By Steven Nourse
If you’re reading this someday, it means I’ve finally joined that club I once thought only belonged to grandparents. Funny how life sneaks up on you. One minute you’re young and invincible, and next you’re standing on your porch at 78, realizing that a 50-year roof warranty is more of a joke than comfort.
When I was young, death was something that happened to “old people,” or to the classmates who never made it home from Vietnam. I wasn’t one of them. I have grown older. I got to become a grandpa. And with that comes the uncomfortable truth that the road ahead is shorter than the one behind.
Woody Allen once said he’d prefer to be remembered by not dying. I get that. But since none of us got that option, I’ve spent some time wondering what I’d want to leave behind. What matters? What lasts? Is it praise? Complaints? Wisdom? Regrets? Maybe none of that. Maybe all we really leave is our history whatever we managed to build, break, love, or repair while we were here.
I hope my history shows that I tried. I tried to be a decent husband, father, and friend. I tried to treat people with respect. I tried to learn from my mistakes, even the ones that came out of my mouth faster than my brain could stop them. I wish I’d been less envious at times, more content with my own life, more patient with others. But regrets are part of the deal, and most of mine were tied to things I couldn’t control anyway.
If I have any advice to offer, it’s simple and meant for everyone, not anyone in particular:
• Thank your spouse more than you think you need to. (Seriously, they’re the real MVP.)
• Treasure your friends; they are the family you choose (and the ones who’ll laugh at your bad jokes).
• When the world feels against you, look inward first (and maybe check if you left the stove on).
• Be patient (or at least perfect the art of pretending).
• Try however imperfectly to imagine life in someone else’s shoes (preferably not the ones with blisters).
• And retract the words you know you shouldn’t have said, even if it’s only in your heart (or in that group chat you regret).
Think, too, about the people who’ve already gone. Remember what you admire in them and try to carry a little of that forward. That’s how legacies work, not in grand gestures, but in small imitations of goodness (and maybe stealing their best recipes).
I wrote all this now because, well, once you die, your writing skills take a noticeable dip. So, while I still have the ability, I want to say this:
Live the rest of your life in peace. Be content with what you have (even if it’s just one good pair of socks). Be generous with your time (and your snacks). And if something feels uncomfortable or inconvenient, it might be exactly the thing worth doing (or at least a good story).
Thank you for the love, the friendship, the laughter, the patience. I was lucky to have all of it.
Editor’s note: Steve Nourse, a long-time Vashon resident and valued member of the community, died last month. The Loop is deeply grateful to Barbara Nourse and her family for sharing Steve’s final letter with Vashon.
