Roxanne Henke

Two years ago, we spent Christmas with the kids and grandkids in the Bahamas. It was as stressful as it was fun. We (mostly me) made travel, hotel and meal arrangements. I shopped for lightweight gifts to bring along. I brought Christmas lights, homemade cookies and even a nativity set to keep the “reason for the season.”

We usually “do Christmas” with our kids every other year to accommodate celebrations with other family members. So, my husband and I expected to be spending last Christmas alone.

Good stories are worth retelling, especially when they contain a lesson I’ve never forgotten. So, I’m ending this series on regrets by revisiting a column I wrote close to a decade ago.

Some years back, I was going on an adventure, flying alone from Bismarck to Denver, Colo., to meet with my cousin.

Last time, I promised you the regret story that made me cry, but first let me share a regret that was the theme for many people: career regrets.

More than one man told me this regret: focusing on the pursuit of sports to the detriment of school work when he was in high school. When he got to college, he realized he wasn’t ever going to become the professional athlete he had imagined. Consequently, he wasn’t scholastically prepared to follow the career path he would have liked to pursue. He felt he had to “settle” for a lesser career.

Regrets. Over a period of several months, I talked to friends, relatives, acquaintances and strangers, asking them, “Do you have any regrets?” If you ever want to have a deep conversation with a virtual stranger – a seatmate on an airplane or a service repair person at your house – ask them that question. It cuts down on chitchat, that’s for sure. My findings? Regrets come in different forms, from simple to profound, and most somewhere in the middle.

It started (and ended) with a note. I was 11 years old. Our seventh-grade class party was coming up, and I was passed a note in the hallway. It was from “Dan” and read: “Will you go to the class party with me?”

I hadn’t really noticed Dan. (I was just a year past playing with Barbies in the basement.) But I was flattered to be asked to the party. I sent a note back: “Yes.”

It wasn’t my husband’s nor my idea to spend Christmas in the Bahamas last year, but the kids somehow talked us into it.

“Mom. Dad. We need to make memories while you’re still healthy.” It wasn’t as if we were gasping for our next breaths.

“If we’re going to travel anyway, we might as well be somewhere warm.” They had a point. Our little North Dakota town is difficult to get to when winter weather results in chaos trying to juggle flights and drives. One year, my daughter had to change her return flight three times.

We caved. The Bahamas it would be.

I know it’s a bit early to write about Christmas, but please bear with me. We had an unusual Christmas last year. With a birthday four days after Christmas, I get used to mixing things up, and sometimes the whole story can get a bit long. This birthday happened to be a “big” one. Number 70. In my world, “happy birthday” and “merry Christmas” go hand-in-hand. So, I’m going to do my Christmas column a bit backward this year.

Next month, I’ll write more about our very different Christmas.

This seems to be a year filled with “big numbers.” My husband and I celebrated our 50th wedding anniversary. I turned 70 at the end of 2023. And Al Gustin is celebrating his 50th year of writing his column for North Dakota Living.

At a wedding years ago, the DJ said, “All married couples, get on the dance floor.” I dragged my husband away from a conversation, and we were soon swaying at the edge of the crowd. Then the DJ said, “If you’ve been married longer than five years, keep dancing. Everyone else, sit down.” Then it was 10, 15, 20 and 25 years. At this point, my husband and I were grumbling under our breath. Neither of us likes having much attention, but we could see what was happening and we figured we would be close to the last ones standing.

Fifty years is a long time to be married, yet I remember the second night of our honeymoon as if it was yesterday. We made it to Denver, Colo., and found a Best Western motel, which was splurging considering neither one of us had a job.
We decided to go to a movie, and I used a payphone in the lobby to call my mom and let her know where we were. She was upset with me, because my uncle, who hadn’t been invited to the wedding, was upset with her. I fought tears until we got back to the motel. There, I threw myself onto the bed and started sobbing.