It seems odd for me to write a reflection piece before I leave for The Big To-Do, but sometimes the words just want to come out and there's nothing you can really do but try and direct the stream of consciousness into a coherent flow of words as best you can.
I'm sitting in the basement of a rented house, which serves as my office space when I'm not on the road working at a customer site, listening to an album I just bought, "Brighter than Creation's Dark" by Drive-By Truckers. It's got a different mood than their other stuff, but seems pretty good for deep personal reflection.
I used to spend a lot of time here, but over the past few months it's been less and less. I made the joke the other day when I got home that I'd pissed in the same toilet in the same hotel room more times over the last three months than I'd pissed in my own. It's a stretch of the truth, but not much of one.
I just wrapped up a big project, probably the biggest one I'll have until my sailing. It feels good to call the work finished, but I'm not particularly satisfied with how this one left off. Nothing more that I can do from my end, but it's tough to come onto a job to integrate systems with multiple vendors involved, tie all these systems together, and then find out that the whole thing isn't ready for prime time because someone else's stuff isn't working quite right. I'm not on the receiving end of any blame here, but if it were under my control I could fix it and make it work. Plus, I put a lot of effort into this over the last few months and I really wanted to see everything flowing seamlessly before I walk away. Oh, well. Life goes on.
Until it comes to an end, that is.
I found out last week that my great uncle got sick and is now on his deathbed. You know, death is a peculiar thing. People spend their whole lives living in fear of death, and it still catches up with them in the end. Not my uncle, though. If ever there was a man who made the most of his life, it was Sam Roberson. He lived through the Japanese assault on Pearl Harbor. Later on, he spent some time up in Alaska, grew one hell of a beard, and brought home some sourdough starter he'd gotten from and old prospector, so the story goes. I reckon the better part of the sourdough in Middle Tennessee could be traced back to his batch.
I told Sam about my trip when I saw him last summer. We shared a motel room in Cleveland, Tennessee. The funeral for my Aunt Peggy was June 6. D-Day anniversary, and I was in a hotel room with a Pearl Harbor survivor. Sam had recently lost his beloved Annie, and had been hospitalized himself while he was taking care of her. I asked him what he thought about my traveling as a passenger on a cargo ship to Australia; he joked that it would be a hell of a lot more comfortable than one of those transports he'd been on during the war.
Talking with Sam reaffirmed my decision to go, and helped me realize that I was doing the right thing for myself, even if it meant leaving behind everyone and everything I love, putting off marriage and family, walking away from my dream job, and possibly starting out from scratch when I get back.
It's still almost four months until I leave for Savannah and the wonderful adventure that lies ahead. Sam's back home, receiving hospice care. When I got the call last week, I was out of town on business, and when I got back I had a nasty cold; I've been waiting for it to pass before I go to see him. I've been praying he'll hold out long enough for me to see him, but I don't want him to suffer on my account.
Sam's been writing a weekly column for his local paper for as long as I've been alive, drawing from his past experiences and reflecting on the changing times. It's had a lot to do with why I started this blog, though I don't plan on updating it as frequently as Sam's newspaper articles.
So, Sam, I hereby dedicate this trip, at least in part, to you. God bless you, sir.
