Life in the Holocene

It had been ten days on the dig—long enough for the excitement to wear off.  

“Gobekli Tepe—hell of a place for my first dig.”   

The archeology student swings his pick into the packed earth and strikes stone.  After hours with his brush, carefully clearing dirt from around it, he lifts his prize.  

“It’s too shaped to be natural.  It’s a sculpture of some kind—it must be!” 

As he turns it in his hands, his eyes lock into the indentations where its eyes might have been.

His world disappears.

“Abi! Abi!” his daughter is screaming as he comes to.  Where is he?  

“Abi! Are you okay?” his daughter cries.  

“I’m fine,” he says to reassure her, his thoughts still slurring.  

He was chasing a rabbit at the lake’s side when he slipped in the mud. He must have hit his head on a rock.  

“That would have been a tasty meal for us both.”

Like everyone in his tribe, Ur-Alok spends much of his time finding and preparing food.  The land is rich.  Gazelle and boar fill everyone’s stomachs for days,  rabbits and partridges provide steady meals.  They soak tree nuts for eating and dry the bitter grass seeds for their sacred drink.

Sai, his daughter, is the only child left from his mate Dina.  They were bound together for many seasons.  He loved watching her dance—the way her hips moved.  He was known for his ability to work stone. He would carve her little animals to make her smile. There had been two other children, the second taking Dina with her into the world beyond.

The tribe is getting ready for the pilgrimage to Ha-Maqom—the place where all the tribes meet after the grasses flower to give thanks to their gods.  The god of the tribe of Ur-Alok is the Lake God.  Others worship the Hill God or the River God.

“We have much to do to get ready,” Ur-Alok tells Sai.  “Go to the lake and fetch reeds. We will need baskets.”

Sai has always loved the lake—the still green water; the herons that stand gracefully; the chatter of the ducks; the mud that slithers between her toes.  It is a worthy god.

Startled, the herons rise as she forages through the shallows. She feels a sharp stab in her foot. 

“Abi! Abi!” she yells as she runs back, “I stepped on a water snake.”  

Heart pounding, Ur-Alok grabs her foot.  He sucks at the wound as he’s been taught, but Sai begins to fall ill.

The men and women of the tribe gather and offer prayers to the Lake God. By morning, Sai barely moves. 

“Don’t take my daughter,” Ur-Alok prays.  “She is all I have left and I love her.” He must offer a gift.

The sacred grasses had only just been cut.  He runs to the lake and tears open the basket. He scatters the seeds along the shore as the herons stand watching.

“Take these,” he begs the Lake God, “and leave me Sai.”

It is too late; Sai dies before he returns.  

In the years to come, when grasses grow by the lake where none had grown before, the tribe will call them the grasses of Sai.

Ur-Alok must still journey with his tribe to Ha-Maqom.  

“I cannot give thanks to the gods who have taken my Sai.  But I must give them something to smooth her passage into the world beyond.”  

As they walk, he spots a carving stone. As he picks up the stone, the shadow of Sai’s face stares back at him.  “I know what I must do.”  

When they arrive at Ha-Maqom, he begins to carve her face into the stone, working as if compelled by the gods.  As he works, the pain begins—a stabbing pain in the front of his skull.  At first, he can’t sleep; then his eyes begin to blur.

On the tenth night after all the tribes have arrived, gifts are given to the gods.  Ur-Alok has worked through the pain—he will not fail Sai.  He can barely see by the time the sculpture is done, but he sees Sai in its face. As he reaches up, disoriented, hands shaking, to place his sculpture on the altar, his world disappears.

The archeology student gasps.  “He wasn’t trying to invent agriculture; he was only trying to save his daughter.”

The Boys of Summer

On hot summer days, when school is out of session, the neighborhood boys are drawn to the schoolyard like wildebeests to the Serengeti watering hole.

The first arrive before the nighttime cool has burned off.  They begin to throw, more to warm up their bodies than their arms.  They play simple games, throwing ground balls and pop-ups, to keep themselves occupied as the others arrive.

The popular athletic boys wander by late—confident that nothing will start until they’ve arrived.  They don’t need the warm-up; they’ll dominate the schoolyard anyway. The games are ready to start.

Captains are chosen, but they’re always the same.  Donnie is the most athletic of the boys. He’s alright, he has nothing to prove.  Dennis is small but fast—a blur on the bases.  Occasionally, Willy takes a turn.  He is athletic, although not quite as athletic as Donnie, and fast, although not as fast as Dennis. He’s also quieter than the others—less a natural captain.

The bat is tossed and caught.  It’s a game of musical hands; the winner is the one who can hold that last little bit of the knob.

The captains divide the boys, each selecting in turn.  This is how status is earned in the schoolyard—conferred by the most athletic.  The boys picked toward the end are forced to stand there, eyes turned downward, hoping yesterday’s single gets them picked a place or two higher today.

There always seems to be just the right number of boys to make up two full teams, nine or ten a side.  If there are fewer, they’ll make it work.  If there are more, some boys will be forced to sit and watch, waiting for someone to leave. Or maybe they'll leave first—no one will notice.

The morning game passes uneventfully until hungry stomachs demand a break.  Many will go home, to lunches prepared by mom or to scrounge around their kitchen pantries.  The lucky few with a few coins or a bill will flock to the burger joint down the street. They all get small drinks and take the free refill.

As the boys return, the games resume.  The afternoon sun bakes the now-shirtless boys.  They drip sweat and shade their eyes against the glare.  The game’s intensity rises with the heat.  Voices grow louder, tags a little more forceful.  One of the boys may even attempt the most dangerous of stunts: sliding on the asphalt, trading skin and blood for victory. A disputed play may trigger pushing and shoving but fights rarely break out—everyone knows who’s on top.  A great catch or timely hit matters more.

As the sun retreats, the heat subsides, signaling that dinnertime is approaching.  Some of the boys are expected to be home and washed before the evening meal.  They bid their goodbyes early.  Others come from families with more relaxed dinner rules.  Some will leave after hearing their names called out from a window down the street.  “Hey Mikey, it’s time to come home!”

As these boys leave, the game breaks down; there are no longer enough boys to make full teams.  The play returns to the simple games that started the day.  The boys who play them will have to find their own dinners—it won’t be waiting for them when they get home.  

The last boys leave as dusk settles in.

Tomorrow will be another day.

They will do it all again.

 

The Meeting

He entered the room and took his usual seat in the back corner—as far away from the “action” as he could get. He put down his Coke and flipped open his laptop. Working during the meeting was frowned upon, but the screen made him feel protected. 

He hated these weekly meetings. Nothing ever got discussed or decided; everyone just filled the  boss in on what they were doing. It could all just be email. Half the time, it didn’t feel real anyway.

As usual, the boss was late.  When he finally strolled in, he grinned like he always did and greeted the room.  He turned to Joni and said, “Let's get started.”

Robert tried not to zone out, at least not until after his turn. Nobody likes looking surprised when their name is called because they haven’t been paying attention. But there were so many projects that he knew nothing about and had no interest in.

When his turn finally came around, he gave his update. Everything was fine, everything on track. He didn't have any real issues but he needed to invent something for his boss to work on, otherwise his boss wouldn’t feel like he was doing his job. He mentioned that purchasing had stalled a small order, would his boss make a couple of phone calls?

Once he was done, Robert zoned out again. There were so many more projects; he hoped he wouldn’t fall asleep.

As the meeting ended he picked up his laptop and started to walk up out of the room. Pete walked over and said, “Hey, Rob—”(he always calls me that—my name is Robert, he thought) “—congratulations! Couldn't be more well deserved.”  What was Pete talking about?

Robert mumbled a confused thanks and was still standing there when  Joni came up. “Congrats! That's going to be a lot of work. If you need any help, let me know.” He’d always liked Joni; she was the type of person who always volunteered to help. He just didn’t know what she was offering to help with.

What had he missed?

Had he zoned out so badly he had fallen asleep? 

Was he assigned a new project?  Something important that needed to be done?  He looked around but he couldn’t recall.  He sat down and tried to replay the meeting.  “OK, we started with Joni.  What did she say?”  No answer came.

He sat there for a while, deep in thought. Only then did he hear the fire alarm that had been going off.  A fire drill, “Oh, another distraction.”  He hadn’t noticed everyone leaving, but the room was now empty. He grabbed his laptop and went to the door.  This wasn’t their usual meeting room.  He couldn’t remember the fastest way to the exit. The fire alarm must have been going for a while—there was no one in the hallway.  Left or right? There was no exit sign at either end.  He turned left.

When he got to the end of the hall, he saw the stairwell.  He had a bad premonition. He had to get out. The alarm was still ringing. Was this a real fire?  Did he smell smoke? 

No one was in the stairwell.  How long had he been distracted?

At the bottom of the stairs, the main door appeared and he felt a wave of relief—he was almost there.  He reached out to open the door—and knocked his alarm off his nightstand.

Picking up the alarm, he sighed, “Another day at the office.”

Things My Grandfather Told Me

I just turned 50. For my birthday, in addition to the black balloons and black icing on the cake, I got a cancer diagnosis.   I should be ok—we caught it early—but cancer has a way of making you take stock.

When you are confronted with your own mortality, you begin to wonder what it’s all about.  Have I made a difference or just wasted time?  When I think about this, I think about my Grampa. 

I always admired my Grampa.  He was a towering figure in our family, successful in business, active in his community. I looked up to him—we all did.

When I was in high school, the Mississippi River flooded across the Midwest.  Homes and businesses were destroyed.  My Grampa took food, water, and sandbags to some communities in Iowa.  I asked him why he was doing that.

Grampa told me about landing on Omaha Beach.  He’d never talked about the war much.  As they approached the beach, he and his buddies had gone silent with fear.  When their landing craft door opened, they were engulfed in sound—shells exploding; bullets buzzing past and hitting bodies with thuds; soldiers yelling directions or screaming in pain.

“I survived Omaha Beach, but a lot of other guys in that landing craft didn't. I always felt that I had to live in a way that made their deaths meaningful, to honor their sacrifice. That’s why I’m going to Iowa—to make a difference.”

I remember the story he told about how he met my grandmother.  While transferring back after the war, he spent some time in New York.  Some of his buddies were going to a USO dance.  He was still feeling the effects of fighting; he was sullen, shaken, all he really wanted to do was sleep. But his buddies were insistent so he went just to shut them up.  While his buddies cased the room, he found a seat at the bar, planning to drink out his crabbiness.  A woman sitting next to him asked where he’d served.  Time stopped as they talked out the night. They never even danced.  “Brent,” he said, “sometimes you find the best things in life even when you aren’t looking.”

Another chance encounter in New York led to his career. Still drifting in the city, he struck up a conversation with a guy sitting next to him in a diner one night.  They talked about the war, about where they were from, about their plans—of which Grampa had none.  The guy was working for a company downtown.  They’d just opened up a job in the mailroom—would Grampa be interested? “Sometimes, you just have to be in the right place at the right time.”

I never met my grandmother.  She died before I was born.  Breast cancer—like her mother before her and my mom after.  Grampa told me how unfair it had been, how young and happy they were.  “I was angry for a long time.  You never really accept something like that; over time, you just learn to acknowledge it. They didn’t really know why it ran in families back then. Now the doctors say it’s a genetic mutation.  Just some random thing that happened sometime ago.”

Grampa died of complications from hepatitis C, which he’d gotten from a blood transfusion for a minor surgery.  They didn’t know what hepatitis C was back then and they weren’t testing for it in blood supplies.  Ten years later they wouldn’t have done the surgery at all. While his health was declining, he told me, “Brent, of course I’m scared of dying.  But I’ve been fortunate and I’ve tried to live my life to deserve it.  When I die, I will do so without regret.”

There doesn’t seem to be any “grand plan.”  None of those boys on Omaha Beach deserved to die in any way that Grampa deserved to live. Life seems to be just a game of inches, of chance and consequences.   Sometimes, the best things in life come from being in the right place at the right time, and sometimes the worst do.  

I’ve gotten a sharp reminder that life is short.   Cancer is not fair—but then neither is anything else. Perhaps the only meaning my life is going to have is the meaning I create: the relationships I build, the difference I make. I won’t let cancer keep me from that.