Ken McAlpine's Blog: The Hesitant Blogger - Posts Tagged "leaving-home"
Believe in Magic (and forget the naysayers)
Hi Wonderful Readers:
As I send this our oldest son, who appears in the essay below, is out in the living room packing up his things for his second year of college. Believe they will grow up, believe they will move on. And, maybe if we’ve done our job, they’ll continue to believe too…
BELIEVE (and forget the naysayers)
We are standing at the edge of a dock looking out at the harbor. The water is still as ice, mirroring the reflection of pelicans sweeping a gray sky. Just off our toes, small rivulets of oil eddy. A soggy tatter of whole wheat bread floats just beyond this sheen, skewered by a paper clip bent into a hook and tethered to a makeshift fishing pole.
Adults are long past the day when they would root about in a backyard or the woods, searching for just the right equipment. They won’t rummage patiently through drawers, fingers working through jumbled messes until they find scotch tape, string and just the right paper. But a five-year-old will. First Cullen found a bamboo stick. Tongue working the corners of his mouth, he cut, then taped, one by one, tiny paper eyelets along the length of the pole. Carefully he ran the string through the eyelets, and then tied a paper clip to the end. None of this meticulous preparation brings us any closer to catching a fish, but a five-year-old also patiently ignores the naysayers too. Off we drove, fishing pole, bucket and bag of bread in hand.
Standing on the dock, line drooping into the water, we have already made many decisions. We have decided there is little chance of a sperm whale taking the bread (The water is too shallow). We have decided that if it does, it will probably take the pole too, along with the rest of the dock. We have decided we will keep what we catch in our bucket, and then catch a second fish so it will have a friend. When the bucket brims, we’ll tip it back into the harbor so the fish can go home.
We talk about different things, Cullen and I. How deep pelicans dive. What fun it is to swim. Why the Valentine’s Day hearts he is making for school have arrows through them.
After thirty minutes, all that’s in our bucket is a strand of kelp. It doesn’t matter to me. I am enjoying this game for what it is. But one of us is here for fish.
Cullen speaks to the water.
“It would be okay if I just caught a little fish.”
Plumbing the reservoir of my fishing knowledge, I suggest a slight change in technique.
“Instead of letting the bread just float, try pulling it across the water,” I say.
“Make it fly?”
“Pull gently.”
I see the seagulls watching us. In short order the bread may very well fly.
“Maybe we should just try fishing from the other end of the dock,” Cullen says, but he stays where he is, pulling the bread in and tossing it back out.
“It would be okay if we caught a really, really small fish,” he says.
We wait for a nibble. We wait some more. The sky turns purple. The dock lights flick on. The first chill of night touches our faces. The breeze is picking up. The guy wires of the sailboats chime.
“Maybe we should go,” says Cullen.
In the near dark I can still see the hopeful way he looks at me.
“No,” I say. “We should keep trying.”
I wait for the hug I deserve, but Cullen ignores me. He crouches quickly, and peers into the water. The fishing pole is statue still.
“Dad,” he hisses.
I crouch beside him. I see nothing. The water is murky and the falling darkness isn’t helping.
“What?”
At first I think he hasn’t heard me. I start to speak, but the child has become the father.
“Shhhhhh. Wait.”
I do. I wait until my knees are killing me. I wait until I know it’s time to go home. Enough charades. It’s time for practical things like baths and dinner.
A small finger extends cautiously.
“Here it comes,” says Cullen. “Look.”
In all my years of poking around this harbor, I’ve never seen a bat ray. This one soars just beneath the bread, the edges of its wings lifting and rippling like curtains in a breeze.
“Flying,” says Cullen.
The bat ray makes two more slow passes beneath our dissipating clump of bread before turning away.
Cullen stands.
“Yep,” he says certainly and winds up the string.
I empty the kelp from bucket. I would say I’m sorry we didn’t catch anything, but I know it doesn’t matter to either of us.
We clatter up the dock ramp and stand beneath the blue halo of a dock light.
Cullen takes my hand. He looks up into the light.
“An iceberg,” he says.
I have learned this lesson before. I will, no doubt, have to learn it again. Adults are as slow as they are ploddingly practical. But right now, in this moment, the wall separating reality and possibility lays in happy ruins at our feet.
A dark string of pelicans glides past.
“Pterodactyls,” I say.
“Yes,” says Cullen.
As I send this our oldest son, who appears in the essay below, is out in the living room packing up his things for his second year of college. Believe they will grow up, believe they will move on. And, maybe if we’ve done our job, they’ll continue to believe too…
BELIEVE (and forget the naysayers)
We are standing at the edge of a dock looking out at the harbor. The water is still as ice, mirroring the reflection of pelicans sweeping a gray sky. Just off our toes, small rivulets of oil eddy. A soggy tatter of whole wheat bread floats just beyond this sheen, skewered by a paper clip bent into a hook and tethered to a makeshift fishing pole.
Adults are long past the day when they would root about in a backyard or the woods, searching for just the right equipment. They won’t rummage patiently through drawers, fingers working through jumbled messes until they find scotch tape, string and just the right paper. But a five-year-old will. First Cullen found a bamboo stick. Tongue working the corners of his mouth, he cut, then taped, one by one, tiny paper eyelets along the length of the pole. Carefully he ran the string through the eyelets, and then tied a paper clip to the end. None of this meticulous preparation brings us any closer to catching a fish, but a five-year-old also patiently ignores the naysayers too. Off we drove, fishing pole, bucket and bag of bread in hand.
Standing on the dock, line drooping into the water, we have already made many decisions. We have decided there is little chance of a sperm whale taking the bread (The water is too shallow). We have decided that if it does, it will probably take the pole too, along with the rest of the dock. We have decided we will keep what we catch in our bucket, and then catch a second fish so it will have a friend. When the bucket brims, we’ll tip it back into the harbor so the fish can go home.
We talk about different things, Cullen and I. How deep pelicans dive. What fun it is to swim. Why the Valentine’s Day hearts he is making for school have arrows through them.
After thirty minutes, all that’s in our bucket is a strand of kelp. It doesn’t matter to me. I am enjoying this game for what it is. But one of us is here for fish.
Cullen speaks to the water.
“It would be okay if I just caught a little fish.”
Plumbing the reservoir of my fishing knowledge, I suggest a slight change in technique.
“Instead of letting the bread just float, try pulling it across the water,” I say.
“Make it fly?”
“Pull gently.”
I see the seagulls watching us. In short order the bread may very well fly.
“Maybe we should just try fishing from the other end of the dock,” Cullen says, but he stays where he is, pulling the bread in and tossing it back out.
“It would be okay if we caught a really, really small fish,” he says.
We wait for a nibble. We wait some more. The sky turns purple. The dock lights flick on. The first chill of night touches our faces. The breeze is picking up. The guy wires of the sailboats chime.
“Maybe we should go,” says Cullen.
In the near dark I can still see the hopeful way he looks at me.
“No,” I say. “We should keep trying.”
I wait for the hug I deserve, but Cullen ignores me. He crouches quickly, and peers into the water. The fishing pole is statue still.
“Dad,” he hisses.
I crouch beside him. I see nothing. The water is murky and the falling darkness isn’t helping.
“What?”
At first I think he hasn’t heard me. I start to speak, but the child has become the father.
“Shhhhhh. Wait.”
I do. I wait until my knees are killing me. I wait until I know it’s time to go home. Enough charades. It’s time for practical things like baths and dinner.
A small finger extends cautiously.
“Here it comes,” says Cullen. “Look.”
In all my years of poking around this harbor, I’ve never seen a bat ray. This one soars just beneath the bread, the edges of its wings lifting and rippling like curtains in a breeze.
“Flying,” says Cullen.
The bat ray makes two more slow passes beneath our dissipating clump of bread before turning away.
Cullen stands.
“Yep,” he says certainly and winds up the string.
I empty the kelp from bucket. I would say I’m sorry we didn’t catch anything, but I know it doesn’t matter to either of us.
We clatter up the dock ramp and stand beneath the blue halo of a dock light.
Cullen takes my hand. He looks up into the light.
“An iceberg,” he says.
I have learned this lesson before. I will, no doubt, have to learn it again. Adults are as slow as they are ploddingly practical. But right now, in this moment, the wall separating reality and possibility lays in happy ruins at our feet.
A dark string of pelicans glides past.
“Pterodactyls,” I say.
“Yes,” says Cullen.
