What We Lose Without Knowing | Yammerin' about Lost Moments

SUMMARY

In this season finale of Yammerin’, Stitch reflects on the quiet, fleeting moments that shape a lifetime — from rainy Sundays with his father and old cowboy movies, to roller coaster laughter and muddy shoes at Kennywood Park with his own kids. As time moves forward, Stitch explores the ache of memory, the danger of distraction, and the importance of presence in a world increasingly buried in screens. This monologue is a gentle reminder to hold on, look up, and live inside the moments before they slip away. 

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TAKEAWAY

• We don’t lose moments because life moves too fast — we lose them because we’re not looking.
• Put down the phone.
• Be where your feet are.
• Because one day, the ordinary moment you’re living right now…
• will be the one you reach for when it’s gone.

If you connected with this story, I think you’ll find something meaningful in a book I wrote titled "Stitch in Time". It’s my way of sharing the journey, the mistakes, and the love that made me who I am. If you’d like to read more, your support helps me continue creating with MTC Studio. The link is below.
Thanks for listening, and for being part of this story.

https://www.authorhouse.com/en/bookstore/bookdetails/284668-Stitch-in-Time

Don't forget to check out MTC Studio's other podcast "The Gripe w/Stitch & Rick"

https://www.buzzsprout.com/2597313

Mild adult language associated with this episode

Transcript

SPEAKER_01 0:00

Welcome to the quieter side of the internet. Out there it's chaos, noise, arguments, everybody shouting to be heard. But in here, the room is still. It's just us talking, sharing, yammerin'. This isn't a show for the loud stuff or the raucous talk. This is yammerin' at a lower volume. A little time to look back, look around, and maybe find some perspective in the quiet. I'm Stitch Mainville. So pull up a chair and let's spend some time together. Over this past weekend, my wife and I drove out to Indianapolis to spend time with my oldest son to help him celebrate his 40th birthday. And as we all stood around the dining table and sang happy birthday, I suddenly saw him as he was back when he was three or four years old. And that's when it dawned on me. My son is 40 years old. I'm the father of a grown 40-year-old man who has a family of his own. You know, when we're kids, all we want is to grow up. We rush through childhood like it's something to escape. We want the keys and the freedom, the late nights and the independence. We want to be big. But nobody tells you that once you finally get there, you spend the rest of your life missing the very thing you couldn't wait to leave behind. The older I get, the more I find myself reaching back. Not for the big milestones, not for the birthdays or the graduations, but for the small, ordinary moments I didn't realize were precious at the time. Like sitting with my dad on a rainy Sunday afternoon watching whatever cowboy movie he had on the TV. John Wayne, Dean Martin, horses, dust, gunfights, the whole deal. Those old westerns had a rhythm to them. The good guy always stood a little taller. The bad guy always tipped his hat just a little too low. And somewhere in the middle of it all, there'd be a saloon, a piano player, and a bar fight that started with one punch and ended with half the town rolling through swinging doors. My dad loved those movies. And when you're a kid, you don't realize something important. You're not watching the movie. You're watching your dad watch the movie. The way he leans forward in his chair when the showdown starts. The way he laughs at the same joke every time, even though he's seen the film ten times already. That's that's a real memory. I didn't care about the plot. I I cared that I was next to him. I cared that he was laughing at the same parts every time. I cared that he'd nudge me with his elbow when Dean started singing. And back then I I didn't know I was collecting memories. I thought I was just killing time. And those rainy Sundays, they're gone now. But the feeling of them, that warmth, the safety, that stays with you. And it wasn't just sitting with my dad and his old black and white movies. It was also his music. You see, we didn't have streaming or TiVo or even VCRs back then. We had to plan our television watching by using a thing called the TV guide. And if there was nothing worth watching, my dad would turn off the television, walk over to this giant floor model hi-fi stereo, and dad would put on his records. I'd roll my eyes because I wanted to go outside, but at the time I felt stuck because it was raining. Man, that stereo cabinet was enormous. Kids today wouldn't believe it. It looked like a piece of furniture, because it was. Wood panels, sliding doors, speakers big enough to shake the living room. And Dad would open that thing like he was opening a treasure chest. He'd flip through his albums like they were old friends. And then he'd pull one out, hold it by the edges, blow the dust off it, and gently drop the needle. And that sound, that little crackle before the music starts. That crackle wasn't noise. It was the sound of the room getting ready for a memory. But now I'd give anything to hear him drop that needle on Dean Martin or Frank Sinatra one more time. To hear that crackle before the music starts. To hear him humming along, off key, but proud. Moments are fleeting. They slip through your fingers even when you think you're holding on tight. My dad, he's no longer with us. He passed away a few years ago. And had I known then what I now know, I may have appreciated those rainy Sundays with him. I wouldn't have felt stuck. I would have cherished each moment. And the last time I was stuck in the house on a rainy Sunday, had I known it was the last time. Well, if there was a way, I would have frozen myself in that moment for as long as possible. I remember taking my two youngest kids to Kennywood Park here in Pittsburgh. Kennywood's a local amusement park known for its great roller coasters. My favorite is the Thunderbolt. It's an old wooden coaster. It's not flashy like many of today's big scary coasters. It doesn't have loops or crazy gimmicks. It's just a great 1950s-era century flyer, world-class coaster. And it's all about a ride full of surprises. And as soon as you leave the station, you immediately plunge deep into a ravine. Catch your breath fast because the thunderbolt saves the largest drops for the end of the ride. Now my kids and I, we'd we'd make the Thunderbolt our first ride of the day. I can remember the last time I took them there. My daughter was around 12 or 13. My son was 10 or 11. And when I was there with them, I was just a big old kid myself. We'd run through the park together. We'd eat junk food. And on days when it rained, we'd jump in mud puddles and splash each other as we screamed, puddle patrol. I'd give anything to relive that last visit we had. There was one time when we were in line waiting to ride an old wooden coaster. Ian was around six and Brianne was about eight. And they were clinging to my legs while we stood in line for the jackrabbit. And I remember feeling happy that I was a dad. I remember thinking, what will they be like when they're adults taking their own kids to an amusement park? Now, Ian is 31. Brianne is 33. And I would give anything to have those moments back. They would laugh so hard on those old wooden coasters that I'd forget every worry I had in the world. And I'd look at them with their tiny hands and their tiny shoes and their tiny voices. And I'd wonder what they'd be like as adults. What kind of people they'd grow into. What kind of parents they might become. Now here we are. The future I used to imagine is the present I'm living in now. Those little hands, they don't cling to my legs anymore. Those tiny voices have grown deep. Those wooden coaster days, they're memories now. It's funny. We trade the moment for the future. And then when the future arrives, we wish we could trade it back. I once heard a line that nearly broke me. It said, There was a time when I picked up my child, and when I put him back down, it was the last time I would ever pick him up again. You don't get a warning. There's no announcement. It's just over. And life quietly moves on. Had I known that the last time was, in fact, the last time, I would have held them a little longer. I would have memorized the weight of him in my arms. I would have stayed in that moment instead of rushing to the next one. But that's the trick of life, isn't it? You don't realize the value of a moment until it becomes a memory. As these moments are happening, we're just living in them. Sometimes we're not even paying attention because we're just watching TV or we're just standing in line. Those moments may seem insignificant at the time. But looking back, those those moments were very significant. Because they're gone now. I can't take my six-year-old son on a roller coaster anymore because I no longer have a six-year-old son. I can no longer stomp in mud puddles with my eight-year-old daughter because that little girl is gone today. The last time I did those things was the last time I did those things. We're losing them because we're not looking at them anymore. Everywhere I go, I see people staring into devices. Parents at the park scrolling while their kids shout, Hey, watch me. Families at restaurants sitting together but living separate lives behind screens. People recording concerts instead of experiencing them. Folks walking down the street with their heads down, missing the entire world that is happening all around them. You know, when I was growing up, we didn't document every second of life. Yeah, we had a camera with a roll of film. And you got twenty-four pictures. That was it. Twenty-four chances to capture something worth remembering. Which meant you didn't take pictures of everything. You took pictures of the important stuff. Birthday cakes. Christmas mornings. Your kids standing next to a roller coaster sign because they were finally tall enough to ride it. And when that roll of film was done, you had to wait a week, sometimes two. And when those pictures came back, you sat around the kitchen table together and you looked at them together. Nobody was alone behind a screen. And the memory happened twice. Now, I'm not judging, I've done it too. We all have. But here's the truth nobody wants to say out loud. You don't know when the last time is going to be the last time. You don't know when it's the last time your kid reaches for your hand. The last time they ask you to watch them go down a slide. The last time they fall asleep on your shoulder. The last time they want to sit next to you on the couch. The last time they laugh at something only you could make funny. And if your face is buried in a phone, you miss it. You miss everything. It's weird. We think we're capturing life on these screens, but really we're letting life slip past us while we're busy documenting it. I keep thinking about my dad. If he were alive today and we were sitting on that couch watching a cowboy movie, and I spent half the time checking my phone, I'd never forgive myself. Because those moments, they don't come back. They don't repeat. They don't wait for you to finish scrolling. And one day, sooner than you think, you'll look up from that screen and you'll realize that the moment you were supposed to be living, it's already gone. So maybe the message here isn't just about childhood or fatherhood or nostalgia. Maybe it's about presence, about being where your feet are, about giving the people you love the one thing they can't get from anyone else. Your attention. Because one day your kids will be grown, your parents will be gone, your house will be quiet, and all you'll have left are the moments you actually lived. Not the ones you scrolled past. So maybe that's what growing older really is. It's learning to recognize the moments while they're happening. Learning to slow down. Learning to sit on the couch on a rainy Sunday afternoon and watch a cowboy movie with dad. Learning to listen to the record instead of waiting for it to end. Learning to hold on just a little bit longer. Because one day, these moments we're living right now, they'll be the ones we reach for too. And if we're lucky, if we're really lucky, we'll leave behind a few moments for someone else to reach for when they miss us. I'm Stitch Main, though. And that's my two cents. And that brings us to the end of this season of Yammering. I want to thank you for spending these quiet moments with me, for listening, remembering, and for letting me share a little piece of my life with you. Now we'll pick things back up this summer with more soft storytelling, more reflections, and more of the moments that make us who we are. And if you want to hear me in the meantime, you can always re-listen to these episodes. Or you can find me on The Gripe with Stitch and Rick, another MTC Studio original podcast. I'm Stitch Mainville, and thank you for listening. As I wrap up this episode, I want to share something close to my heart. A few years back, I wrote a book called Stitch in Time. Now, it's a fictional story, but every memory inside of it is based on something real that happened in my life. Now, if you connected with today's story, I think you'll find something meaningful with Stitch and Time. It's my way of sharing the journey, the mistakes, and the love that made me who I am. If you'd like to read more, your support helps me continue creating with MTC Studio. I'll be sure to include a link to the book in the episode description. Thanks for listening and for being part of this story.