All by Myself

Darling Wife's parents and older brother arrived last night from the east coast, and today they all piled into our car and headed north to visit DW's sister, about five hours away. They will be gone until Tuesday evening.

My new job precluded me from joining them. This was unfortunate because I really would have liked to see my sister-in-law's new digs and spend some time in her new hometown. It is a small city on the north coast in the heart of redwood country, and I truly love it there. But I could hardly ask for two days off after only starting my job last week. They all offered to postpone the trip until I could go, but I didn't want to cause everyone else to alter their plans on my account, and it was not even really possible to do so. Besides, my sister-in-law may very well return with them to spend Thanksgiving here, and DW and I can easily go up to her place some other time. I had reconciled myself to the loss of the experience.

However, there is another aspect to this event that I had not fully considered. It may sound silly to you, but DW and I have not spent three days apart since we were married. Last Christmas, she went to visit this same sister overnight. That was the first time we had slept apart in over a year. But it was just one night, a small part of one day and half of another. I was also busy with school work at the time, so the seperation passed by quickly. This time, it is different. I will spend two nights alone, and I am not preoccupied with exams or teaching. As I have commented several times in this blog, we live largely isolated lives here. We rely almost entirely on each other for companionship. How curious it feels to be here without her. What is more, before we married, I lived with a roommate for three years. I was seldom if ever home alone, and almost never over night. I haven't spent this much time completely and totally alone in over five years. I have never been an incredibly needy person. I am quite comfortable spending large amounts of time by myself. I even require it on occasion. But I was not prepared for the fact that the next few days seem like an oddly unpleasant experience now that I am faced with them.

By the Minute

The past few weeks have been. . . well, I'm not sure what they've been. I want to say that they've been busy, but that's not exactly right. There have been entire blocks of time where I have done little more than read, for leisure now instead of work. There have also been long walks with Darling Wife, sightseeing with friends, and even a camping trip. All of these things have been at a relaxed pace.

I suppose that this feeling of busyness has come from the fact that I am engaged in a large number of activities at present. Most of these activities are of a very short duration, and often there may be a considerable length of time between one activity and the next. But there is seldom a moment when I am not aware that I need to begin another activity at some point later in the day or week. This has resulted in a constant need to watch the clock, making me more aware of the passage of time than I usually am. I monitor every click of the second hand, every change of the numbers to the right of the colon.

You know how it is when you sit down to compose an e-mail or make a telephone call and you look up when the action is complete to discover that hours have passed without you realizing it? This can cause momentary panic or a feeling of loss, but it also means that you were able to detach yourself from your cares and worries, if only for a bit. Lately, I haven't had that luxury. To be sure, I've had the satisfaction of checking off many, many things from my "to do" list, gotten to know my sofa rather well, and enjoyed a great deal of outdoor recreation, but I am beginning to feel a little run down.

I suppose most of us feel this way. Perhaps the best symbol of our age isn't the computer, iPod, or cell phone. Perhaps it's the centuries-old clock. We measure our lives out, not by years or hours, but by minutes.

Suffer the Little Children

"I play the trumpet," declared a small voice from somewhere in front of me.

It was a beautiful day, perhaps a bit too warm for November, but it would take a true malcontent to complain of sun and 77 degrees. Though I was attentive to my duty, I admit my mind had wandered with the breeze that tickled the hair around my ears and shook the acorns hanging precariously from the branches along the sidewalk. But the clear indication that this short statement was meant for me pulled me back to the center of the road where I stood, holding aloft a stop sign while a half dozen, waist-high figures toddled before me.

I looked down and met the bright blue eyes of Everett. Everett is a brown-haired boy of about eight who traverses my crosswalk twice a day in the company of his sister, Sophie, and brother, Graham. Last week, Everett's mother asked my name and dutifully passed it along to her progeny when I had given it. Though none of the children has ever spoken to me before, they have often stared familiarly since they discovered I have a name, and I have heard them query their mother about me on numerous points of interest. Everett was clearly proud of his pronouncement, and I could tell he was anticipating a response. Joy exuded from each tiny line as he squinted into the sun to look up at me.

"I play the saxophone," I responded. A huge grin appeared on his face as Everett's elfin features nearly burst with excitement. He turned abruptly to his mother and shouted, "He plays the saxophone, Mama! Chris says he plays the saxophone." And just like that, our "conversation" was over.

Earlier in the day, I had escorted my small-scale friend Shane across the street and watched as he happily waved goodbye from the sidewalk before continuing on his way. Shane, who is perhaps nine or ten, and I became friends a few weeks ago over our mutual support of the Boston Red Sox. He now chats energetically with me each day before and after school.

And shortly after I confessed my somewhat lapsed muscial abilities, I would be stumped -for the third time this week I might add- by seven-year-old Josh, who lisped at me, "Why didn't the schkeleton cwoss the woad?" When I assured him of my woeful ignorance of skeletal psychology, he giggled so wildly that I could barely hear him utter, "Because he didn't hab the guts."

Within moments, a cheerful blonde girl would push her bicycle through the crosswalk, donn a plastic firemen's hat, and announce to me, "Well, I'm off to a fire" with an expression of absolute seriousness that I could not help but smile at. Apparently, some of the classes had been visited by a member of my fair city's fire department that day because I noticed for the first time that nearly half of the miniscule scholars sported or carried similiar headgear.

I have never considered myself a "kid person." They are small, messy, and noisy, and they have an extremely limited vocabulary. The most obvious things escape their attention while completely rediculous things entertain them for hours. To be honest, I've just never known what to do with them. It's been a long time since I was able to "play" as they seem to always expect me to do.

But last week I was offered a part-time administrative assistant position at the university. This position means work indoors, which is appealing now that winter is approaching, however slowly. It also carries quite a bit more money, which is frankly needed. So, I accepted the position and gave notice to the crossing guard supervisor. Consequently, this is my last week with my diminutive friends, and now I fear I shall miss them immensely.