I’ve carried that photo in my wallet for 58 years. It shows five smiling young men, all members of Okinawa-based VMGR-152, an aerial refueling and transport squadron in the First Marine Air Wing.

“Happy Jack,” always on the prowl for a good time, was from Fort Worth, Texas. “Skunk,” so called because he had a patch of white in his otherwise jet black hair, was an Indiana native. “Easy,” a gentle giant from Iowa farm country, never let anything or anyone bother him — had a smile on his face regardless of the situation. Rick, from Columbus, Ohio, was the ladies man, a smooth operator. I was the fifth man in the group.

Lost contact with Jack, Skunk and Easy within a few years of separation from active duty, but had the occasional phone conversation and Christmas card exchange with Rick. That faded some 15 years ago.

Looking for something in my wallet recently, I pulled out that photo and decided to contact Rick. Unable to locate his address in my disaster of an office, I Googled his name and “Columbus, Ohio.” I was shocked and saddened when his obituary appeared along with a current photo of a 75 year-old man I recognized immediately, confirmed by a note of his years in the Marine Corps and service with VMGR-152.

A couple months later I was day dreaming about my early southern California years (I had moved to Orange County from hometown Buffalo) shortly after military service. The three-year-old 1964 Volkswagen “Beetle” I bought for $750 and drove across country was stolen from my apartment parking lot. It couldn’t have come at a worse time — my first semester at Santa Ana Junior College. With no public transportation, hitch-hiking the zig-zag route to the campus could take a half-hour or two hours.

One morning near my apartment a guy about my age stopped and asked where I was heading. Told him Santa Ana College. He smiled and said, “Hop in, so am I.” That solved the transportation problem until my stripped VW was located a couple months later and repaired. From the day Ron gave me a ride, he, his wife Diane and I were great friends. They eventually returned to Michigan and we stayed in contact until about 10 or 12 years ago. I Googled Ron’s name and a few seconds later I was reading his obituary. A retired high school principal, he died in 2017 of pancreatic cancer.

From 1976 to 1979 I was a graduate student in the department of sociology at the University of Oklahoma. Grad school was intense, demanding classes coupled with teaching two sections of intro sociology every semester, at times with a hundred or more students in each section.

Fellow students Keith and Judy were two of my closest friends. Their home was an oasis for grad students living in tiny apartments. Lots of get-togethers, good food and drinks during those three years. As with my Marine Corps buddies and Ron and Diane, I kept in touch with Keith and Judy. Until I didn’t. Googled their names and learned they died a few months apart, both from COVID.

One of my best friends in grad school was from Japan. Yoshi, his wife and three little girls lived in a modest, rented home while he labored to complete his PhD requirements. Yoshi and family returned to Japan upon his graduation and we kept in contact until the last few years.

I sent Yoshi an email a few months ago and was gratified to receive a quick response. His wife and daughters (the latter now in their 50s) were fine. Yoshi contracted COVID in 2022, was hospitalized for three months and barely survived. He will struggle with “long COVID” for the rest of his life.

There are various wordings and attributions to the old saying “Tomorrow is promised to no one.” This truism is especially relevant for senior citizens, with death often unexpected and sudden.

During this holiday season I’ve been thinking about the people I’ve met along life’s journey; friends, colleagues and acquaintances who gave me love, joy and wisdom. Especially those who supported me during trying times. I’ve never made New Year’s resolutions but I’m going to make one this year: Reach out to people from days gone by and keep in touch.

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George J. Bryjak lives in Bloomingdale and is retired after 24 years of teaching sociology at the University of San Diego.