In plain sight
I thought I knew him on the surface, this former colleague who
had called to tell me about a contract opportunity for which he thought I would
be perfect. I was flattered by his
confidence in me and agreed to fly to Canada to interview with his new employer
the following week to speak with them about the part-time project.
He is 64 now, just six years younger than my father. I started with our former employer not long
after he did, and he took me under his wing to show me around. He is very tall, with a deep baritone
voice that boomed down the hall from his office. I grew to like him, despite the fact that he
interrupted me often like an excited child, and he exhibited a
good-old-boy swagger that belied his soft heart. This is the man, along with
three of my co-workers in his age group who banded together like the three
amigos, who put an “I love Hooters” sticker on my cubicle wall. We laughed together that he is a dinosaur, a faux-chauvinist
with a 1950s heart but a generosity of spirit and caring under the brassy
exterior.
He called me recently with a mutual acquaintance, a consultant on the project, to
discuss the logistics of my trip north of the border. We talked about the schedule and the scope of
the project, and I listened carefully, taking it all in and hoping I understood
all of the moving pieces. As we wrapped
up the call, he jumped in with one last thought.
I read your blog,
he said. I saw the link in your email signature and I started reading; I read the whole thing.
The whole thing? I
asked, incredulous.
Well, maybe not the
whole thing. But a lot. You’d be surprised how much we have in
common, he said.
I was curious but doubtful.
What could we possibly have in common? I searched my memory to see if I
had written anything that might qualify.
When I saw him the following week, he greeted me at the top
of the escalator and kissed the top of my head in a grandfatherly, benevolent
way, as he had always done for the years we had worked together. Two others joined us for dinner, one European
who was incredibly jet-lagged and quiet; when the two other people at the table
started speaking French to each other about a challenge they were having, I
turned to him.
I asked him, What did
you mean about my blog? What do we have in common?
I waited as he paused.
We both had to start
over, he began. He retold me parts
of his story and added new details I hadn’t known. At 52, he suddenly lost his beloved wife
of 26 years to a heart attack. They had
four boys, two still at home, and two in college. His youngest was in 7th grade, and the loss stunned all of them. Not long before that, he lost his business in the aftermath of 9/11; they
were in the process of securing a $30 million funding round for his wireless
business with 100 employees. He had to start over not only with his
business, but with his life.
Then I understood what he meant. Our stories were not the
same, but the result was similar: I was 33 when I had to start over, in a different way. How did you get through it? I asked him.
You need to cry for a
few months, he said. And then you pull yourself together, put one
foot in front of the other, and decide to live again.
A year or two after he lost his wife, he met the woman who
would become his second wife. She had
two daughters and lived several states away, so they dated long-distance until
he decided to move with his teenage son to be with her; his other three boys
were all off to college and careers. He
told me about how difficult it was for his son and his wife to adapt, at
first. With a lot of love and patience,
they are now close.
I always say I got
lucky twice, he said.
They have been married for over a decade now, he and his
second wife, and I can see the glow on his face when he talks about her, even
when he is lamenting the cost of the new rug she purchased or the dogs she
named cute little girly names that sound funny in his tough-guy voice. He keeps the memory of his first wife alive
too, and he tells me the story of when they decided to have their fourth
child. He laughs as he recalls their
conversations, and he has a healthy optimism about love and life when you pick
through his complaining and kvetching about everyday annoyances.
Put one foot in front of the other, and decide to live
again.
Beautiful advice I never thought I'd hear from this man, a place I least expected to hear it.
It’s hard to tell how special someone is on the
surface. You never know what you’re going to have in
common with someone. You never know who has "brave" written on his heart.
It is in that way that I appreciate the subtleties of the Austin
fall, with pops of color in places you don’t expect: between two houses in a
neighborhood, or perched on an outcropping of limestone on the highway. There
is no division between summer and fall; it is hiding there, in plain sight. The beauty is there if you know what you’re
looking for. People are much the same.
Love,
