Statuary & Sanctuary

My grandfather's 117th birthday was a few days ago. Yesterday, I visited him...at a cemetery in Waco.

I have very few memories of my grandfather. In fact, what I recall as a real memory (not a story told to me over and over) was a visit to his home in Waco when I was a child. I remember playing with a yellow Wilson tennis ball can he'd given me.

He played tennis until his death, often beating players many decades younger. There are legendary tales of him defeating state-ranked high school players in California doubles.

His photos remind me much of E. B. White, which is a fine comparison in my book. My brother, almost two decades my senior, has shared stories of the well crafted, hand-written cards he received in the mail with almost every available space inhabited by our grandfather's meticulous penmanship.

I'm fascinated by the stark comparison of my dad and his own father, two very different men. But, I attribute their divergent ways to their respective upbringings and the prevailing social mores of their respective times.

I wish I could've spent time growing up with my grandfather rather than the ghost of his memory summoned through the countless retelling of family lore and captured in the black and white world of old photographs.

Stretched Thin

Things have been frightfully hectic at the office lately.

Our diminished staff is juggling an increased workload, and it's taking a notable toll on morale and overall mental health.

Yeah. That's what I was looking for: more avenues of stress.

However, I did just get another promotion, and I'm moving on up to the eastside (a.k.a, transferring out of Cube City back to the land of office-dwellers).

When I first came to work here, I had an office for several years. Granted, it wasn't a necessarily nice office -- and the furniture was nothing to incite envy. But, there were walls and a ceiling and that blessed thing we call a door.

Then, my department moved to a different building, and we landed in a newly established Cube City. While the modular units were brand new and nice (in terms of what they had to offer), it still felt like an unofficial demotion to all of us.

It'll be good to have a door, again. But, I don't know how frequently I'll get to use it. There's a lot of business travel looming. And, since I seem to exist in an environment super-saturated in meetings and pre-meeting meetings and post-meeting meetings, having my own workspace will be less of a functional issue.

I'm pleased about the promotion/office. Don't get me wrong. But, it's tainted by that frustrating realization that it's long overdue.

In fact, it all came about chiefly because I forced the issue. And wouldn't it be better to be recognized for your contributions without having to quantitatively thrust your performance in front of your management?

Currently, the projects we support are being handled by me and one other guy. He's been out sick this week. Once upon a time, there were eight of us. We've dropped from eight to two. And, though I eat enough for two, this week there's just me.

A workload such as this virtually ensures that some project (or projects) will get slighted, because there's just not enough of me to go around. (Keep your comments to yourself.)

I'm ready for some decompression.

The Specificity of Moments

It honestly doesn't seem that long ago that my firstborn came home from the hospital.

We lived in California then. And, on a clear day, you could see the ocean from our balcony (if you stood at just the right angle and knew where to focus your gaze) -- so, I loved telling friends and family back in Texas that we had an ocean view.

News of the ocean view was eventually displaced by the arrival of our daughter, so tiny, so dependent, so bursting with the potential of a life full of possibilities.

I recall the long nights during those first few weeks, when I'd lie awake and listen to her breathing in the bassinet next to our bed. It was the same bassinet I had slept in as an infant.

Sometimes, the sounds of her breathing would stop, and I'd leap out of bed in the dark to lean in close and listen for exhaling or inhaling. If necessary, I would turn on the hallway light and bend down to examine her little tummy rising and falling.

Yesterday was her thirteenth birthday.

My little girl is a teenager.

This happens in the same year I'll be 40 years old. And while I don’t feel doomed by either of those events, I do feel the sharp pain of realization that the earth spins far too quickly.

Can I really be on the cusp of 40? Can my daughter truly be a teenager?

It's all too fleeting. I catch myself trying to delve back into my memory, convinced that if I can conjure increasing details of the years and months gone by, I can somehow expand them and understand the scope of all the hours that have gone before, all the experiences cradled by the days and weeks of my life so far. The specificity of all my moments will keep at bay the fleetness of life.

It honestly doesn't seem that long ago that my firstborn came home from the hospital.