For Jason…

One of my dear cousins died last week, and it has hit me hard.  Jason R. Jarvis was a son, a husband, a brother, an uncle, a father to 2 adoring children, a cousin, and a friend to most everyone he met. He was an avid hunter and fisherman, and had a knowledge of the great outdoors unlike anyone else I know. He was an assistant Scout Master, and nothing made him happier than to see young kids gain an appreciation and a healthy respect for the beauty of the wilderness. He was an accomplished archer, and was one of only two TWRA Safety Instructor instructors in the state of Tennessee. (I know that sounds redundant, but it means he taught the safety instructors.)

Jason had an infectious smile, a quick wit, and a beautiful singing voice. He loved a good meal – and the ensuing belch it produced, a wicked joke, and bluegrass music. Some of my fondest memories are of spending Tuesday evenings during the summer with him, sitting in the balcony of that hallowed venue for “Bluegrass Night at The Ryman.”  We sang along to Alison Krauss and The Cox Family as they performed “Far Side Bank of Jordan” and we marveled for a long time afterwards that we were able to see Dr. Ralph Stanley and the father of bluegrass himself -- Bill Monroe -- at one of the last shows they performed together. (We also shared a hearty laugh at Naomi Judd slipping into the balcony and trying to act like she was incognito, all while drawing attention to herself with her oversized hat and sunglasses. At night.)

Jason taught me about pine tar, the destructive power of poison ivy even in winter when it has no identifying leaves -- which just seems so unfair to most of us unsuspecting humans -- and how to make the best fire starters in the world (cotton balls saturated with petroleum jelly, for anyone who is interested). We talked about the best bows, the pros and cons of Ruger vs. Sig Sauer in my quest for a new pistol, camping, and the fine art of cooking over an open fire.

But the biggest lesson Jason Jarvis taught me was one I didn’t grasp at the time. And yet I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since his untimely death last week at the age of 43.

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For those of you who live here, you know that middle Tennessee isn’t known for having much of a winter, and measureable snows don’t occur often. But several years ago, Nashville and the surrounding area were blanketed with a rare snow; it started that morning, and by mid-afternoon there was 6 inches on the ground and it showed no signs of slowing. Suddenly, my phone rang, and it was Jason.

 “What are you and Crabapple doing?” he bellowed. [“Crabapple” was one of Jason’s aptly loving nicknames for my Mom. The other was “Ernie-chank.”]

“Watching this gorgeous snow come down and marveling at the stillness,” I answered.

“Well, I’ve got the canoe in the truck and I’m headed to the Harpeth. I’m gonna put in down around the old homestead in White Bluff. Come on -- go with me.”

Now mind you, it was already mid-afternoon, and by the time we could traverse the hazardous roads and venture 30 miles west, I had no doubt it would be near dark before we could put the canoe in the water. And although the thought of going on such an adventure was more than mildly exhilarating, I ultimately expounded upon all the reasons why I shouldn’t go.

Me: “It’ll be nearly dark before we can even get on the river…”

Jason: “I know! Can you imagine how gorgeous this is gonna be? Everything covered in white, it’ll be as bright as day out there! And just think how quiet it will be!”

Me: “Except for the chattering of my teeth… What if I fall overboard? I’ll freeze to death before you could haul me back in the canoe.”

Jason: “Then don’t fall out. Besides, just dress in enough layers; you’ll be peeling them off by the time we start paddling.”

Me: “It’s gonna be dicey even getting down there in this weather…”

Jason: “LeAnne, you drive a JEEP, for crying out loud!”

I laughed at his infectious enthusiasm, but ultimately begged off, saying I’d do it “next time.”

But “next time” never came. We were never again blessed to have a perfect snow on a weekday afternoon and the opportunity to enjoy it together.  An inflexible job, numerous responsibilities, and other demands monopolized my time. And the next thing I knew, “Life” had gotten in the way of “Living.”

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We’ve got to seize our opportunities when they come along, because there’s no guarantee they’ll ever come around again. And it doesn’t necessarily have to be some grand event we take part in. It could be as simple as pulling off the side of the road to appreciate the rainbow traversing the sky, when the sun suddenly bursts through the clouds after a storm. Who cares if you’re 10 minutes late for dinner? 

It could mean getting down in the floor to tickle your great-niece as she coos and giggles, even though you “need” to be doing other things. What could be more important than savoring a moment with a tiny baby who will be half-grown in the blink of an eye? 

It could be taking the time to watch a hawk lazily circling above, and spying the branch he comes to rest on as he surveys his prey. Wouldn’t you rather do that than fight with your mate? 

Or it could be enjoying the feeling of rolling up your pants and wading in a cool creek on a hot summer day. I’d rather do that on my lunch break than contemplate how much I hate my job any day, wouldn't you?

Maybe it’s as simple as throwing caution to the wind and going canoeing in a snowstorm one evening, just for the sheer enjoyment of marveling at the beauty of nature and spending time with someone you love. 

Or it could be as simple as picking up the phone and telling the people who matter the most how much we love them, because we never know when that opportunity will be taken from us. 

That’s the most important lesson of all.

I write this with tears streaming down my face, and I just want to tell my dear sweet Jason: I get it now. I understand. Lesson learned.