The Vagaries of Time and its Passing

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Time moves slowly but passes quickly

— Alice Walker, “The Color Purple”

 

“You’re fine for another 10 years,” the gastroenterologist said after I awakened from a colonoscopy on Monday morning. That is what he also told me 10 years ago, the last time I had this preventive procedure done. “Nothing to worry about. Come back when you turn 80.”

Jeez.

Propofol is the amnesia used in most colonoscopies. Michael Jackson died from abusing it. His doctor was convicted of involuntary manslaughter. Used properly, it provides what is called “twilight sleep,” acts within seconds, and wears off quickly. My procedure started at 7:30, and we were in line at a drive-through to get a breakfast sandwich less than an hour later. I have absolutely no memory after the anesthesiologist shot propofol into my IV and said, “Nite, nite. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

She really said that.

Ten years. The last time I had this procedure, President Orange Skin was two months away from riding down the golden escalator to announce his candidacy. Now, everything POS touches turns into tacky gold. The Oval Office is decked out in gold leaf like a high-dollar whorehouse one sees on a bad television series.

Talk about time moving slowly. This second term — not quite 11 months old! — feels as if it has been going on for a decade.

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Most of my shifts working part-time in the Estes Library at LeTourneau University are spent in the R.G. LeTourneau Archives. Working in the past, as it were. I have been at this job for eight years this coming January. Time indeed passes quickly. To both hone my skills and challenge myself, I completed an online graduate certificate — 15 hours — in Archival Management from the University of North Texas last year. For two years, daughter Abbie and I were technically classmates, both in the College of Information Science. That was cool, though we had no classes together.

I decided last summer to take the exam to become a Certified Archivist, given by the Academy of Certified Archivists. One must score 70 to pass. I studied off-and-on for about two months, using ChatGPT to create practice tests of increasing difficulty. In June, I took the test — 100 multiple choice questions in the eight domains of archival practice. I passed by the skin of my teeth, 70.45%. No matter. The certificate hangs on my office wall.

Aaahh, but time has caught up with me when it comes to finding an archival job. Prospective employers can do the age math when looking at my CV. They doubtless conclude I would be a short timer — from retirement, illness, or shuffling off this mortal coil, to paraphrase Shakespeare. I am content where I work but would love an additional remote gig that helped both stretch my brain and paid for our hobby farm habit. I continue to apply for remote positions. The silence is deafening. No matter.

 

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Time moves slowly but passes quickly here at Three Geese Farm. This is the dormant season. An early freeze stopped grass from growing. The leaves are all but gone from the trees. We still care daily for the hens, Longhorn steers, and Pancho the Donkey, not to mention the critters that live inside the house — two dogs, two cats, and two granddogs who visit often. And there is always something to do: fallen tree branches to gather with the tractor forks and take to the burn pile, dead trees to be chain-sawed down, bushhogging in the back of our 57 acres, which we sporadically maintain.

Then the rain arrives, in November and December, pushing those chores to the back burner. I tackle writing projects while rain sweeps across Pancho’s Pond, not fretting about mowing or bushhogging. A chunk of that back acreage is bottomland that stays underwater in winter. There is little work to be done outdoors during these months, as the shortest day and longest night approaches – the winter solstice. I read for hours.

But this hiatus will quickly pass. Spring will arrive in a blink. The cycle will begin anew.

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