The Day I Didn’t Do Anything

Today was a day off. Not that I have done a whole lot. But the rains last Sunday created a knock on effect which delayed the arrival of a soils engineer to test the compaction of the soil on my pad. That will be done tomorrow, after which TKO can start setting the forms. Next week we will install plumbing stubs, do the trenching, watertight test on plumbing stubs, termite treatment and, finally, lay the tensioning cables. That will take us into the following week when I expect to pour concrete. Notice how I use the pronoun “I” when describing who is doing all the work!

I took advantage of the free time to visit Tyler, Texas and look at stone and fireplaces. I also visited the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception. There was one other woman, in the back, kneeling with her head buried in her hands. I knelt down near the front, and I was back on the Camino, deep in thought. I spoke earlier of the Iliad. Achilles was filled with rage and a singular desire for glory. The Iliad is a story of war and bloodshed, fed by rage like the wind feeds fire. The man on the cross was filled with love. His is a story of unending and unconditional love. I kept thinking how love produces peace and forgiveness; and rage produces war, bitterness and a desire for revenge. And vice versa. If you cannot forgive someone, it is because a little anger is wedged in there. On the way out, I spoke “Peace” to the woman in the back. She looked up. I repeated “Peace be with you, friend”. She dropped her head back into her hands.

Well, I didn’t think I was going to go on about my visit to the cathedral, but I am not going to delete it!

I drove by Lake Palestine on the way back and did not realize how big it is. It could be Lake Conroe’s twin. Nowhere near as big as Toledo Bend, and not as pretty as Caddo, but good to know about. Pretty countryside, getting into the piney woods.

I also had a little time to ponder my Dad. He built a house in 1953 in Evanston, Wyoming. I have vague memories of that house and the desert land around it. I remember my dad showing me horned toads. I remember the sound of semi trucks rumbling down the distant freeway. I remember my dog Blackie who got run over on that highway. A dog’s death sticks in a young boys mind.

Is that why I am building a house? To outdo my old man? We search for our fathers to find ourselves. When we are young, like that little boy in Wyoming, our father is all-powerful and all-knowing; he is a protector, and when he smiles, we are assured that the world is a wonderful place. In short, he is like a god. As we get older, we begin to recognize chinks in his armor. He is not perfect. He is still a a great person, but we are saddened a bit by this revelation. The awe from before turns to love and respect, but, at least for me, there were growing expectations I had for him which were not always met. Before I realized it, I was a father, too. And that’s probably when our companionship developed into admiration. Recently, I found a note from him, a card celebrating some event many years ago that I happened to save. In the note he told me how proud he was of me. It is the finest message I have ever received, from anyone.

Peace be with you, friends!