SCOTT LUDWIG: Sunset on the seventeenth

When someone close to you has crossed over to the Great Beyond, it’s only natural to think about them every now and then — if not every single day.

If you’re like me, you try to zero in on that special moment with that person; one that brings a smile to your face. Or warms your heart. Or maybe even brings a tear to your eye. The one moment that, if it were in your power, you would have frozen in time so you could experience it all over again whenever you please.

I wish I’d had the foresight to capture those moments on film. But the truth is, when you are experiencing them — living them — you’re not thinking about them coming to an end. Therefore, the thought of capturing them on film never crosses your mind.

Until, at some point, they eventually do come to an end.

Fortunately for me, I have a clear picture of those special moments in my mind. Call it my insurance policy of memories:

♦ As a child, I’m sitting on the living room couch beside my Uncle Bennie on a Friday night watching our favorite television show, “The Flintstones.” We’re eating our traditional “Bedrock” dinner of a bowl of Rice Krispies with milk, banana and sugar. Meanwhile, the sweet aroma of Auntie’s homemade vanilla cake drifts throughout the rooms of their quaint and rustic two-story home on Robeson Street.

♦ As a young boy, I’m with my grandfather (Pappy) at Happel’s, the only hardware store in Birdsboro, Penn. Pappy worked there his entire adult life, as I did for much of my boyhood. I’m busy performing the very important task of counting the nails of every size in the wooden bins beneath the cash register. My pay is always the same, and it’s absolutely perfect: a pack of Black Jack chewing gum and a handful of horehound lozenges.

♦ As an adolescent, I’m in the family room with my mom on a Friday night in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. We’re both screaming at the referee who, for the umpteenth time, didn’t see Ripper Collins’ clearly put an illegal chokehold on Gentleman Jim Hady. Twenty-four hours later, we’re back in the exact same spots — only this time we’re watching Saturday’s late-night horror movie in black and white.

♦ As a teenager, my dad and I are playing a quick round of golf in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. We’re trying to get in nine holes before running out of daylight. We’re hitting our approach shots to the green on No. 17 as the sun begins to fall from the sky. As usual, by the time we hit our tee shots on No. 18 — our last hole of the round — it’s already dark.

Here’s what every one of those mental images have in common: Time stood still. The only thing that mattered was being in that moment, a moment with someone I loved to be with. And a moment with someone who felt the same way about me.

The moments that made me feel like everything was exactly as it should be.

Today, I’d give anything to live any one of them all over again. For instance:

♦ Sitting next to Uncle Benny, watching him laugh at Wilma yelling at Fred for coming home late again (he blames Barney, of course).

♦ Proudly announcing to the men at Happel’s that they’re running low on three-penny nails.

♦ Watching “Creature from the Black Lagoon” with mom, even though we’d seen it often enough to know what the actors were going to say before they said it.

(sigh)

My best advice to you is not to let these special moments simply pass you by. Whether you realize it or not, they will be the memories you’ll maintain for the rest of your life.

For me, one of those memories is watching the sun set over the Pacific Ocean, standing beside my favorite golfing partner in the world in the middle of the seventeenth fairway.

“Dad, you’ve got 130 yards to the green.”

“I’m thinking seven-iron.”

If only I had another chance to say those words out loud.

In my mind, of course, I say them all the time.