Easy Come, Easy Go

By Janice Lane Palko

There's only one thing more precious than our time and that's who we spend it on. 

- Leo Christopher

Time is a funny thing. Recently, while my husband and I were watching our grandchildren, he told them that he was going to the Pirates game with their uncle the next day. In response, one of the kids started singing Take Me Out to the Ballgame. When they got to the lyric “buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack” one of the kids asked, “What’s Cracker Jack?” I explained that it is a candy and launched into the line from their jingle: “candy-coated popcorn, peanuts, and a prize—that’s what you get in Cracker Jack!”

The next time I went to the store, I was surprised to find that they still made Cracker Jack, and I bought each of the kids a box. A few days later I had to pick up my ten-year-old granddaughter, Sadie, from her running camp at North Park because one of her siblings had gotten sick. 

When she got into my car, she found the Cracker Jack and opened a box. And yes, they still come with a prize! As she began to eat it and decided that she liked it, she examined the box and told me that it said Cracker Jack has been a favorite since 1896. She then looked at me and asked, “Were you born in the 1800s?”

OK, I’m not as young as I once was, but I was not born in the 1800s! I laughed and said no, but I knew that my great-grandmother, who I had until I was 15, was born in 1896, the year Cracker Jack was invented. 

Not long after that, we endured several celebrity deaths, and it was interesting to see how people reacted to them. Among them was Bobby Sherman. He was my first heartthrob. I used to read about him in Tiger Beat magazine. I practically wore out his single Easy Come, Easy Go on my record player, and I tuned in to watch him on Here Come the Brides. Women my age shared fond memories of him on social media. 

Then we had the death of Ozzy Osbourne. The reaction to his death was curious and revealing about human nature. My husband has a couple of his albums, and we recalled Ozzy’s “bat biting” incident, but surprisingly, my 38-year-old son also remembered his Crazy Train blaring out of the speakers at his high school track meets. The Osbournes show made him a familiar figure to another generation.

Then Hulk Hogan passed away. I knew who he was and that he wrestled, but I’m not a wrestling fan. Consequently, I had no special memories of him. But those a bit younger than me, especially men, posted online how much they loved him and their memories of their youth spent watching him in WrestleMania.

That’s the funny thing about time. It slips away, taking people with it, and unless we have some tie to that time or person, some investment in it, it just passes over you like a soft breeze and fades into oblivion, becoming meaningless, just another person come and gone or another year on a page. 

So how do we give time meaning? 

I can’t speak for anyone else, but I think you give time meaning by using those moments to connect with others, make memories with them, learn new things, develop virtues, and live with a higher purpose.

That may give your time meaning, but it may not help to prevent your granddaughter from thinking you’re 129 years old—but at least she’ll remember you.