the way a brick at a time builds a wall, and what we do not find time for will either be a grace or a regret. If I want to be able to recall my twenties with nostalgia, I will need to know what makes it worthwhile, then plan to do those things.
E.B. White said, “I get up every morning determined to both change the world and have…a good time. Sometimes this makes planning my day difficult.” If we face this dilemma daily, we can know we’re doing it about right.
It’s February, and I haven’t prepared my taxes, and I am writing this, likely the most useless thing you’ll read in a month. Score one for me. Since writing this is catharsis and a pleasure, I’ll sit inside and read and write and procrastinate on the taxes, and maybe hold my baby girl and take a walk. But I need to go. It might be the last day for something. I might even use the tax return to mark my place in a book.