Rule #59 – Out by 9
I had the chance this week to visit Pennsylvania and spend time with my family there. Rachel, Andrew, and Ashleigh are all doing great, and my granddaughters are becoming more adorable by the day. I am truly blessed.
I’ve never believed you have to be physically at someone’s grave to remember them. I think we remember our loved ones through our actions — especially in how we treat others and live out the lessons they taught us.
But since I was in town, I stopped by my parents’ graves. I didn’t expect it to hit me as hard as it did — especially since it’s been more than seven years since my dad passed, and over 21 years since my mom. But just standing there and letting myself feel that loss, I realized how much I still miss them. I’ve let myself pretend their passing didn’t affect me, but that’s just not true.
Grief is a strange mix of sorrow, anger, and — in my case — good old-fashioned Catholic guilt. That regret-driven kind of guilt where your brain replays every mistake, hoping to rewrite the past. I am a deeply flawed man — and, honestly, a flawed son. Neither of them ever made me feel that way, but I know now I could have been better. I carry that regret with me.
This blog, and my podcast, are my way of making penance — to them, to God, and maybe to myself. By sharing the lessons they taught me, I hope to pass them on to my kids and grandkids. My hope is that Aubrey and Hailey will read or listen to these stories someday, and maybe even share them with their own children. In that way, these lessons become a real remembrance. My mom would have adored them — and I like to believe she does now, in her own way.
Sitting by their grave, I remembered a particular lesson my dad once shared. It’s how he stayed sane after my mom passed in 2000 at just 64. Being alone was hard for him — they did nearly everything together. Parties, dinners, travel — even when Alzheimer’s began to steal pieces of her, they still clung to life as a couple, fighting against the inevitable.
After she passed, Dad was lost. He would sit in a dark room with the cat she loved (and he merely tolerated), zoning out. It was only through the kindness of old friends — friends they had made together — that he began to come back to life. First dinners, then events, then a return to community life.
I asked him once how he did it — how he got through the loneliness.
He told me his secret. It wasn’t complicated:
“Get out of the house every day by 9 a.m.”
He said that when you’re old and alone, it’s easy to feel sorry for yourself. “The walls whisper to you,” he said. They remind you of your aches, your sadness. And the more time you spend alone, the more natural it feels — like a drug you grow addicted to. And especially during the holidays, that isolation turns into bitterness, resentment, and self-pity. You start to give up.
So, he made a rule: Out by 9.
Every day. No matter what.
Sometimes it was just a walk around the mall — he had a particular fondness for passing the Victoria’s Secret store (I’ll leave that commentary to your imagination). Other times, it was breakfast with old work buddies or catching a movie. He just made sure to leave the house.
That simple discipline brought him back into the world. It led him to rejoin the local school board — something he gave up when Mom got sick. He even joined the community choir, despite having about as much musical talent as I do — none. But in doing so, he found joy, connection, and a new sense of purpose.
And as I sat there by his grave, I realized just how wise that simple rule really was.
“Out by 9” isn’t just a rule for the elderly or the grieving.
It’s a rule for anyone feeling stuck, overwhelmed, or lost at any age.
When life feels heavy, get up and get out. Step outside your four walls. Engage. Move. Breathe new air. Reconnect.
Because staying inside — physically or emotionally — only makes the world smaller.
As I approach 62, I realize now that my dad’s quirky little habits were full of hidden wisdom. I was probably too busy or too arrogant to see it at the time. But eventually, even the blindest squirrel finds the nut.
So kids — if you ever visit your grandparents’ graves someday, or maybe even mine — don’t dwell on the sadness. Instead, remember the lessons. Especially the simple ones.
Like this one:
Rule #59: Get out by 9.
It just might change everything.
Love, Dad