April 21: Working Late, in the Office, End of Semester

For years [Ives] found working late dispiriting, for he lived to see his kids.  On his desk, among the piles of mechanicals, memoranda, purchase orders, magazines, and page proofs, and upon his walls were a number of photographs:  a shot of himself and his father and brother and sister taken years ago in front of their house on Carroll Street; a picture of Robert, ten years of age, shaking hands with Pope John XXIII during a general audience at the Vatican, "the greatest moment of my son's life," Ives used to think; and a third and favorite shot, of himself and Annie and the kids when they were small, about 1956, posed in the park before Grant's Tomb...

Ives is a successful commercial artist, makes a decent wage, and lives a very comfortable life.  Like most fathers of his era, Ives doesn't see his kids in the morning, before he goes to work, and in the evening, when he gets home from work.  Ives was an orphan, left on the steps of a foundling home when he was an infant, so, for Ives, being a part of his kids' lives is paramount to him.  So, when he has to work late, it depresses him.


I understand Ives' reaction to working late.  Tonight, in about 25 minutes, I have to attend a workshop at the university about the implementation of a new curriculum.  Dinner is being provided, which is nice, but I would rather be home with my wife and daughter and son.  That's my life, though.  Long days, long nights.  Plus it's the end of the semester.  Lots of extra grading and planning.  In a couple of weeks, my life will be simpler.  No more teaching until late August.  Time to read and think.

During the school year, my attention seems to always be elsewhere.  If I'm at a family get-together, I'm thinking about the papers I need to grade.  If I'm watching my daughter's band concert, I have a book in my lap that I have to lecture about the next day.  It's never-ending.  Now, if I earned a decent wage for this distraction, I would say that it's worth it.  I love teaching and being in the classroom.  However, I also have a second, full-time job which occupies my time and energies.

So, like Ives, I sometimes get a little dispirited on these late nights at the university.  I think about helping my six-year-old son take his bath or reading Harry Potter to him as he drifts off to sleep.  I think of my daughter at the dance studio, gliding or stomping across the floor.  I think about my wife at home, singing a lullaby to my son in his dark bedroom.

Saint Marty thinks way too much sometimes.

Just because I needed to laugh...