In no way do I mean this as a valediction, a summing up, for I fully intend to carry on a good deal longer. My intention here is only to reflect a bit on the experiences of a life that is now just past the three-quarters of a century mark.</p><p> And a lucky life it has been, with my first good fortune coming at age 4, when I was adopted by a dear Missouri couple &mdash; the only parents I would ever know or care to know.</p><p> More luck followed: fine teachers in public school, followed by two wonderful college professors who armed me for the challenges of a writing life.</p><p> I&rsquo;ve been privileged to pass my career as a journalist during what has been the golden period of newspapering in America. It has let me travel much of the world and witness events of historic importance.</p><p> I covered the civil rights movement in the early 1960s; reported from Africa during the continent&rsquo;s inspiring early days of independence; was in Cairo on the day that Gamal Abdel Nasser died, changing the political landscape of the Middle East; and was in Moscow during the attempted coup whose consequence was the end of the Soviet communist era.</p><p> It has been my luck to work with colleagues who in many cases were among my most valued friends and for editors who believed passionately in their and the newspaper&rsquo;s mission.</p><p> For the past three decades I&rsquo;ve enjoyed a columnist&rsquo;s freedom, engaging in what I regard as an extended conversation with readers.</p><p> And by far my greatest luck of all has been to share these years and these adventures with Katie, my wife and partner, and with our two wonderful daughters, Anne and Jennie.</p><p> Along with the satisfactions there are, of course, certain regrets. Isn&rsquo;t that part of the mix in every life?</p><p> Two come most often to mind. One of them has to do with a piece of paper taped to the wall beside me here as I work. I call it my &ldquo;lifeline.&rdquo;</p><p> On it is a list of writing projects I&rsquo;ve intended someday to undertake: ideas for a pair of travel tales; a collection of stories set in Africa, drawn from experiences there during those years of its becoming; two subjects that I thought might make stage plays.</p><p> Some entries have been marked off the list, but only a few. Some I may yet get to, most not. What matters, I believe, is not so much to finish but simply to keep trying.</p><p> The other and more troubling regret concerns important words unsaid and now unsayable.</p><p> There is a photo I look at from time to time of my mother as a girl of 14 or 15. I treasure that picture, but I am saddened to realize that I never told her &mdash; and cannot tell her now &mdash; what a pretty young woman she was. Nor do I believe I ever told her or my father what gratitude I feel for the life they made possible for me.</p><p> There are friends &mdash; dearly loved, but also gone now &mdash; to whom I never spoke my affection in so many words. One doesn&rsquo;t think to do that somehow. And then, in the rush of years, the chance is lost.</p><p> Mine has been a full and mostly joyful life, but some understandings one arrives at much too late. If I could make this run again, I know now that there are projects I would not put off and conversations I would not defer to another time.