“Sorry, little guy….”
I had to apologize. I set my coffee cup down on my oldest friend’s face.
I am not quite sure how old Oscar is but I figure somewhere between 50 million and 59 million years.
Most of that time, he has been entombed in the block of sandstone that rests on my desk (still that doesn’t excuse me for clunking his head with a big mug of coffee).
So here I am writing about him. I can’t explain exactly why I do it. I mean writing, not necessarily writing about Oscar. This week he is just something to write about.
I suppose I write to leave a little something of myself – beyond myself. I could write just for me but I don’t do that. I write for others with the vain hope that at least a few of them will get a chuckle out of it before going back to doing whatever it is they do.
And in that sense, I become more than myself.
It is what a lot of us do. We acquire a skill or master an art, so that someone, somewhere might say, “hey, look at that!” and we can blush with pride.
Some people take it to extremes. They build skyscrapers. They create empires. They have their image carved into stone and mounted on a marble pedestal – all to become known and in some sense become a bit immortal.
But then there is Oscar. He is about as close to immortal as you can get.
50 million years ain’t shabby.
And Oscar did not have to become an Aristotle or a Renoir or even a Saddam Hussein to do it.
All he had to do is go about his business.
I suppose Oscar proves that you don’t have to be much to amount to much and that try as you might, it might just be some little thing that you do in the course of a day that makes you become known to the ages.
Hopefully, it is something creative or kind – but for Oscar, all he had to do…. was get his head stuck in the sand.