July 8, 2024
Greetings from the treasure,
Some weeks ago, I was in the car with Finley, who at the time was on the sunrise side of two years old. He was in his car seat in the back, amusing himself with his assortment of toys and books, but every once in a while he would offer a comment on what he’d seen.
“Truck.” “Train.” “Car. Car. Car.”
And then occasionally some unintelligible description that only he understood. Of course, it’s cute as heck, the kind of thing you delight in, the kind of thing you tell your friends about, maybe write in your journal.
At least for the first hundred times, and then it’s something else, and then, let’s be honest, it just becomes background noise. At some point, maybe on a long car ride, it’s probably annoying. I’m a parent and a grandparent, I have some experience, and the license to say it for all of us.
But that first time. When you have been waiting for this kind of thing, this expression, this connection of observation and memory and language and then the word forms and he says “Truck!” like he just discovered it. I remember it with my own kids, the first time, now three decades ago, and it still brings a smile.
Those first words, and firsts of all sorts, are so encouraging and emotional, because we know that in time it will lead to conversations and understanding and learning and numbers and navigating and humor and questions and living and knowing us and us knowing them. And we are amazed and thrilled, we treasure these moments, treasure them. And then stack them with the other things we treasure, promise ourselves we will always treasure them. Until one day the stack becomes invisible to us.
For many years I took my mom and her husband on errands, usually doctor’s appointments. Windshield time. Hours of driving to this place and that, wedged in between days filled with other demands and deadlines. Each stop doing the little dance of getting them in and out of the the car, buckling their seatbelt, making sure their hands were in before I closed the door. Groaning a little as I walked around to the driver’s side.
Sometimes the drive would be a few minutes, some trips were hours. The conversations varied, but there was this other thing. Both my mom and Ron had fallen into this habit of reading signs out loud.
“Chase Bank.”
“Red Lobster.”
“Morrish Road.”
It was not cute, not the first time. I would ask, naively, “Mom, did you need to go to Chase Bank?”
“No, no, just looking,” she’d say.
Or sometimes Ron would say: “The Huron River.”
And after the first dozen times I would know not to ask, because he was going to tell me a story I’ve already heard so often that I could tell it better. “The Pretzel Bell,” he’d say, and I’d press my lips together tightly to keep from saying anything.
If my resentment is showing, I apologize. Bear with me. Eventually I saw that time with mom and Ron as a privilege, but not right away, and not always. I knew when I heard the story repeated for the fifth time about this road or that tire store that I would get home and tell my wife and groan. I’m not proud of that reaction, but I will also tell you that eventually, maybe too late, I learned better.
“Cracker Barrel.”
“Hm?” I’d say. “What about it?” Not paying attention, a little irritated at myself for asking.
“Nothing. Just looking.” My mother would say. And not say, “I loved their biscuits. Remember when you would take me there for Mother’s Day breakfast, and Dawn would come up? And I’d sit in those rocking chairs and smoke a cigarette.”
And she would not say: “I’m here. I don’t always say everything, but I’m here and I want you to know I’m here. Just a corner of your attention is all I needed for that moment. I’m here.” Instead he would say “Fenton Michigan.” Or she’d say “Merle Norman.”
And you lift the kids into their car seats and buckle them in and put make sure their hands are in and carefully close the door. And Finley would say “MOON!” or “BIRD!” And maybe he had more to say about it, but for the moment he was saying all he could, and saying “I’m here. I want you to know I’m here.” And we are delighted and optimistic and we rush home and tell our wife about it, still smiling.
And the words pile up and the years and the aches and the needs and the time sands off the beauty of the words until they are just more words, until a time comes that they are not cute or even interesting, they are something else. But they don’t have to be.
I’m not proud of every moment I’ve been a father or a son. I will confess to being impatient in both roles, to failing and being selfish and being wrong. The words wore me out sometimes. The only thing that saved me, and not every time, was the understanding that one day I wouldn’t hear the words. Maybe metaphorically, maybe literally.
I would love to hear mom and Ron say “Rite Aid” again. And I would ask “Did you need to go to Rite Aid?” and she would say no, she was just looking, and we would talk about the weather and my children and what we had for dinner and that one time we all went sledding at Kearsley Park. And Ron would tell me about fishing on the Huron River, and I would listen.
And Harrison would be reading out loud in the back seat, before he could read. And Sawyer would be say “Ball” and roll it to me. And Katherine would wake up on her second Christmas morning and ask if Santa came. And Carson would say “Dad” when I opened the bedroom door.
And every word would matter, everything would be treasured, it would all be like the first time. And one day when they are grown up and don’t need to say it, they say “I love you.” And it feels like the first time. And all it takes is for us to see how astonishing it is.
Hope this finds you listening for the words,
David
Copyright © 2024 David Smith
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