It read: “Dear SMN, A few years ago, dear Margy told me how much she enjoyed Garret Woodward’s column. Now, I’m enjoying it alone. Thank you, Garret, for sharing your story.” To note, Margy is Bill’s late wife, who has passed away in recent years. She was quite the character in our interactions.

When I finished reading the note, a smile emerged on my face. I’ve known Bill since I started working at this newspaper in 2012. We’ve shared a few Thanksgiving celebrations together (me being a holiday orphan most years) and other family events my publisher is kind enough to invite me to. He’s a pretty unique and incredibly intelligent individual with many accomplishments to be proud of, most of which being his family.

A native of Detroit, Michigan, Bill and I (also a North Country native) have had some great chats over the years, too, including a fiery love for professional hockey and the “Original Six” teams (Bill a Red Wings fan, myself a die-hard for the Montreal Canadiens). As well, we have genuine solidarity about surviving all of those frigid winters along the Canadian Border.

Beyond that, I harbor such gratitude for folks like Bill, the elders of any and all families. The wise and familiar faces that anchor the end of a dinner table. The wisdom and lore that radiates so effortlessly from people who have traversed this earth for numerous decades. Their presence is not lost on me and I champion their willingness to talk at-length to this scruffy writer (me).

I’ve been writing this column every week since June 2013. Hundreds and hundreds of pieces, with many I don’t even remember, seeing as a life in motion is a blur, happily. Time flies when you’re having fun, and I aim to enjoy each step along the road of life, all with love in my heart and curiosity in my soul. And it means so much to me to get messages from readers, especially older folks, who thankfully pick up this publication and scan this column, seeing whatever wandering and pondering I’m up to this week.

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To preface, I grew up in an older family. I’m the oldest of two children (now 40). My father was 42 when I was born, my mother 36. Thus, when I was a kid, my aunts, uncles and extended family were older. My father’s parents were already gone by the time I was in preschool. Thankfully, I still had my mother’s parents around. I also had my great-grandmother in my daily existence until she passed away at age 103, right when I was in middle school.

From day one, I’ve been an “old soul,” someone who truly has felt out of place alongside my peers. Older people are just more interesting to me. They’ve lived a lot of life and I want to hear everything they have to say. In hindsight, this explains how my career trajectory led me to journalism. Even as a kid, I would continually gravitate towards the oldest person in any room I found myself in, often asking them questions and listening to their stories.

I think back fondly on all of those long-gone World War II veterans I was able to sit-down with, either personally or professionally. Same goes for a handful of Holocaust survivors I was lucky enough to cross paths with years ago and hear their stories. All of them calibrated not only my empathy and compassion for people and the universe, but also how I conduct myself on a daily basis.

I think of the old cowboys and ranchers I would track down when I was a rookie journalist in Eastern Idaho in 2008. One of which being Verl Bagley, a 92-year-old Mormon farmer. I was 23 at the time. And each week, I’d swing by his old farmhouse and interview him about whatever he wanted to talk about, usually right after he’d make me a ham sandwich for lunch and hand me a large glass of milk. Tales of the early 20th century and living in the West.

I think of the artists and musicians I’ve been able to interview about their craft. Even as a young writer, I would specifically aim to record conversations with an array of musicians that were in the winter years of their lives. Even then, I knew I had to get to them on tape as soon as possible, seeing as the sands of time were fleeting. If I didn’t do so, I’d regret it once they were gone. Names like Bobby Osborne, Raymond Fairchild, Jesse McReynolds and so on.

But, mostly, it’s the serendipitous interactions that happen when you least expect it. Some of the most enjoyable and meaningful conversations came about by happenstance. Sometimes it’s sitting at the counter at a diner or a dive bar and you take notice of the older person sitting alone a few stools down. Start with the small talk and sincerity of time and place, then shift towards deeper topics and digging through the layers of one’s past.

The key being to hear their life story and, perhaps, offer them a platform to feel seen and heard. I do so out of pure love and fascination for every single human being I come in contact with. And it never ceases to amaze me how, within a few minutes of small talk, someone will literally tell you their life story, every personal detail offered up to a complete stranger. Of which, I do the same, this two-way street of the shared experience that is life on this planet. It remains as fulfilling and real with each vibrant soul I come across.

Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.