At less than two years old, my granddaughter Julia has yet to acquire, let alone consult, a day planner. Julia's mother attends to each and every part of the little tyke's days. I show up in Julia's life in no particular or discernable pattern with no apparent rhyme or reason. And yet, with all my dropping in and out of her little space, she greets me each time with a combination of squeals and hugs, a mix of surprise, delight and inevitability.

"Oh this guy again," her eyes seem to say, with sparkle and a bit of wonder and after I melt for a moment, we take off just where we left off. It is as though space and time had never come between us. There are books to read and balls to throw and blocks to pile high, higher and then….."Oh no!"

For a life thus far measured in months, rather than years, Julia can identify four generations of family members. She can take photo albums and zero in on her cousin Christopher from California, a set of uncles that look alike, great aunts, great uncles, her Great Grandpa Jonah and assorted others. Julia can peg her mom and dad from their own childhood photos. Even canine neighbors have names and unique identities, which Julia notes. She and I yell greetings to Buddy in the yard to the west and other salutations to Elsie, the furry neighbor to the east.

If, as it is said, all of life is a stage, in 22 short months little Julia has assembled an assorted cast of characters that continually enter stage left and exit stage right. They come and go, only to reappear without warning.

When you think about it, fate and routine and choice and chance all combine to fill the cast of characters that enter and exit the stage where each of us lives our life. Some of these characters stay around to play major roles; some are extras just providing comic relief. The interesting actor that takes the empty seat next to you may appear in only one scene of your life or may stay to assume the role of best friend, or spouse or trusted accountant.

For years I parked my car in a parking lot attended by three fellows I called the little United Nations. There was Kojo from some African country and Mousof from some oil producing country. I never got the name of the third guy. He was from the Bahamas.

My three U.N. guys were regular supporting characters in my daily routine. Year in and year out I saw them as I came and went. If I didn't walk past their booth to talk, I would always waive to them as I exited.

Kojo and I grew the closest. His name meant that he was born on a Monday, I learned. One day he turned to me for legal advice. We wound up sharing a meal, details of our family. Gifts were exchanged. We spoke every day.

Mousof had the biggest smile allowed on a single face. His eyes lit up with that smile and he transformed the job of parking attendant to a cheering crowd of one. Mousof made it his mission to tell my twin sons apart and he took an obvious delight in the challenge. We had a kind of long distance salute we exchanged - every day.

The fellow from the Bahamas and I remained polite for years. Then, by chance, I saw him in a hospital waiting room with his wife and little baby. After that chance encounter I had the baby to inquire of and we built on that little delight to grow closer.

One day, without notice, my United Nations trio was gone - a machine instead stood in their place. No goodbyes, no handshakes or hugs, no best wishes. They had made their exit, stage right, and I had not anticipated that act of the play.

A year later, I still wave goodbye to an empty attendant booth as I exit the parking lot. I cannot break the habit. I miss the supporting role each one of them played in my life.

It turns out little Julia is teaching me to savor the moment, to delight in the cast of characters as they enter and exit the stage.