Frank Buckles is the last surviving American veteran of World War One.
Some time a few years ago I realized that I had not met nor scene a WWI vet in a long, long time. In fact, my only memory of WWI vets was as a child, Independence Day, packed into the Paris Tabernacle in the heat with a mass of respirating bodies and sun blasting in and no air conditioning or even fans and having to sing patriotic songs and, amazingly, not dying of heatstroke. Up on the stand, local veterans, including WWI vets in their light green uniforms, their heads dropping, their bodies falling, sitting and nodding in the immense heat. In retrospect, I'm surprised I never saw one of those ancient men expire during that shindig. It was a sweat and CO2 factory.
But it didn't hit me until adulthood that the ancient men of my childhood would not be the ancient men of my adulthood. Every single one of those old vets is dead now, and WWII vets are starting to look as old as they did. And then it'll be my parents. And then it'll be me. And then I'll be gone.
One aspect of mortality that I find fascinating is how I am constantly being surprised when reminded that I am mortal.
What evidences of the March of Time have caught you off guard?
(Besides that one last Easter Egg discovered in September, I mean.)