Never Miss a Sunset

Never Miss a Sunset, a book I read once or twice in my tween years, has seared itself into my memory. It’s not the plot, but the title - which stared out at me from my bookshelf for many years - that penetrated. The protagonist was a teenager, the oldest daughter of a poor farming family, who resented caring for her younger siblings. It was a hardscrabble existence, her father was gruff and severe, her mother constantly pregnant and beleaguered. It is not great literature, and you can guess the moral from the title. But the idea stuck with me.

My friend’s father died last week, and at his funeral I learned, because each person who spoke mentioned it, that Sam treasured every sunset. He died in his sleep, in bed, at 95, and lived an active and engaged life, full of accomplishments and adventures. But it turns out his greatest legacy, as articulated by his granddaughter, may be his reminder to appreciate each day, to do something as simple as sit and watch the sunset.

When my children were young, we lived in an old farmhouse, perched on a ridge 2,017 feet about sea level, with no protection from the prevailing winds blasting in from the west. The house had only one west-facing window (in a room that was more cold storage than living quarters), in spite of a spectacular view in that direction, so I missed a lot of sunsets in those days. But occasionally the brilliant sky would catch someone’s attention, and we would all rush out to marvel at it; or I might steal away by myself, face the color, take a few slow breaths, let my shoulders relax, my belly soften. I would remember the title of that book from my youth, and wonder how many tired souls had stood on our hill at the end of a hard day, letting drop all the troubles of the world, absorbed in the beauty of the wide open sky.