One would think that, by age 63, I’d have pretty much cleansed myself of all of the quirks, foibles and irritants that can set my family’s collective teeth on edge.

One would think that and one would be wrong.

After 40 years with my beloved other and after seeing the kids off with the

tools to face their lives — thanks to a willingness on my part (obsessiveness, according to them) to teach them certain habits that would help them during that journey — I’ve been brought up short.

Apparently, my gentle reminders that “being on time” is a splendid example of a well-mannered and culturally acceptable individual are no longer welcomed by my family. Instead, they collectively offer that I am (in their words) “nuts” when it comes to the matter of punctuality.

Some background is necessary to explain my awareness of a ticking clock.

My dad was a bus driver for New Orleans Public Sevrice, Inc. Back then, there were more buses and bus routes in New Orleans than you could count. Many people relied on them to get to and from work, shopping, attending family functions, or what have you.

In order to keep things running smoothly and not have complete bedlam, schedules had to be adhered to and my dad passed this on to me in no uncertain terms. Being “late,” to him, was an offense of the first order.

I attended Catholic elementary and high school and there, as you might imagine, the priests and nuns used many methods to make sure that, when they said something started at such and such a time, we were there at such and such a time.

The Benedictine seminary I attended held time in such esteem that they woke us before sunrise each day in order to allow us more hours to practice being on time to the (very early) morning prayers or services we were required to attend.

Failing miserably in my attempt to become a priest, a few years later I ended up at a certain hidebound military college where being late was defined as not showing up before the instructors at whatever event it was you were attending. It was also considered grounds for flogging.

Managing to scrape through that place, I pursued a career that required my spending several decades wandering the planet’s oceans with assorted ne’er-do-wells, characters from cheap novels and skippers who would make Captain Bligh seem like one of the Teletubbies.

If you wanted to plot your position (before GPS) and plan for a timely arrival in port, you had to know the exact time so as to obtain sun, star or planetary fixes. Further, if you didn’t want to scrape the paint off of the bottom of your vessel or wished to avoid some particularly obnoxious current, you had to know the time of high tide and slack water and, then, arrive on time in order for that knowledge to be of use.

All of the above left an impression on me. I like to be on time. I like to know that we’ve, in fact, padded our schedule to allow for any unforeseen events that might impede our being on time. The phrase “time, tide and meal service wait for no man” is engraved on my brain.

My wife, however, maintains that I’m possessed and my kids speak of my preference for punctuality in terms not suitable for publication in this paper. The bottom line is that, at home and in regard to punctuality, I’m often referred to as a “pain in the (backside).”

Since this is, apparently, a universal belief in my family and in order to keep the peace and cultivate tranquility, I’ve decided to shed some of the baggage I’ve collected over a lifetime of watching the clock.

I’ve mentioned this to them, but they regard such a promise with disbelief and a hint of skepticism. It doesn’t matter, I’ll do it any way.

That said, I’m willing to bet that, once I’ve eliminated this very small quirk, their next assault will be upon my disgustingly normal desire to have all things at all times in their proper places.

Sixty-three-years old, male, and still a work in progress.

I can’t be alone in this. Can I?

Larry Simoneaux lives in Edmonds. Send comments to larrysim@comcast.net.