The myth of maturity

When I was small I knew what being an adult meant, because I had closely observed my father. It meant being tall, needing to shave, knowing what to do and how to do things, to wear red and black flannel shirts when hunting or fishing, and to use a .30-06 rifle. This made perfect sense for a boy shorter than the aforementioned rifle.

Half a century later I have several .30-06 rifles in my collection (one of which was my father’s), I am tall, and I shave every day. I can figure out what needs to be done, and I know how to do many things. I’ve served as a soldier, a police officer, and a police supervisor, and have faced many instances of violence and personal danger.

Yet somewhere still within me is the boy who carefully complied the standards , and he is dissatisfied with my progress. My father was all business all the time, serious and a man who always acted his age. Always.

He wouldn’t own a game platform, read so many books, collect battle-ready medieval weapons, train with the same, or waste his time writing books, and the inner me never lets me forget it. Wounded seven times in the line of duty for nation or city since 1980 just isn’t cutting it.

They say every man struggles to emerge from his father’s shadow, and I certainly have. His childhood was tougher, his war was bigger, his life more productive. I have bested many men in my life in many ways, many of them violent, a few of them terminally, but my father remains forever ascendant. Compared to him I am still a boy caught up in the pursuit of childish things.

In a back closet of my home is a battered old red and black flannel shirt. My mother put it out in our annual yard sale one year for twenty-five cents, and I bought it without anyone noticing. I have carted it around for decades in the hope that someday I will be able to put it on with the sure knowledge  that I am at last and fully an adult.

It hasn’t happened yet, but I still hope.