Growing up, I knew a lot of the greats; my great-grandfather Earl, my great-aunt Lucille and even my great-great-uncle Bethard, to name a few. Being in close proximity to these men and women, born two and three generations before me, left indelible marks. For one, I benefited from their big-picture perspectives and life-tested wisdom. On the flip side, I had an unobstructed view of the indignities of getting old: all those funny smells, weird spots and bodily functions gone berserk. And consequently, I went to a lot of funerals. In keeping with tradition in that specific town and during that particular time, most funerals were conducted in a church with an open casket positioned front and center. 

Over time, no doubt thanks to all of the above, I developed an interest in death and the inevitable journey we all must take at the end of life. For those of us over a certain age, the realities of living and dying get harder to ignore. Long gone is the assumption that I have my whole life in front of me. Even assuming that I retain a certain level of health and mobility, the truth is, I have only so much life left to experience.

Which is a hard pill to swallow if you’re a travel nut like me. Luckily, thanks to a fabulous dog sitter down the street, children who have morphed into self-sufficient adults and a precious husband who adheres to the happy-wife-happy-life philosophy, I currently get opportunities to travel several times a year. My dog hates it when she spots a suitcase on my bed, but, for me, it’s a great rush. In fact, if my house caught fire, I’m confident one of the first things I’d grab would be my ecru-colored 14-inch roller bag with its multiple holds-more-than-you-can-imagine compartments. 

My kind of travel isn’t necessarily conventional, though, as my new son-in-law quickly discovered during a recent family trip abroad. Schlepping through drizzly rain, farmland paths and local neighborhoods in order to reach our off-the-beaten-path rentals, picnics of squashed bread and cheese excavated from our backpacks’ crumby bottoms and multiple pre-dawn wake-up calls ensuring the seizing of each day were norms on the trip. All resulting in delight for me and bewilderment for him. 

Yet, once in a while, even my own creative-story-first attitude is tested. Not long ago, on a company-sponsored trip, my husband and I were given the opportunity to participate in a deep-sea fishing excursion. For six hours, we bobbed up and down in the Pacific Ocean, deliberately scanning and re-scanning the horizon for any evidence of marine life. I didn’t care about catching fish. I was more focused on clinging to the rails in hopes of mitigating the nausea-laced boredom threatening my equilibrium on that wretched, fish-less boat.

Finally, the hours of endless trolling came to an abrupt stop when one of the mounted fishing lines sprang alive, spinning feverishly, indicating that a fish might be in our future after all. The captain delivered a quick mini-lesson on how one of us would reel in our catch (and more importantly, how the rest of us should stay out of the way.) Queasy stomach forgotten, I was prepped and positioned to witness my first deep-sea catch.

What the skipper neglected to tell us was how desperate that panicked fish would be to get back in the water. He also forgot to mention the large wooden club stowed just behind some life jackets and what that club would look like coming down full blunt force on top of the flopping fish’s skull. One final detail he left out was the sound that would come from the doomed fish, its death throes making eerie thumps and bumps in the below-board cooler, just underneath my pedicured feet. As a traveler with quite a few trips under my belt, I know any experience can go south unexpectedly. 

Even so, it’s all of our stories that make for a life well lived—good and bad, remembered forever or quickly forgotten, they all count. And they will all, inevitably, come to an end. 

Hopefully, I’ll arrive at that season full of peace and ready to move on. But there’s an equal chance I’ll arrive unwillingly jerked, thumping and bumping. 

Either way, I hope my dependable little suitcase is packed to the brim; left behind and full of all sorts of fish tales and the like, ready to be unpacked by the generations of greats coming after me.