とてもいいお話。

ちょっと長い、しかも英語なのですが、とてもいいお話で、訳すと味がなくなるので、そのまま掲載します。

決して難しい英語ではありません。　辛抱して呼んでみて下さい。　きっと心を打たれます。

This is a wonderful piece by Michael Gartner,editor of newspapers large andsmall andpresident of NBC News. He won the Pulitzer Prize foreditorial writing. It iswell worth reading, and a few goodchuckles areguaranteed. Here goes...

Myfather never drove a car. Well, that's not quite right. I should say I neversawhim drive a car.
He quit driving in 1927,when he was 25 yearsold, and thelast car he drove was a 1926 Whippet.
"In thosedays," hetold mewhen he was inhis 90s, "to drive a car you had to do things with your hands, and do things with your feet, andlookeverywhich way, and Idecided you could walk throughlife and enjoy it or drive throughlife and miss it."

Atwhichpoint mymother, a sometimessalty Irishwoman, chimed in:
"Oh, bull----!"she said. "He hit a horse."

"Well," myfather said, "there was that, too."

So mybrother and Igrew up in ahousehold without a car. The neighbors all had cars -- the Kollingsesnext door had agreen 1941 Dodge, the VanLaninghamsacross thestreet a gray 1936 Plymouth, the Hopsonstwodoors down a black 1941 Ford -- but we had none.

Myfather, a newspaperman in Des Moines , wouldtake thestreetcar to work and, often as not, walk the 3 miles home. If he took thestreetcar home, mymother andbrother and I would walk the threeblocks to thestreetcar stop, meethim and walk home together.

Mybrother, David, was born in 1935, and I was born in 1938, and sometimes, at dinner, we'd ask how come all the neighbors had cars but we had none. "No one inthe family drives," mymother would explain, and that was that.

But, sometimes, myfather would say, "But as soonas one of youboys turns 16, we'll get one." It was as if he wasn't surewhich one of us would turn 16first.

But, sure enough, mybrother turned 16 before I did, so in 1951 myparents bought a used 1950 Chevroletfrom afriendwho ran thepartsdepartment at a Chevy dealership downtown.

It was a four-door,whitemodel,stick shift,fenderskirts, loaded witheverything, and, since myparents didn't drive, itmore or lessbecame mybrother's car.

Having a car but notbeing able to drive didn'tbother myfather, but it didn'tmakesense to mymother.

So in 1952,whenshe was 43 yearsold,she asked afriend toteach her to drive. She learned in a nearby cemetery, the placewhere I learned to drive the following year andwhere, ageneration later, I took mytwo sons topractice driving. The cemeteryprobably was myfather'sidea. "Who can yourmother hurt in the cemetery?" I rememberhim sayingmore than once.

For thenext 45 years or so, untilshe was 90, mymother was the driver inthe family. Neithershe nor myfather had anysense ofdirection, but he loaded up onmaps -- though they seldom leftthe city limits -- and appointedhimself navigator. It seemed to work.

Still, theybothcontinued to walk a lot. Mymother was adevout Catholic, and myfather anequallydevoutagnostic, an arrangement that didn't seem tobother either of them through their 75 years ofmarriage.

(Yes, 75 years, and they weredeeply inlove the entiretime.)

Heretiredwhen he was 70, and nearlyevery morning for thenext 20 years or so, he would walk with her the mile to St. Augustin's Church.
She would walk down and sit in thefront pew, and he would wait in the back until hesawwhich of theparish'stwopriests was onduty that morning. If it was thepastor, myfather then would go out andtake a 2-mile walk, meeting mymother at the end of the service and walking her home.

If it was the assistantpastor, he'dtake just a 1-mile walk and thenhead back to the church. He called thepriests "Father Fast" and "Father Slow."

After heretired, myfather almost alwaysaccompanied mymotherwhenevershe drove anywhere,even if he had noreason to go along. Ifshe were going to the beautyparlor, he'd sit in the car and read, or gotake astroll or, if it was summer,have her keep theengine running so he could listen to the Cubs game on the radio. In theevening, then,when I'd stop by, he'd explain: "The Cubslostagain. The millionaire onsecondbasemade a bad throw to the millionaire onfirstbase, so the multimillionaire on thirdbasescored."

Ifshe were going to thegrocery store, he would go along to carry the bags out -- and tomake sureshe loaded up on icecream. As I said, he was always the navigator, and once,when he was 95 andshe was 88 and still driving, he said to me, "Do you want to know thesecret of a longlife?"

"Iguess so," I said, knowingit probably would be something bizarre.

"No left turns," he said.

"What?" I asked.

"No left turns," he repeated. "Several years ago, yourmother and I read an article that saidmostaccidents thatold people are in happenwhen they turn left infront of oncomingtraffic.

As you getolder, your eyesight worsens, and you can lose yourdepthperception, it said. So yourmother and Idecidednever again tomake a left turn."

"What?" I saidagain.

"No left turns," he said. "Think about it.. Three rights are the same as a left, and that's a lot safer. So we alwaysmake three rights."

"You'rekidding!" I said, and I turned to mymother for support.
"No,"she said, "yourfather is right. Wemake three rights. It works."
But thensheadded: "Exceptwhen yourfather loses count."

I was driving atthe time, and I almost droveoff theroad as I started laughing.

"Loses count?" I asked.

"Yes," myfather admitted, "that sometimes happens. But it's not aproblem. You justmakeseven rights, and you're okayagain."

I couldn't resist. "Do youever go for 11?" I asked.

"No," he said " If we miss it atseven, we just come home and call it a badday. Besides,nothing inlife is so important it can't beputoff another day or another week."
Mymother was never in anaccident, but oneeveningshe handed me her carkeys and saidshe haddecided to quit driving. That was in 1999,whenshe was 90.

Shelived fourmore years, until 2003. Myfather died thenext year, at 102.

Theyboth died in the bungalow they hadmoved into in 1937 and bought a few years later for $3,000. (Sixty years later, mybrother and I paid $8,000 tohave a showerput in the tiny bathroom -- thehouse had never had one. Myfather wouldhave died then and there if he knew the showercost nearly threetimeswhat he paid for thehouse.)

Hecontinued to walk daily -- he had me gethim a treadmillwhen he was 101because he wasafraid he'dfall on the icysidewalks but wanted to keep exercising -- and he was of sound mind and sound body until the moment he died.

One September afternoon in 2004, he and my son went with mewhen I had to give a talk in a neighboring town, and it was clear to all three of us that he was wearing out, though we had the usual wide-ranging conversation aboutpolitics and newspapers and things in the news.

A few weeksearlier, he hadtold my son, "You know, Mike, thefirst hundred years are a lot easier than thesecond hundred." At onepoint in our drive that Saturday, he said, "You know, I'mprobably not going tolivemuch longer."

"You'reprobably right," I said.

"Why would you say that?" He countered, somewhat irritated.

"Because you're 102 yearsold," I said..

"Yes," he said, "you're right." He stayed inbed all thenextday.

That night, I suggested to my son anddaughter that we sit up withhim through the night.

Heappreciated it, he said, though at onepoint, apparently seeing uslookgloomy, he said: "I would like tomake anannouncement. No one in this roomis dead yet"

An hour or so later, he spokehislastwords:

"I want you to know," he said, clearly and lucidly, "that I am in no pain. I amvery comfortable. And Ihave had as happy alife as anyone on thisearth couldeverhave."

A shorttime later, he died.

I misshim a lot, and I think abouthim a lot. I've wonderednow and then how it was that my family and I were so lucky that helived so long.

I can't figure out if it wasbecause he walked throughlife,
Orbecause he quit taking left turns. "

Life is too short to wake up withregrets.
Solove the peoplewho treat you right.
Forget about the one'swho don't.
Believeeverything happens for areason.
If you get a chance,take it & if itchanges yourlife, let it.
Nobody saidlife would be easy, they justpromised it would
most likely be worth it."

ENJOY LIFE NOW - IT HAS AN EXPIRATION DATE!