During this most challenging time of my 86-year life, why does this soliloquy from Shakespeare’s Macbeth keep playing in my weak brain?

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death.
Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more.
It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”

That beautifully morbid passage has always been a favorite of mine. It’s lovely.
And it’s absolute bullshit.

“Signifying nothing?”
My life started signifying something over sixty-one years ago.

On June 9, 1964, the most beautiful woman I knew, Marjorie, agreed to be my wife. Less than three months later, on August 29, we were married.

In our “hour upon the stage,” with God’s continuing help, we produced and raised three wonderful children: Christine, Jim, and Jeffrey.

Jim and Jeffrey found their life’s loves in their wives, Kiersten and Angela.

Then, in what seemed like no time at all, Joshua, Sydney, Erin, Caroline, and Apollo came into our hearts and our lives. Our grandchildren. All grown now.

Joshua has found his lovely bride, Cierra. And now I have two great-grandchildren: Lucy, age three, and Harrison, ten months.

I don’t think that’s “nothing.”

Enuf.
But more later.