Explaining Bob and Understanding Myself

Explaining Bob and Understanding Myself

Explaining Bob and Understanding Myself

Bob and I sat about ten feet apart but we were separated by more than a measured distance.

He was as old as my father. I was as old as his son. Even this wasn’t a measurement that explained why he was difficult to work with, quick to anger, impersonal and remote.

I wondered if it was because we belonged to different unions and our duties sometimes overlapped. I’d never worked in an office where duties were defined by contract, especially a union contract. If a button need pushed it didn’t matter to me who pushed it.

Bob didn’t have the same perspective. He was very protective of the tasks outlined in his union contract. I stayed on my side of the aisle between us.

If there was any hint that I strayed beyond my territorial limits or intruded on his duties, I would soon be on the receiving end of a verbal tirade or the subject of an official grievance.

We rarely talked about anything beyond work. Talk about family, our personal lives, and sports were brief with little shared insight that might allow me to better understand Bob.

Other technicians weren’t nearly so quick to anger over territorial and job transgressions. We often shared our woes about the Braves, a new BBQ restaurant, traffic, MARTA, family mishaps, hunting trips, and past exploits.

I thought Bob’s demeanor might have been the product of a long-ago contract dispute resulting in a lockout and failure of my union to honor picket lines. Even then, the dispute didn’t anger other technicians enough to make it difficult to have conversations beyond what was necessary to get our jobs done.

Bob played golf. I didn’t. I knew he liked to play after overhearing him talking about a specific course he’d played.

But that changed with an inexpensive gift. A gift I thought was insignificant.

One day I brought Bob a copy of Time magazine. The cover story was about golf becoming a global phenomenon. Knowing Bob’s affection for the sport I offered it as a way of showing my understanding of his pleasures. And, perhaps, to soften him up a bit.

I stepped halfway across the narrow aisle between our desks, leaned into his space and offered the magazine. He accepted my totem with a grunt, glancing at the cover before setting it aside and returning to his work.

Later I heard the impossible.

“Hey, Kid. Come over here. Look at this.”

I’d knew that Bob’s space was private, a shrine both personal and professional and that I was a place where I was refused entry no matter the reason.

Now I was being told to step across the threshold.

Bob held up the magazine, its pages spread open. He pointed to a photo.

“Look at this! I was there!” he said, pointing to the small image. He was excited, his voice evoking a joy I’d never heard before.

Like a child bathed in the excitement of an invitation, I looked over his shoulder at the photo keeping my feet ready for a quick exit when he realized where I stood.

The photo showed a small lagoon, it’s blue water and coral beach ringed by lush foliage under a sky with clouds casting no shadows across the postcard-perfect fairy tale view. It was the site of a new golf course, an indicator of how the sport has moved even onto small South Pacific islands.

“I was there. That’s where I landed.” he continued to explain.

I quickly looked at the caption to see which island held this idyllic lagoon.

Guadalcanal.

I began to understand. Marine. Guadalcanal.

For the several hours, I listened as Bob found his voice.

Each story he told began with his head down in reverence to the memory. At its conclusion, he lowered his head returning to the reverential pose.

There was little excitement in the telling. Each sentence seemed measured, weighted with memories of the battle. Nervous laughter filled the empty spaces between tales where death, or fear, or futility, or the smell and viciousness of death, revealed his history.

Dead Marines. A hilltop several feet shorter after a battle against Japanese fighting from the high ground. Layers of dead Japanese soldiers, their bodies tossed down the incline by the soldiers ordered to replace them. The search for and discovery of alcohol to anesthetize the wounds. His friend dying during the search.

More battles continued when he returned, his ship docking in San Francisco. Stories of infidelity, drinking, and fits of anger tempered his return home. There was more nervous laughter but this time it punctuated his personal battle against an invisible enemy.

He never went into battle again although he trained for the invasion of Japan, a task that ended at Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

I’m not sure when our conversation ended. Perhaps when his relief came to work. Maybe I stepped across the aisle to do my work and I didn’t get invited back. All I remember is Bob, his head down, staring at that photo.

Bob and I never spoke about that afternoon. His exposition conversation was a one time reveal of his Marine experience.

We continued as coworkers for several more years until I moved to another city. Bob no longer seemed angry, so quick to disagree, no longer hostile to transgressions.

Then again, may I no longer let these emotional outbursts get the better of me.

I knew about Bob and Guadalcanal.

The Moments Within and Without

The Moments Within and Without

The Moments Within, and Without

 

The morning was bright, the beginning of a warm spring day. The promise of new life. The light was perfect.

A tree branch’s curve followed the tree-line across the small meadow. It’s shadow etched a dark frame along the edge of the walkway.

I stood in the shadow, looking through a viewfinder for the best angle.

There’s a constant for photographers. It’s waiting, patiently watching, knowing where to stand, where to look. To know the right place. To know that the moment will happen. It always does.

The light just inside the woods along the walkway is near perfect. It comes from the north filtered through leaves and branches, reflected from the pond and the grass and sky, funneling to softly fall where the older trees begin.

The mosses, leaves, and lichens in the moist cool air at the edge of the canopy saturate themselves in dark color holding tight to anchors of earth and limb. In the fall the small trees growing at the feet of their older relatives join in the splash of bright colors as greens turn to yellow and gold. When blue disappears into the darkness of winter and the time of blue sky is shorter and life-sustaining sunlight has to move across more miles of the sky to arrive where earlier there was growth. Now begins brown, soon to be decay to feed next year’s growth.

And spring again.

This moment was a woman in a sleeveless yellow cotton dress.

The spring light brightened her dress. Her dark hair glistened,
swinging gently as she quickly walked into my view. With her arms gathered behind her back, hands clasped at the waist, she smiled, said “Hello”, moving toward the moment, that spot on the path where everything is perfect.

The moment went black, disappearing when the shutter opened and the camera viewfinder closed.

It’s odd, the way photographers never see the moment they’ve recorded. Sudden darkness. A flash of black and the view returns. Only the film, or today the memory card, holds the secret of that ever so brief slice of time.

Some physicists insist that what the camera records is a different reality than what I would see without the camera. I’ve never understood the math. My existentialist friends say both the physicists and the subject should be of no concern to me. It only matters that I am concerned with my observation. I’m only concerned with the moment.

I never saw her again. Most of the people I see in the park stroll past at least one more time. She never did. Perhaps she was there only for me, for one of my moments.

There are many moments in the day when everything falls into place. Then we move on to the next. The next moment to observe or miss, or dismiss.

There are always moments.

I stood in the funeral home parking lot during my mother-in-law’s wake to escape the warmth of too many bodies in too small a space and too much emotion in too brief a time. A steady, gentle wind blew across my face and hands and whipped the cuffs of my trousers.

The dry North Dakota air felt pure, having moved across the upper plains, fed by cold shielded in the earth’s winter penumbra well north of the Tropic of Cancer. My eyes closed and taking deep breaths, I walked across the snow-covered gravel parking lot into the wind refreshing memories of the years I spent there in the military. The dry snow crunched beneath my feet, its desiccated surface a reminder of the death so nearby.

The wind gently caressed me, creating brief eddies across my face and fingers. I remembered the Old Testament scripture when Elijah recognizes the presence of God in a gentle whisper, not in the brilliance of earthquakes, fire, and storms.

Family had gathered to celebrate the gentleness of a woman whose tumultuous life never betrayed her love for her children. We stood together, in tears, not afraid to speak of the good things, the moments of congratulations and celebration bequeathed to her children. A gift to pass along to the following generations without condition or regret.

Early winter’s fresh snow changed the landscape ever so briefly reminding me of that moment, when brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles, nieces, and nephews gathered to celebrate a life.

We were in that moment of cold between death and resurrection when only memories brighten the day and tears wash away the sadness.

The mind’s moment of joy and despair. Of losing something important and wondering when there will be another moment to grip us so hard.

There will.