Should I be so fortunate to live to a ripe old age, I aspire to be the kookiest geezer you’ve ever encountered. I will wear stupid hats, ridiculous suspenders, and I will grow the most magnificent white mustache my face can muster. I will wax it on a whim, twirling each end to a delicious point, like a man in a stovepipe who just tied a damsel to the train tracks, all the while pulling my mouth to one side to form a dastardly dimple. I will stuff my pockets with Werther’s Originals and Brach’s toffees, making certain every ankle-biter brave enough to approach Old Man Bullard with his wild get-up and bushy face will be rewarded for courage and we’ll share a chuckle. I will plant a posey in my buttonhole and a kerchief in my pocket, ever at the ready for brightening a day or blotting a tear. And I will never be caught without a scrap of paper and a clickable pen so when I hear something that inspires, touches or MOVES me, I won’t rely on my feeble man-brain to remember it. I will take the time to scrawl it in a hand indecipherable in fifteen minutes' time, but will feel immensely satisfied with myself for taking and making the time and the effort to record it. I shall order every appealing dessert on the menu, and finish all the deserving. But until those days arrive—if I am so lucky—I vow to squeeze every drop of weird and wonderful from this juicy life I’ve been given. And I’ve already started my collection of chapeaux. Love y’all.