Eighteen Years...

 Eighteen years is a long time.  It's the time that most children grow from infants to independent adults.  Eighteen years is one Saros, that's the time it takes for the earth, moon and sun to return to their same relative positions in their orbital dance.   And it's the number of years I worked for my boss.

Asbury "Abby" Sallenger - 1997    USGS Photo

  Abby was the kind of guy you wanted to work for.  When I started at the USGS, he was the office chief.  At my first interview he talked to me in a t-shirt, shorts and Tevas, because he'd been in the field that morning.   I learned after that he always wore a slacks and tie, just not on that day.  As he transitioned from chief back to researcher, he picked up hurricane research.  And that was how I came to work for him.  He told me once this would be a project that you could spend your whole career working on.  I gladly would, too, and I told him so.  And so far, I have.

  And that tie?  I saw it maybe once or twice a year after that.

  Abby was a piece de resistance.  He had clout in the office and in the Survey.  What Abby wanted, Abby got.  But he never abused that privilege.  He was one of the most respected scientists in the community of coastal research, as well as climate change.  And yet he never lost sight of what was real.  He always had time for you.  Well, except those few times when there was a storm bearing down on the coast and, well, we were all too busy to think about anything but what was going to happen in the next few days.  If you needed a new computer, you got it.  When it came to safety, he never skimped.  If there was anything that we needed, we got it.  No questions asked.  Period.

  When I was diagnosed with breast cancer he bent over backwards to accomodate me.  Got me what I needed to keep going and come through the other side.   He never flinched or wavered, and let me work at my own pace.  His mom was a survivor.  He understood.

  And when my cat was dying, he let me work at home to be with her, because he was that kind of guy.

  In the last few years, he'd had some health issues.   He never shared what was going on.  But the man who once played offensive tackle in college had grown noticeably thin.  I worried about him, but never asked.  It was not my place to do so.  He would have shared if he wanted to.

  Of the group here at work, I think I'm the one who worked for him the longest, though in no way can I say I've known him the longest.  But people have been stopping by all day, offering their condolences, as if I were the one who had lost a family member.  I don't know, maybe I have.  I'd like to say he was a friend as well as my boss.  I could joke with him about work or people, and whenever he needed to buy something or pay for a conference registration, he'd come to me.  "Mom..." he'd say.   He didn't have purchase authority on his credit card.  He didn't want it.  He was the kind of guy you'd stay late for, if he needed something.  I have no illusion about what he did for me, and for my career.  I can't fathom that loss right now.  Perhaps I never will.  Perhaps in those 18 years he had seen me grow, from a green young fed to a task lead, ready to fly on my own.  Literally and figuratively.   I hope I don't let him down.

  As we scramble in our daze to notify people of his passing, it somehow doesn't seem like enough.  His office seems hollow, devoid of spark, and life.  I imagine it will remain that way for sometime.  It seems like one such as he should get more note than an article in Times.  Words seem as inadequate as a plaque on the wall right now.  The pictures I took of him never seemed to quite capture the man.  I tried a number of times over the years to get one that captured Abby at work or in the field, at his passion, to show his soul.  I'm not a portrait photographer.  I never quite caught it.  I never will.

  He always offered to buy people a beer after we were done working, then tell us to go out an get some, feigning not to have the money to pay for them.  It was a standing joke.  One we always laughed at.  He looked out for the people under him in a way that I've never seen anywhere else.   You knew he cared about you.  I don't know if I'll ever see his like again.  People like him are hard to find.  He will be sorely missed.

  So, Abby, I'll get those figures done for you right away. And next time I see you I tell you what.  I'll buy you a beer....

  Rest in peace, my friend, rest in peace.