Bucket lists. We all have them. But how many of us cross off those items on your bucket list? What’s taking you so long?

Time is the greatest commodity any human has. There are plenty of cliches out there about how precious time is. Choose any of them and apply it to your bucket list. And then do it.

Here’s one of mine.

As a football fan, specifically a (long suffering) Cincinnati Bengals fan I always wanted to see as many games at opposing fields as possible. But the most obvious one presented itself to me this year at just the right time in my life.

The Bengals were traveling to the legendary Lambeau Field to take on the Green Bay Packers. I circled that one as THE bucket list trip. I made mental preparations for it and said, wouldn’t it be cool? Then life got in the way.

My mom, stricken with end-staged Alzheimer’s would require my family’s focus and attention – specifically my dad who had been a loving and devoted husband for more than 50 years. My dad too was a Cincinnati Bengal fan but hadn’t enjoyed a game in several years.

In June, my mom passed away. As devastating as that was for our family, especially my dad, it put things into perspective. The time was now to take those trips. To check off those bucket list items. And then fate fell into my lap.

A dear friend gifted me two seats to the Bengals versus Green Bay game at Lambeau Field with a note that says, take your dad. And so I took that sage advice.

This would be my dad’s first trip since mom’s passing. At 80 I’m lucky my dad still mostly has his health and can make such a trip. I almost had to coax him to go. It didn’t feel right for him. And I got that.

A Silent Journey

Thanks to Lexus, who lent my dad and I a 2025 RX500h for the trip, I picked him up and we headed to Green Bay. I had arranged all the accommodations as I didn’t want him to fret over anything.

It’s about 500 miles from Cincinnati to Green Bay and just over 7 ½ hours. This would be great father-son bonding time. At times the trip was filled with silence and pensive thoughts. Occasionally it was small talk. We never once spoke about mom or what my dad was processing.

But I could tell his silence was about that reflection. And I got that too.
Once we arrived in Green Bay, we had a quick meal and then an early night to bed as the game was the next day.

Hallowed ground

We left obscenely early for the stadium the next day. As an 80-year-old and a son with my own mobility challenges, I worried about the logistics, the barriers that often make big events inaccessible to people like us. I had done pre-planning and scouting about where close handicap parking was.

The traffic flow along Lombardi Ave. (the main thoroughfare) was smooth. Finding a reasonably close handicap spot was also uneventful. We unloaded my mobility scooter, which I travel everywhere with, and then made our way toward the stadium.

It was about a six-block walk into the stadium. I took it all in while checking on my dad. The old man was doing great with the walk. You could tell he was getting energized as we approached closer.

Getting through the gates of Lambeau was as easy as you could hope for and boy did my friend hook us up with some nice seats.

Inside, the seats my friend had secured were perfect. Lambeau shows its age—the concrete, the bleachers—but that only magnified the sense of stepping into a cathedral of football lore, the Frozen Tundra. And though we wore enemy stripes, the kindness of the home fans was much appreciated.

The game’s result—a predictable Bengals loss—meant nothing. The experience was everything. It wasn’t about the scoreboard; it was about the moment. I had given my dad a memory, a crucial dose of life and normalcy, right when he needed it most.

“Mom would want that”

My father is a man of quiet reserve, his emotions carefully guarded. On the drive home, as we talked about future possibilities, I pressed him gently. I urged him to take every trip, to see every site he wanted. I told him mom would want that.

Time is ticking down for each of us. We aren’t promised tomorrow.

Whether it’s a bucket list trip or just some place you want to go or a site you want to see, you shouldn’t put off those trips. Seeing what that awful disease of Alzheimer’s did to my entire family reinforced in me something that country artist Cody Johnson sang in his song, Til you can’t: “Don’t wait on tomorrow ’cause tomorrow may not show.”

Don’t wait until grief makes your choices for you. Don’t wait until the ticket is given by tragedy.
Cross off the list. Take the trip. Say “I love you.” Do it now.