Happy New Year

This was my grandfather’s cane. My father gave it to me as a Christmas present. I don’t have any use for a cane at the present moment, which makes it a rather unusual present. It wasn’t even given to me to be used as a cane. My father has a rather unique tradition during the holidays concerning the men in the family. Each year at Christmas, we receive some sort of weapon. One year it was homemade nunchucks. That was followed by a homemade billy club. Then it was a sling, with a trove of walnuts as potential ammo. After that it was a water balloon slingshot, and finally the cane.

The only one that was ever actually used for its intended purpose was the water balloon slingshot, and that was splendiferous excitement. Regardless, the cane was given as a weapon first, an actual cane second, and as an heirloom keepsake probably third.

It’s a good cane, I like it. It’s got a lot of character. You can see where it’s worn near the handle. It will make a good ball retrieving tool. It’s a bit too short for me to use as a cane, even if I needed to. The Bigalkes are not a tall people by nature, and I’ve got more of my mother’s genes when it comes to height.

In this society, where most things are mass produced and rarely anything is truly unique any more, it’s becoming rarer and rarer to have a treasured heirloom to pass down from generation to generation. I’ve got a cane now.

I’ve got a daughter now. That’s something. I didn’t have a daughter a year ago. Well, I guess technically I did. Last year at this time she was about the size of a pinto bean. Nothing much to write home about. I’m told that I’ve accidentally swallowed things bigger than a pinto bean while sleeping. Sure, she had parts that made her my daughter, eyes, brain, heart, but she wasn’t something that I could hold like I do now. She didn’t have a name then, not to mention a personality, or a demeanor that I could read and understand. She wasn’t real to me.

Now she’s never far from my thoughts. Upon returning home from an errand over Christmas break, my first question after coming through the door was, “Where’s my daughter?” The question took me rather by surprise(even though I was the one asking it) because of how pointed it was, and how sure I sounded. This was my daughter, that’s a pretty exciting concept. Her wellbeing is my primary concern. We’ve got an unbreakable bond. She’s my daughter, and whether she likes it or not I’m her father. Still…

While pregnant, very pregnant, if there were a way to quantify pregnancy I would have to say very, very pregnant, my wife was reading one of her pregnancy books and mentioned that my unborn daughter had already developed her ovaries and ova. That’s remarkable. I can, and often do, create new sperm without even thinking about it. Every couple of days I’m recycling the little soldiers. Women are different, all of the eggs they ever produce are done near the beginning of life. That means that a part of my daughter was a part of my wife, when her mother was still pregnant with her. Part of my granddaughter was part of my wife when she was pregnant with my daughter.

All I’ve got is a cane. I can’t compete with that.