So What's All This About?
I remember reading somewhere that the struggle for historians who study ancient history is that there are far too few sources. Conversely, the struggle for historians who study modern history is that there are far too many. Isn't that a fun thought?
So What's All This About?
I want to write about my thoughts/feelings/experiences. I want to catalogue them so when I'm old and gray I can sit and reflect upon the snippet of time of which I've been able to partake, and perhaps pass along some of those experiences, just like my grandpa did for me.
There've been times in my life that were so impactful I thought I wouldn't need to catalogue them in order to remember even their most minute details. How foolish I've been. At this rate, I won't remember ever having done/experienced anything by the time I reach my twilight years.
One thing I remember most about my grandfather was his stories. He was an excellent story teller. He could make the most mundane experiences hilarious, full of insight and wisdom. The stories he told were very impactful on me growing up. For example, my grandfather was a welder. He retired as a welder from the Ford Plant in Virginia. He welded every day for 40 years. On paper, that isn't something that sounds that interesting. But when he spoke, it was. He'd tell us everything from how steel is made, to the different types of welding he could do for various different types of jobs. I knew his co-workers, nicknames and all. Most importantly, I learned how much pride my grandpa took in his work. I learned about his work ethic, and the fulfillment that comes from having done a good job. I only realize the impact these stories had on me now, looking back. When I was in high school, I worked at a retail store called Designer Shoe Warehouse. It was a decent job as far as retail is concerned, but certainly no level of prestige being an hourly employee making close to minimum wage. Regardless, when I had to sign my name, either on a form for having signed up a new rewards member, or for clocking into my shift, I always just wrote "#1." That was the name my grandpa had at the Ford Plant. He'd worked there so long, he was the most senior welder on the floor. They called him "#1." I absorbed my grandpa's work ethic through his stories, and carried it with me into my high school retail job.
Today I was helping unload a truck of over 700 containers of water. The truck came in from Mississippi and was donated to help out victims of Hurricane Harvey in the surrounding Houston area. It was hot. I've been more accustomed to manual labor than I care to go into. Long story short, I'm over it. I don't like manual labor. I was sweating and uncomfortable. I thought to myself, "My days of manual labor are over." In my mind, I heard my grandpa's voice. That's what he always used to say. He'd say it in an endearing way. In a way that'd make people laugh. He'd say it about a number of things. "My running days are over," or, "My swimming days are over." He'd say it in protest to avoid doing something, but the truth of the matter was, he was simply too old. His days of manual labor really were over. Upon that revelation, I suddenly felt very thankful that my days of manual labor were not, in fact, over, and I continued to work with a renewed sense of zeal for the task at hand.
The point is I want to be able to remember my life, my stories, so that I too may one day be able to pass those on. Even though my grandpa passed away several years ago, he is still very much with me in the stories that he told. I want to remember what I can of those stories. I want to remember what I can of my own stories. I want to one day be able to pass those stories on for the next batch of humans starting out on their brief snippet of time.
There ya' have it. That's what this is all about.
So What's All This About?
I want to write about my thoughts/feelings/experiences. I want to catalogue them so when I'm old and gray I can sit and reflect upon the snippet of time of which I've been able to partake, and perhaps pass along some of those experiences, just like my grandpa did for me.
There've been times in my life that were so impactful I thought I wouldn't need to catalogue them in order to remember even their most minute details. How foolish I've been. At this rate, I won't remember ever having done/experienced anything by the time I reach my twilight years.
One thing I remember most about my grandfather was his stories. He was an excellent story teller. He could make the most mundane experiences hilarious, full of insight and wisdom. The stories he told were very impactful on me growing up. For example, my grandfather was a welder. He retired as a welder from the Ford Plant in Virginia. He welded every day for 40 years. On paper, that isn't something that sounds that interesting. But when he spoke, it was. He'd tell us everything from how steel is made, to the different types of welding he could do for various different types of jobs. I knew his co-workers, nicknames and all. Most importantly, I learned how much pride my grandpa took in his work. I learned about his work ethic, and the fulfillment that comes from having done a good job. I only realize the impact these stories had on me now, looking back. When I was in high school, I worked at a retail store called Designer Shoe Warehouse. It was a decent job as far as retail is concerned, but certainly no level of prestige being an hourly employee making close to minimum wage. Regardless, when I had to sign my name, either on a form for having signed up a new rewards member, or for clocking into my shift, I always just wrote "#1." That was the name my grandpa had at the Ford Plant. He'd worked there so long, he was the most senior welder on the floor. They called him "#1." I absorbed my grandpa's work ethic through his stories, and carried it with me into my high school retail job.
Today I was helping unload a truck of over 700 containers of water. The truck came in from Mississippi and was donated to help out victims of Hurricane Harvey in the surrounding Houston area. It was hot. I've been more accustomed to manual labor than I care to go into. Long story short, I'm over it. I don't like manual labor. I was sweating and uncomfortable. I thought to myself, "My days of manual labor are over." In my mind, I heard my grandpa's voice. That's what he always used to say. He'd say it in an endearing way. In a way that'd make people laugh. He'd say it about a number of things. "My running days are over," or, "My swimming days are over." He'd say it in protest to avoid doing something, but the truth of the matter was, he was simply too old. His days of manual labor really were over. Upon that revelation, I suddenly felt very thankful that my days of manual labor were not, in fact, over, and I continued to work with a renewed sense of zeal for the task at hand.
The point is I want to be able to remember my life, my stories, so that I too may one day be able to pass those on. Even though my grandpa passed away several years ago, he is still very much with me in the stories that he told. I want to remember what I can of those stories. I want to remember what I can of my own stories. I want to one day be able to pass those stories on for the next batch of humans starting out on their brief snippet of time.
There ya' have it. That's what this is all about.
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