In this episode, the 2026 Sinkankas Symposium.
Let’s get one thing straight: I didn’t arrive in a DeLorean. No flux capacitor, no dramatic lightning strike—just a Saturday parking pass and a name badge. And yet, somewhere between the rotunda doors and the first handshake, it happened anyway.
Walking into that magnificent main campus rotunda early with my colleagues, Paul Mattlin and Glenn Wargo, felt like wrapping myself in a familiar, gem-encrusted blanket. It was less a building, more a family living room where nobody ever really forgets your name. The halls were quiet (a rare and beautiful thing), and the soft echo of our footsteps on the polished floors sounded exactly as I remembered it.
For a moment, it wasn’t 2026—it was April 1997, my first time walking onto the beautiful, brand-new GIA campus as Director of Alumni.
Some things, it turns out, don’t fade. They just wait patiently.
At my entirely unsubtle request, Paul and Glenn gave me the grand tour of the newly remodeled second floor of the Education Building. Their pride in GIA—earned over years of dedication—was unmistakable. And contagious. You don’t just work at a place like that. You become part of it.
Then I managed to corner Duncan Pay. Now, the Chief Academic Officer—Duncan, a modest promotion from the days when we worked side by side during his tenure as Director of Course Development—graciously gave me a peek behind the curtain into the executive offices. Standing in Mr. Liddicoat’s old office, now an executive conference room, once strictly off-limits to mere mortals, felt surreal.
I was back on duty.
My good friend Robert Weldon, serving as Master of Ceremonies for the day, offered what can only be described as ceremonial guidance:
“Patrick, just be part of the audience. Relax.”
This was roughly equivalent to telling a retriever to ignore a tennis ball.
I nodded, of course, very convincingly.
Then, like clockwork, I drifted to my natural habitat: the back of the room, greeting people as they took their seats, scanning the room without even realizing I was doing it.
The first speaker wrapped up. The Q&A began. And right on cue, someone in the front row asked a brilliant question—one that no one in the back half of the room could hear. Instinct didn’t just tap me on the shoulder—it grabbed the microphone. Sitting next to Jack Owensby, the maestro of all things audio and visual, I leaned over and whispered, already halfway out of my seat:
“Jack . . . tell me you’ve got a wireless mic.”
And just like that, I wasn’t attending the symposium—I was circulating through it. A human microphone, weaving through the aisles, encouraging more questions and making sure every question reached every ear.
So much for relaxing.
But here’s the thing: when you see a need, you fill it. Not out of obligation, but because you can’t imagine doing otherwise. That’s what GIA quietly instilled in us—not just how to grade a stone, but how to take care of the room.
And the people in it.
By the end of the day, it was clear that Saturday wasn’t really about my mildly comedic relapse into a former job description. It was something deeper.
A reminder . . .
Of the relationships built over the years.
Of the shared history that doesn’t fade with time.
Of the quiet, enduring bond that turns colleagues into something closer to family.
Because once you’ve been part of the GIA family, you don’t really retire from it.
You just sit down for a while . . . until someone, somewhere in the back of the room, can’t hear the question.
I’m Patrick Ball. Stay curious, ask questions, and remember true joy in life comes from serving others.
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