I'm sitting in a restaurant with a business associate and over his shoulder I notice a large, round table with a number of people glancing in my direction: I recognize some of the diners at that table, some I don't. The faces that are familiar to me are from past associations; all people I have good memories about. As I continued my conversation with my business associate I was sub-consciously thinking I needed to go over to the other table to say hello to all these old friends. My business conversation seemed to take longer than I would have liked and when I finally extricated myself to greet these old friends they were no longer seated at the table. I hurried out to the parking lot quickly enough to see the departing figures - all walking away from where I was standing. One old friend turned to face me and wordlessly conveyed the message with her eyes that seemed to say "we waited as long as we could". I awoke and found it impossible to go back to sleep.
I made a trip to the Hill Country in Texas in May to spend my Mother's 80th birthday with her and my Dad. The weather was glorious, unusual by comparison to most May's when it has been known to be hot and sticky in this part of the world. On the Saturday I played 18 holes of golf with my Mom and my 2 brothers, Bob and David at the golf course we affectionately refer to as "Rock and Root Country Club" but known as QuickSand at Woodcreek by everyone else. Sunday afternoon saw a family dinner at brother David's home in the same community where my parents have lived for these past 20 plus years. David and his wife, Suzanne, bought the home near my parents just this last fall. I had buried some of Geoff's ashes deep in the 9th hole sandtrap that is just yards away from their new back yard when I was in the same little town for my Father's 80th birthday celebration in December. Suzanne says she tries her best to keep an eye out for Geoff, there, in what used to be a favorite playground. Brothers and sisters, wives and husbands, granddaughters and grandsons, nieces and nephews, sons and daughters gathered in my brother's home to eat the rib eye steaks so deftly grilled by David and enjoy the cake my sister, Barbara, provided from a special Austin baker. We sang "Happy Birthday" to Mom and we meant every word.
Earlier that Sunday I accompanied my Mother and Father to St. Mary's Catholic Church in Wimberley, Texas for Mass on what was the actual 80th anniversary of my Mother's birth . It did not escape me that the last time I had been in a church was Geoff's service at Our Lady of Fatima in Kingsgrove. The familiarity of all the details of this country building for public worship in which I had never set foot before caused me to draw parallels with the parish facility in New South Wales, albeit on a smaller scale, where I said goodbye to my son. The sameness is striking, if not in detail but in the general layout of the building, but I suppose that could be said of most Catholic Churches. My watery eyes were immediately drawn to the baptismal font and its obvious symbolism combined with the memories of Geoff's baptism and the still fresh details of the ceremony on 13 October, 2010. My mind wandered through most of the service, fixated on memories of that still unbelievable day but, of course, that's a now familiar path for my thoughts.
Robin and I made a number of trips to visit my parents in Wimberley beginning in the early 80's with just Geoff until Melissa was born and then the two. Candi and Carri would come along but not every time. We would commandeer the "golf cottage" adjacent to the 9th tee box that was used mostly as a rental after my parents had moved full time into their retirement home above the 4th green and were trying to decide what to do with the house that was previously their weekender. Geoff had a talent for striking round objects with long sticks and his favorite adventure involving golf clubs was to dump as many balls as he could locate into the sand trap adjacent to the 9th green and attempt to extricate them with the sawed off golf club my Dad had fashioned. Once the well used balls were all freed from the gritty bunker he would gather them up and return them to the sand and repeat the process more than once. I have a memory of Geoff beginning this routine at an age when he was hardly 2 years; there he was, taking mighty whacks at the shag balls, with his diaper hanging quite low. As with most things, he had a talent for becoming particularly accomplished at the task before he was willing to give it a rest. I've probably played that 9th hole at least 100 times and every time I approach the tee box I've thought of that little blond boy deftly knocking ball after ball out of the greenside bunker. I assumed we would compete on that hole one day, Father and Son, just as my Dad and I had many times before, and perhaps a still younger version of Geoff beginning the cycle anew. How naive I was.
Monday morning found my Mother and me taking a hike along a newly built footpath from just outside the community in which they live to the "Blue Hole" located some 3 miles away. 20 odd years ago the Blue Hole was a quintessential deep in the woods swimming hole complete with well worn tires hanging from large trees by ropes in such a manner as to provide a swinging entry into the cool water from various heights and degrees of safety. The local emergency medical facilities made a good business out of patching up those swimmers who mistimed their jumps or hung on a little too long. Geoff and I made a few pilgrimages on the well worn path to the Blue Hole with his Mother, Aunts and Uncles and had great fun avoiding any serious injuries. In those days the Blue Hole was open to all who dared; some years later what was thought to be the landowner started charging a small fee for admission and now the city has acquired the facility and is "improving" the area with plenty of parking lots, concrete, asphalt, lighting and picnic benches. You can't improve perfect.
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