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Momentary Loss (Vol. 4, No. 15)

I regret to inform you of the death of a famous television personality.  I witnessed his demise from my car, right here in Abilene, just yesterday morning.

He was the kind of actor who didn’t have name recognition.  In fact, you might have known him from only one performance.  But, if you were like me, you watched it again and again.

And he was definitely stereo-typed in the roles he played.  Yet he never seemed to mind.

In that most famous of all of his scenes, he displayed great confidence and poise.  He projected a highly mature image that commanded the setting.  He was most loved, though, for his exuberant expression of joy at the end of this tiny capsule of real life.

Apparently, he was visiting relatives in Abilene this week.  And, as things tend to be a little slow on hot mornings in Abilene, his country cousins convinced him to take things in hand.  Always the entertainer, this irrepressible little thespian took the challenge.

That’s about the time that I happened along.  I was driving down in the creek bottom portion of East North 10^th Street – just before you climb back up the hill where the avenue splits the old cemetery.  I saw him and his friends sitting on the grass next to the street.  Little did I know the horror that would follow.

When he made his move, I recognized him immediately.  He was playing his greatest part for the pleasure of his family and for me.  Bolting suddenly from the curb, he ran directly in front of my car and stood as tall as he possibly could – pretending that he didn’t know I was approaching.  Having seen this moment on countless occasions, I watched in fascination and admiration for his acting ability.

Just a split-second or so later, I noticed a deviation in his interpretation.  He glanced rather nervously my direction.  And it suddenly hit me.  The script called for me to swerve and ram my car into a tree!

Alas, it was too late.  I did swerve.  And he might have made it if he had stood still.  But I suppose he saw something in my eye that shook his confidence.  He flinched.  And he jumped the same direction I swerved.

At that moment, that little squirrel, despite his fame and obvious abilities, was gone.  His theatrical ability meant nothing anymore to him.  I’m sure he would have loved to have the moment back.  As my car rushed by, he would be telling his cousins about the great danger involved in acting in insurance company commercials, about the tremendous safety measures built into each scene, and, importantly, of the great skill of the stunt driver who executed his part perfectly.  I suppose after teaching that lesson, our friend, the seemingly immortal squirrel, would have treated his followers to a reenactment of everybody’s favorite footage – the victory dance complete with handshakes and high-fives.

But that moment was gone.

Ever had a moment that you wanted to call back?  A word said that should been held securely between your teeth and shaken mercilessly – a comment that was never released?  A look to a loved one that you wanted to reel back in?

As much as I mourn for this rascally rodent, I owe him for the lesson he taught me.  Those moments that we find most important are better managed in the future and the present than in the past.

Shine On!

copyright 2004 Joe L. Cope