“Patience is a virtue, possess it if you can. Seldom found in women, never found in man.” — Jonathan Morris

When Tina thanks me for being patient while waiting for her to go somewhere, I often quip, “My middle name is patience.” She laughs because we both know that that’s far from true. Back in my working days when I travelled to college campuses around the country, for example, I had zero patience for planes that arrived late or people who came late to meetings. “Airlines should be fined for every late minute,” I fumed to myself, and meetings should start on time, even if everyone isn’t present. Why punish those who arrived on time?” I reasoned. When I was a teenager, I’d often play a round of golf in two and a half hours while walking the course. I’ve never understood why it should take five hours to get around a course, especially while riding a golf cart.

Some of my worst dreams over the years have involved getting somewhere late or not completing an assignment on time. When I was a student at Bowdoin College, I’d always get my studying done early; I never pulled an “all-nighter.” I retain those don’t-be-late fears, although I’m much better about dealing with travel snafus or not getting prompt service at a restaurant. But I’m still known for getting to places early in order to get a good seat. By the way, friends who kid me about my get-there-early ways are happy to have me save seats for them.

As Popeye the Sailor Man once stated, “I yam what I yam.” I’ll never be one of those people who take the mañana approach, unconcerned about time or schedules. But I’m trying. (Tina might say, “very trying.”) Surviving cancer and savoring small blessings remind me that many things are more important than dealing with a botched schedule or taking a few minutes waiting for someone.

I’ve also tried to become more conscious about how I spend my remaining time on the planet. That means minimizing television watching, while maximizing soul-soothing moments, such as reading a good book or reaching out to a friend or listening to music or lingering over a meal.

After all, time is all we have; we might as well put it to good use.

And that brings me to the subject of kindness. Our national political discourse seems bereft of kindness. More than ever, we all need to give — and receive — extra helpings of kindness. Here, again, is an area where my good wife outshines me. She’s kind to almost everyone. She’ll go right up to a person sitting alone at a party and strike up a conversation. I’ve tried to learn from her.

I love hearing about kind unselfish acts done for other people who are undergoing tough situations. I do wish the news media would show more of those moments and cut way down on obsessing over the latest serial killings or natural disaster or political fight. Call me a head-in-the-sand idealist, if you must, but that’s where I am.

A few weeks ago, we got a letter from my granddaughter Phoebe. It had come right after we had spent a delightful weekend with her family. Phoebe is a precocious 7-year-old who loves to share her creative gifts with you — and everyone else. She loves basking in the spotlight, just like her grandfather. The letter contained one sentence. “Thank you, GM and Dee, for being so kind to me. Love, Phoebe.”

That short letter filled my heart. In fact, I even took the time to read it again. And again. And I thought about what prompted her to write it. And why not savor the moment? Everything else I wanted to do could wait. What if we all borrowed a chapter from Phoebe’s book and expressed gratitude to those who’ve brightened our lives. Just imagine.

David Treadwell, a Brunswick writer, welcomes commentary and suggestions for future “Just a Little Old” columns. dtreadw575@aol.com.