Skid Marks

31 December, 13

When I was a little kid, I would walk up to total strangers and say, “My name is Dan Askins the TURD!” That always elicited a smile from the stranger, which, of course, encouraged me to do it more. The fact that I had a lisp and struggled to say, “third”, never even occurred to me.

My name has always been a source of great pride to me, even before I realized why. Being the first-born son conveyed the title upon me. I have found that living up to the office is a completely different undertaking. That would mean a perpetual cycle of endless struggle, magnificent failure and moments of success.

Granddaddy, Dan Askins, Sr., was on my mind over Christmas. He was always painfully ticklish. If you touched his side, he would automatically strike out with his arm, regardless of who was around. The trick was to stand on his left side and tickle him on his right, preferably when your brother or sister was available to be the recipient of the ensuing reflex punch from Granddaddy.

As I was unwrapping a Christmas present, I started to wad up the wrapping paper, in anticipation of throwing it at Granddaddy, while feigning innocence. He would always look around and try to figure out who did it, muttering his own special Popeye glossolalia under his breath.

I realized all over again, as I put the paper down, that I really missed my Granddaddy. His was a life well-lived, yet full of pain and tribulation at the same time. We shared many hours over breakfast at Shoney’s or driving to and from Valdosta, Georgia, where we rebuilt a hotel roof. My favorite thing to do with him was to drive down any street in Hartsville, SC and let him tell me which buildings he built over his career. He could name the original owner and the year it was completed, just like it was yesterday. Granddaddy left a mark. And that is the burden of my name.

I have felt the weight all my life. I want to leave a mark. I want to scratch a Grand Canyon across the landscape of history. I want to matter.

There will be two kinds of responses to the above statements:

1. Awwww, Dan. You already have made a difference! (Thanks Mama.)
2. I am choking back the vomit in my mouth right now, because you are so full of yourself, that it makes me sick, you miserable little Narcissus. (Thanks Becky and Susan.)

I suffer from Restless Life Syndrome. I can’t sit still, and the episodes seem to be occurring more frequently. I love the feeling of some new adventure. Peter Pan is in my blood, except for the green tights part. Susan has always been the one to sew my shadow back on, but in the process, I think she has been infected a little bit as well.  She is wandering about Spain, wondering what she is supposed to do when she grows up. I am wandering about Spain, wondering why you have to grow up.

While I do believe Spain is the right place for my family, I do not believe it is the place for me to make a mark. We are there for some kind of training, some kind of preparation. Spain is a paella-filled crucible. I guess there are worse ways to learn.