This is not one of those we-are-all-getting-older discussions, because of course we are. Everybody is. It happens. And this is also not meant to elicit any kind of sympathetic response.

But in the last week, two people who are basically my age have died. One was a friend since the third grade. Another was a college fraternity brother. As grown ups, I’d see one every so often; the other I saw rarely.

Being of a certain age, it will come as no great surprise that my main contact with both was on Facebook. One I knew was ill; the other I had no idea.

But what has stayed with me for the last few days was how full of life both of them were. They defined the term. These are two guys who I NEVER saw without a smile on their face. When I knew them as a teenager, they were that way and they never stopped. What I truly admired about both is that their youthful exuberance never left them. They were the same as they were 40 years ago.

And now they are gone.

I spent a lot of time as a parent teaching my children about life lessons. This last week has reminded me that you are never too old to learn about life lessons, even in death. Namely, to live life as if every day were a holiday. Our time is short and not to be wasted.

I know there are countless country songs written about this,  but I guarantee you that both of my friends battled to the end and had zero regrets about their time on Earth. They left a lot of great memories for a lot of family and friends. But in death, they also left me with a life lesson.

Every day is a gift. Don’t forget to unwrap it.

As if we needed one, we have yet another reason to love Ben Franklin, a man admired by everyone except maybe his barber.

I bring you good news of great joy that shall be to you and all people who are sick of winter, or sick of February’s record rainfall, or sick of Mr. Bleak and his bastard cousin, Mrs. Chill.

Daylight Saving Time begins next Sunday, March 11. Just 10 more days, baby!

The idea of such a thing occurred to Franklin during a long visit to Paris, a town where people didn’t mind staying up late and sleeping until past noon. (Everyone except the apple peddlers and waste management thought they were a rock star.) Adding an hour onto the day’s backside would mean one less hour of candle burning; think of the wax and wicks the town could save! (There had to be a store in Paris in 1750 named “Wax and Wicks.” HAD to be.)

So Ben brought it up in a sort of whimsical, “Poor Richard” kind of way, but everyone just laughed, as they often did back in gay Pariee in the frolicking, corset-heavy 18^th century. “That’s just Ben being Ben,” they said before chopping someone else’s head off, catching the latest movie on the Enlightenment, or rushing off to either attend a Bordeaux tasting or invent quiche.

Unlike the French Revolution, The Daylight Saving Time idea got zero traction. Ben died, and the idea too.

Except it didn’t.

Europe started DST in World War I, and America jumped in there for a year. We were hit and miss until the mid-1960s when DST became A Real Thing. Arizona gets a pass so people in Tucson and Phoenix can run their air-conditioners less, and Hawaii gets a pass because it’s Hawaii.

Ten days, sweet cheeks! It’ll hurt to push your clock forward that first day and miss an hour of sleep, but you’ll adjust. So hang in there; everything’s going to be blue skies and sunshine.

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