I peer over Sam’s shoulder as he reaches through the green plastic hatch into a small space cluttered with valves and wires, hose clamps and Teflon tape. His soft voice trails off as he pauses in the commentary to wrest open a stubborn valve.
This pause gives me a chance to catch up with the explanation he’s giving me, to digest his description of the workings of this particular part of the system. “This is a manual override valve. When this tier of the system is operating the potatoes, tomatoes, and onions get watered,” he explains. “And those roses too,” he adds pointing a long, skinny and bruised arm in their direction.
The plants are beautiful and convey an uncommon, luxuriant radiance. We’re in the yard of his 100-year-old home, a stately place of grey stone and timber which he inherited from his grandparents. Sam and his wife Helen have lived here since their daughters were little and the girls have been out of the house and gone for a few years now.
As you may have gathered, Sam is showing me the elaborate irrigation system which he designed and built to keep his and Helen’s plants lush, green, and growing. And beyond that Sam has a genius mind which is compelled to keep continually busy designing, creating, questioning and wondering. Designing and putting together a residential irrigation system consisting of hundreds of feet of hose and tubing, countless valves of all description, and more kinds of plumbing fittings than you could find at Brambleton Hardware is one of many ways that Sam is keeping busy these days, helping to keep him going with both purpose and passion.
My cousin Sam is not what you’d call a “picture of health.” No, far from it. A physician trained in the specialty of urology, his practice was cut short twenty years ago by a nagging thing called Parkinson’s Disease. Unable to practice medicine he switched to an administrative medical position, and he’s fulfilled that role with dedication and effectiveness.
Until recently, that is, when another undesirable health issue cropped up: a brain tumor in his right temporal lobe. Treatment modes like surgery, (and more surgery), radiation, and chemotherapy all were and continue to be thrown at it. It would be accurate to describe the experience for Sam and his family as grueling at best, and well, what can I say? The prognosis is not good.
We’re in Sam’s basement now. We pause – there are always distractions here – so he can show me the latest iteration of his homemade exercise bike. Now Sam is showing me the brains of the irrigation system, the electronic, programmable timer coupled to electrically-controlled solenoid valves. There are switches and sub-switches and valves and sub-valves. It seems like it would be difficult for a person of normal intellect to understand all the intricacies of the system, and I certainly don’t get it, but I do revel in appreciating the passion behind it all.
We move to the porch, where the afternoon breeze lifts the foliage of the old oaks out front, and the sun dapples the petunias and lilies. Thin black plastic tubing routes water to individual hanging baskets of radiant blossoming flowers. I joke that it reminds me of vital fluids and IV drips, a scene with which Sam is very well acquainted. He flashes that wry grin.
Sam’s been working on another sizable project since he’s been unable to work: writing and compiling stories of his life, especially of his youth, his growing up. Besides being a record of such things for the benefit of yet-to-be-born grandchildren, for Sam and his friends and family it’s been a great exercise in reviewing some of his life’s adventures big and small, and some of the characters involved along the way. The stories reveal a life spent fully, faithfully and philosophically. And with an abiding sense of humor; some of the stories are truly hilarious.
Now Sam is showing me the lower tier of the garden irrigation system, the frontier of his domain. We pause and study the sky through the trees; those dark clouds surely portend rain this evening.
As we walk back to the house I’m hit by inspiration, by Sam and his generous and calm spirit, by his continued passion for life. And as he nurtures his plants with thoughtful care, so he nurtures those people around him.
I’m sure that in everyone’s life there are those people who inspire one to greater things, to a higher purpose. Not through loud and boisterous displays of “look at me and do it this way!” but from a quiet and simple manner and a steadfast love of life, friends, and family. Sam is one of those people, and I’m happy and fortunate to be on the receiving end of his care.
By the way, cousin, don’t forget to return that manual override valve to its original position.
– Johnny Robinson
