After an absolutely lovely evening with some of my favorite people, my wife and I made our way home, and crawled into our bed. After some spontaneous extra curricular activity, we both eventually faded into a state of quiescence amidst the white noise drone of a bedroom fan, and the flickering of a television that was displaying a show or movie I can’t recall, simply serving to lull us to sleep.
Somewhere in the subconscious, a dream was born, fueled by an evening of Jack Daniel’s and Ginger Ale cocktails, and a late night pizza.
There I found myself, in my dream, speaking to my musical idol, Neil Peart.
He didn’t appear as some sort of apparition or anything of the like, but rather as I actually remember him. Black slacks, a black shirt, his head adorned in a kufi (a type of cap worn by men in West Africa that became synonymous with Neil) and his nose with its slight reddish tint.
We were in something that resembled a massive airplane hangar, and for one reason or another, he was organizing his drums, spare drum heads, and sticks, a task that would more likely be delegated to his long time drum tech, Lorne Wheaton, but nevertheless, I volunteered to assist, to which he politely allowed.
We spoke at length about drums and drumming, and yet, sadly, although I recognize it all as nothing more than a subconscious manifestation, none of that dialogue remains discoverable in my mental hard-drive, a common problem with subliminal imaginative thoughts, I suppose.
We were standing adjacent to what I can only describe as a ‘party bus,’ white in color, and as I began filing away his drum sticks from various tours into their different designated bins, I observed the “NP” initials that were printed within the traditional Pro Mark black, red, or gold banding on the sticks, indicating these were specifically issued to Neil for touring from Pro Mark. I was in awe.
It was at this point that I asked Neil if he harbored any regrets from the life he’d lived.
He seemed a bit taken aback by the question, pausing briefly, and then growing emotional, hanging his head, and turning slightly away before responding, “You’ve got to know when to call it quits, Dave. Don’t ever forget that time is something you’ll never get back. Make sure to make time for your family.”
He then boarded the bus, and it pulled away as I stood there, alone, surrounded by all of his equipment, and it felt real, yet surreal.
Just as in life, he’d seemingly left it all behind.
I awoke, my heart racing, and I found myself in a confused stupor.
I don’t believe in fate, nor signs, but something about this all felt so strange. So vivid. Purposeful.
These days, I’m finding myself at a point in my life where I’m beginning to come to terms with my own mortality, and this message, regardless of where it was born, felt poignant and necessary.
One thing I’ve always been a firm believer in is the value of time. You see, buying gifts for people is a wonderful gesture sometimes, but it can also be somewhat of a hollow offering; Consider that more money can always be earned to offset whatever money was spent on the gift, however, if you offer somebody your time, that’s something you’ll never get back. It simply means more.
At least to me it does, so to make a long story short- Time is an irreplaceable, finite thing, so invest it wisely.
While the rest of the world mourns the passing of Kobe Bryant, I still find myself mourning the loss of my own hero, and I quietly empathize with their pain and just as they’ll learn to do, I’ll carry on his legacy in my own way.
It should also be noted that in his passing, Neil left behind his daughter, Olivia. She was 10 years old.
From the desk of Dave Foster 