More Then & Now

Then: You hike all day and half the night through Fontanelle Forest, barefoot, in a spaghetti-strap sundress, following the creek and eating wild berries. Mosquitoes follow you but don’t bite, and you’re sure they’re humming “Kum Bah Ya.”

Now: You walk out to the garden in your mosquito-netting hat, long sleeve workshirt, stretchy long pants, and steel-toed work boots. You’re dripping Deep Woods Off and SPF 100 sunscreen. You’re out only long enough to pick a cucumber.

Then: You’re attracted to artists and musicians named “Jupiter” or “Cloud,” who spook around folk festivals, look like they could be homeless, have hair to their waists, and who carry Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill wine and a week’s supply of sunflower seeds in their backpacks.

Now: You’re attracted to artists and musicians who have day jobs, homes, hair, and comprehensive health & dental plans.

Then: You and seven friends take an impromptu cross-state road trip, and you sleep naked that night in a farmer’s field in the middle of Nebraska, your jean shorts & halter tops hung on cornstalks. You have earth for bed & pillow, and you have each other for blanket.

Now: You spend three months planning a camping trip to a State Park, where you made a reservation six months earlier. You take three more months to pack your supplies, which include an impenetrable tent, an inflatable bed, enough bedding to stock a Girl Scout troop, and a campfire espresso maker. You sit by the fire at night, playing your guitar and being “spontaneous.” When you get home, you take three months to unload, de-bug, and launder everything, and you don’t camp again for two years.

Then: You drive a 1971 VW bug with a crank sunroof, two windows held in place with duct tape, a roach clip hanging from the rearview mirror, old wool horse blankets where the backseat used to be, and blue and purple maple leaves airbrushed on the hood. You can drive for a week on $1.50.

Now: You drive a [insert current year] Toyota minivan with front & side airbags, a hair clip hanging from the rearview mirror, clean folded blankets and neck-massaging travel pillows on the back seats, a toolbox and first-aid kit in the cargo area, and an AAA sticker on the back bumper. You need TARP money to fill the tank.

Then: You sometimes wish you were older, you can be unkind or thoughtless and you take things for granted, believing you have all the time in the world and you’ll get it right next time.

Now: You appreciate the “cycle of life” business that brought you kicking & screaming to retirement planning, hot flashes, clicking knees, night sweats, cellulite, and a constant craving for Twinkies, but you sometimes wish you were younger. You try to be kind, thoughtful, and not take a single thing for granted, because you finally know you don’t have all the time in the world—you have only NOW to get it right.