It Runs in the Family

I was on the hunt for some old memories last weekend, and I stumbled upon some that were not my own. I have a few pieces like that in my collection - but nothing like this.

My Grandfather died on October 1, 2001. I was with him when he died and I have missed him dearly every day since. Before he died, he gave all of us an amazing gift - books. Books that he had written. His history, his musings. All printed and bound just for us - his family. 

I have read all of the books he gave me multiple times over the years. I remember reading them as quickly as possible after they hit my grubby little hands. I wonder now that if he chose to slip his precious words into sheet protectors because he knew me well, and he knew that I would dig in - no matter how dirty my hands were. I am sure I was the first grandchild to finish the books, and I eagerly came back to him asking questions - "Did he really say "ships" instead of "sheep"? Did you really name your cows after Grandma? How did you stay left-handed in that day and age?"

I like to think that my interest never waned, but I know it did. But only just slightly enough that I wasn't incessantly bombarding both my Grandfather and Grandmother with endless questions. I longed for the stories of the past. It was almost as though each story was stone helping me build my own path into this life. I wanted to hear of other lands, other people. I yearned to know more.

In our family, there's a rumor. It's a good rumor - one that I hope is true. 

My Grandfather wrote another book. And we can't read it yet. 

I sincerely hope that it is true, although there is some sadness to it that I will address at another time. 

But this story is about what I found - not what I am hoping to find.

I was digging through the strata of memories I have stored up, when I stumbled upon the books my Grandfather wrote. I ran my hand along the familiar purple binder and protected pages, but in between the usual books, I feel something else entirely not familiar. 

There are two other books. TWO. 

One is quite small - it is obviously MUCH older than my other books. The other is a bit older - but maybe only about five years older than the books I already have. As I held the older book in my hands, turning it over, checking the binding and the decay of the glue, I remembered how I came to have this book. I have had it for four years - it was something my Grandmother let me take with me when we packed her up to move from Tucson to Colorado. I had forgotten. For four years. 

If you are a bibliophile, then you understand the feeling of discovering a new book that you simply cannot wait to read. Unfortunately, I found these books during an extremely turbulent week, so they had to wait.  

I began reading "A Collection of Essays on The Idiosyncrasies and Biases of A Worn Out Program Administrator" as soon as I had the head space for it. Which happened to be today. The preface was written in December 1982, more than a year before I was born. 

Throughout the years since my Grandfather's death, there have been many times that I felt our paths continued to cross. I can't tell you how many random (and not so random) people I have met that know someone who worked with my Grandfather overseas. The latest was a former board member, and we relished in a few moments of nostalgia, as we felt the depth of the phrase "what a small world".

There is a wealth of feeling and emotion tucked up in this little book. Not only from the writer, but also my own. Because I know the future that he talks about.

The book itself is not a thing of beauty - but then again, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I would trade any gold-painted book for this one in my hands. 

I think this might be the new direction of my blog - bringing his stories back to life, after being lost for so long. Reading his words are comforting - perhaps not for the reasons you might think: providing context, building history, filling in lost stories. They are comforting because even though this was all written before my birth, I find pieces of myself in the writing. I read the whole thing - all 72 pages in one sitting. I found myself both laughing and crying - which only reminded me of when he died. I was only 17, but I remember the hot tears welling up in my eyes, streaking my face, and the tearing of a piece of my heart. I remember as we sat or stood around his bed, and started to reminisce. And before we knew it, laughter had broken out even as the nurse removed his wedding band and placed it in my Grandmother's hands. 

I lost this art for a long while, and I have missed it. But now I know it runs in my blood, and there's no stopping it. 

Starting Again

I keep vowing that I will start writing again. I miss it dearly and I have noticed how my skills have wasted in the years that I haven't flexed my writing muscle. As someone who once was absolutely terrified of public speaking, to find myself more comfortable talking to someone as opposed to writing to them - that's a dramatic shift. 

I know I am not great at this right this moment. But I promise that I will get better. Not only because I have to, but also because I want to. I love the click of the keyboard or the swish of pen on paper. I miss that. 

Today, I had another cardiac episode. It was the worst I can remember. For the first time in a while, I thought I was going to faint. I experienced weakness like I never have before, and even started having trouble articulating my thoughts. I found myself hunting for words, seeing them in my head - but unable to get them out of my mouth. 

The good news is, my EKG showed nothing exciting or out of the ordinary for me. I was diagnosed with premature atrial complexes in early 2012 and my Dad has Wolff Parkinson White Syndrome; so cardiac episodes are not out of the ordinary for me. I am used to chest pain, fainting when surprised, and palpitations. I am not used to trouble speaking and weakness.

My initial diagnosis today is: I have a sensitive heart. Well, one sensitive to stress anyway. (I think it is sensitive in a lot of ways, but that's another post.) So, now I have to find out how to reduce my stress to avoid more episodes - because I can't leave work halfway through the day every day. 

Anyway, I have no idea where this blog is going right now, but I'll figure it out. You're welcome to come along for the ride, if you'd like. I promise it will be interesting - big things are on the horizon.