Last times, first times

(First appeared in The Baldwin Times for Gulf Coast Media, July 17, 2026.)

Dorinda helps Alex with his sunglasses on the beach in July 1993.

By Wayne Smith

"In another perfect life, in another perfect light, we run, we run, we run, run."— "Run," Foo Fighters

I can't tell you the last time I went running.

I can narrow it down to probably five or six years ago. I used to hate running. Hated it. Now, with it a struggle just to walk, I like to dream about running again.

I work out regularly to try to improve my ability to walk and recently achieved a weight-loss milestone I had been striving for. But running, unfortunately, isn't part of my regimen anymore.

That got me thinking about last times. And first times.

Ironically, one of the funniest stories from my dad's Navy days involved running. I've spent the past week editing chapters of "Caledonia and Me," my book about my dad, the USS Idaho, and the lives we inherited from one another.

I won't share the entire story here, but as a 20-year-old sailor enjoying leave on the islands of New Caledonia, all my dad had to do was outrun his buddy back to the ship.

He did.

For years afterward, that friend called him "Caledonia."

There was another kind of running my dad loved even more. He loved "running" his beagles.

He'd turn them loose on our property, let them pick up the scent of a rabbit, then sit quietly on the tailgate of his truck listening to the chase. He loved the sound of those dogs wailing through the woods.

I went with him many times growing up. Fewer times after I married and started raising my own family. He'd call and ask if I wanted to go hear the dogs run.

Too often, I'd tell him no. I wish I could go with him one more time. The truth is, I can't remember the last time I went.

Or the last time he asked.

Most of us never know when the last time will be.

The last time you'll carry your son or daughter because they're too tired to walk. The last time your daughter asks you to push her on the swing. The last bedtime story.

The last family beach vacation before your children become teenagers and would rather spend time somewhere else than with Mom and Dad.

The last Matchbox car you put away. The last stuffed animal you pick up off the floor. The last game of catch.

Those moments don't announce themselves. They simply slip quietly into memory.

Working on this column led me to pull out old family photographs I hadn't seen in years.

There was Dorinda laughing on the beach, helping Alex put on some tiny green sunglasses. Alex splashing in the Gulf. Baylee discovering it a few years later.

Dorinda holds Alex outside a condo in Gulf Shores during his first visit to the beach in 1993.

Family vacations along the Gulf Coast, when we were too busy living life to realize we were making memories that would last forever.

Looking through those photographs reminded me how easily ordinary moments become extraordinary ones.

But here's the beautiful part. The last time isn't always a bad thing.

If you're fortunate enough to become a grandparent, life has a remarkable way of replacing many last times with first times.

You'll find yourself picking toys up off the floor again. You'll hear little feet running through the house again. You'll take your grandchildren to story time at the bookstore and watch their eyes light up when a fire truck is in the parking lot for them to explore, as I did with my oldest grandson last weekend.

You'll watch tiny hands build sandcastles on the same beaches where your own children once played.

You'll experience first trips to the zoo. First Major League Baseball games. First Christmas mornings. First beach vacations.

Different children. Different generation. The same joy.

That's one reason I smiled recently as my grandchildren scattered toys all over my condo. Years ago, I probably would've sighed before bending over to pick them up. You never want to step on a Lego in the middle of the night.

Now I know those moments don't last forever.

Unless, of course, you're the Rolling Stones.

With another album released July 10, apparently some people simply refuse to have a last time.

The rest of us aren't quite so fortunate. But maybe we don't need to be.

Maybe the beauty of life isn't avoiding the last times. Maybe it's recognizing that if we're paying attention, they're often followed by first times we never saw coming.

Looking through those old photographs reminded me that I can't go back and relive those beach vacations with Dorinda and our two children. I wouldn't trade those memories for anything.

But I also wouldn't trade watching my grandchildren make memories on that same shoreline today.

Last times. First times.

Same story, different chapters.

Now, if you should see me running again and smiling...

Well, that would be a first.

Dorinda holds Baylee during her first trip to the beach in 1997.

Carrying Baylee across the bridge in Cincinnati in 2003,