“Hey, come on, wake up!”
The boy peeped up from his pillow. A shaft of sunlight, a golden blade, sliced the dark. It illuminated dad. He was already dressed.
“You still want to go fishing, right?”
The boy rocketed out of the covers, jumped into some too-short jeans and old Converses. He found a sweatshirt that wasn’t too dirty and ran into the kitchen. Dad was just lifting two fried eggs from the skillet. The boy never recalled him ever cooking any other breakfast food.
The egg was hot and greasy and delicious. He and dad wolfed them down, sopping the remains with toast. They stepped into a backyard spangled with dew, the night’s diamonds. Millie Rose came trotting up, tail wagging. At the barn, they stopped. Dad got a Zebco spincaster rod and reel; he handed the boy a cane pole. His 6-year-old hands grasped it as tightly as if it were a scepter. Man, boy and dog walked into the woods.
They stopped at a pond. Mist shrouded its still surface. Dad showed him how to bait the hook. Then, he helped the boy reach waaaay out with the pole.
Plop! The red bobber sat on the water like a little boat. Moments later, it twitched, began moving —
This scene is engraved in that part of my brain set aside for Important Memories. Increasingly, my brain has images involving other boys — my sons.
I have a vivid image of Reuben, just born. With his first breath, a pink spot appears where his new heart is beating. With his second breath, his third, that glow spreads until his entire body seems lit from within: Imagine a sun, rising for the first time. I also see baby Sam, who nearly got born in the back seat. He beat the doctor to the hospital by a couple of hours.
A few years later, they stand at the front door: Thing 1 and Thing 2, in costumes their mama made. Thing 2 holds dad’s hand because it’s Halloween, and, well, who’s to say some of those monsters aren’t real?
A slice of my memory is set aside for Reuben, trying hard to stay atop his little bike while dad pushes. Somewhere along the way, the old man stops pushing. The son laughs with delight, putting distance between himself and dad. Dad knows, with bittersweet clarity, that the distance will only grow greater.
My sons are now 12 and 14. Thing 1 has his own phone. Thing 2 recently bashed a baseball over a center-field fence. They straddle that chasm separating children from young adults. Their dad, who long ago crossed that divide, can only stand by and watch.
Still, we find common ground.
I recently gave Sam a hug and left him standing in a wooded clearing hard on the edge of Lake Allatoona. Looking at his reflection in my car's rearview mirror, I watched him watch me as my car drove away from Boy Scout summer camp. My last words? "Don't fall in a hole. Look out for copperheads." Sam rolled his eyes.
While he was gone, I took his brother to see the Braves play those bums from Pittsburgh, the Pirates. We took seats on the right-field side, not far behind Freddie (Freeman, first base). We split a bag of peanuts and watched our guys lose. Though it was late, we stuck around for the Friday night fireworks. Accompanying the show was a medley of Sinatra songs. Sinatra! I tilted my head and sang:
“Luck be a lady tonight!”
Reuben punched me. “Dad! People can hear you!”
This spring, I corralled both boys to spend the night with a bunch of snakes. The snakes were residents of Zoo Atlanta, and we were its guests checking out the new Scaly Slimy Spectacular. For my sons, it was a chance to stir memories: Each had attended zoo camp in previous summers. For their dad, it was an opportunity to spend time with boys who’ll soon be men.
Together, we navigated Cub Scouts. We learned the proper way to fold the American flag. We polished the wheels of our Pinewood Derby entries. Nights, sitting around campfires, I told them and other Scouts about Junious Judson. Maybe you’ve heard of him? He escaped from the Greenville, S.C., Hospital for the Criminally Insane, but lost his hand in the process. He replaced it with a hook. He was last seen in — wait? What was that sound?
(It’s worth noting that both boys earned the Arrow of Light. It is Cub Scouting’s equivalent of Boy Scouts’ Eagle Scout rank. Junious never caught them.)
Rainy days, we’ve gone to D-BAT, an indoor baseball facility northwest of downtown. Spend an hour with a bucket of balls and two adolescent sluggers. Spend the next day recovering.
Better yet, take your children outside and put them to work. Reuben and I recently spent a half-hour pulling weeds. It was nearly nightfall, humid. Fireflies played in the air while we toiled in the dirt. In the dying light I admired my firstborn, his mouth a grim line in a war on thistles. Finished, we wrapped arms around each other and surveyed the damage we’d inflicted.
I think about these things on Father’s Day. Other than my wife, whom God sent, I have no greater gift than those boys. They walk around in big shoes that wind up in my path. If I don’t trip over those, perhaps the baseballs in the hallway will do the trick. One kid kicked me in the eye (it was an accident). The other hit me with a baseball — in the same eye. That eye no longer works so well. So what? I don’t need perfect vision to see they are growing into fine young men.
A few years ago, we stood on the edge of a North Carolina pond. Decades earlier, another boy had stood on that spot. His dad was with him, too.
I showed my sons how to hook a worm, how to toss bait and bobber into the dark depths where things swam. Soon, two bobbers sat atop the surface like little boats.
Moments later, one twitched, began moving —
Dad acted quickly. “Yank now!”
The boy yanked. Something yanked back, then dove.
“You’ve got him!” dad yelled. “Pull!”
Moments later, the boy held a bream in his hand. Dad helped him pull it off the hook. They admired its black eyes, its indigo spots. “Bluegill,” dad said. “Isn’t it pretty?” They tossed the fish back into the water. It flashed its tail and vanished.
Later, retracing their steps through the woods, the boy slipped his hand into his dad’s. Suddenly, it was Father’s Day.
About the Author
