The summer break is like New Year's for teachers. We make resolutions of the things we are determined to accomplish over our break. We make reading lists. We make new food. we make time for sitting on the porch and reading till the mosquitoes chase us indoors. This summer has been no different. So far, I have accomplished the following:
1. Landscaping and planting
2. Reading at least 2 books simultaneously
3. Swimming as often as possible
4. Sleeping till 6:30.
5. Cleaning the attic.
6. Packing up my youngest son's things and saying goodbye.
That last one has been the primary occupation for the past few days. For Youngest Son- after losing his job at the machine shop- is off to join his brothers in Alaska, land of their birth, in search of employment and direction. It's not really a direction I want to see him go. But, I understand.
I was not happy when Middle Son struck out on his own and headed North. MS is the child of my heart- the sweet, kind, considerate one. The one who would be concerned if someone was being mean. His father, Mr. Ex, landed him a job in the oil patch, where men are men and also jerks. I was afraid for MS's safety, afraid for his safety; afraid for his soul. I've seen what the oil field can do to men- turn them greedy, ugly, misogynistic and petty in a space of a few months. So far, MS hasn't let on that he's gone that route. He does call on Mother's Day, and my birthday, and sometimes he comes back to visit.
When Eldest Son left Charleston for Alaska, I was even more perturbed. Eldest Son, child of my thoughts, child of my head, he is the thoughtful, ambitious one. When he headed North last year, he was In Search Of: his past, his childhood, his place in the universe. It was like a personal challenge to the child who succumbed to seasonal darkness of his own to challenge the darkness of 5-hour sunlight and 30 below. But: he did it. He survived, he learned something about himself. Right now he is in the midst of salmon season, working the same boat, the same skipper as last year. He calls. He seems happy. He seems to have found something important
Now Youngest Son is about to join his brothers. YS, the child of my tears, is the most sensitive of the brothers. He internalizes. He acts tough. He talks a good game, but a lot of that is because he doesn't want you to know he is a little bit afraid. He gets defensive because he always has two older brothers and a sister telling him what to do, and how to do it. When he was a baby, he was colicky- he would scream, draw his feet up and curl into a tight red scream of stomach. He's still finding out who he is. I would do that closer to me. Because I want to find that out , too.
Any of my children will tell you, I was the driving force behind the family when they were young. on our rural Alaskan homestead, I took them outside in 20 below weather. I made them stack wood. I set up the ironing board and told them it was a lunch counter. I taught them to throw a football, check their distance when they swung a bat, rush their teeth. We climbed trees, made forts, practiced spelling lists and read stories. Somehow, I never really felt like they appreciated that.
One Saturday, as the kids played upstairs and I stirred a pot of sauce, my 5-year old nephew, who'd been spending the weekend with us, asked what I was making for dinner. Meatballs and sauce, I told him. And under my breath: Just like every Saturday. My nephew's eyes widened: Meatballs? Yes, meatballs. He ran excitedly to the stairs. "Guys!" he yelled. "Guys! We're having meatballs for dinner!" He ran upstairs and I could hear his proclamation downstairs in the kitchen. My children were a little confused. Meatballs? So what?
I was 19 when I struck out on my own; 21 when I moved to Alaska. I left what I thought was holding me back to go find myself. And, eventually, I did find that. I suppose I shouldn't begrudge my children when they want to do exactly what I did; what my parents did; what my grandparents did. There's a part of me that wants to give whatever it is that holds me here up and go with them, to find whatever it is up there that gives you sustenance. But then, I would leave the child of my soul- my daughter- behind. And I won't do that.
Because I have daughters and I have sons. I try to hold their wingtips; then amazingly, they fly.
Shining fish are turning in the deep sea.
I let them go.
I HAVE DAUGHTERS AND I HAVE SONS
Robert Bly
1.
Who is out there at 6 a.m.? The man
Throwing newspapers onto the porch,
And the roaming souls suddenly
Drawn down into their sleeping bodies.
2.
Wild words of Jacob Boehme
Go on praising the human body,
But heavy words of the ascetics
Sway in the fall gales.
3.
Do I have a right to my poems?
To my jokes? To my loves?
Oh foolish man, knowing nothing—
Less than nothing—about desire.
4.
I have daughters and I have sons.
When one of them lays a hand
On my shoulder, shining fish
Turn suddenly in the deep sea.
5.
At this age, I especially love dawn
On the sea, stars above the trees,
Pages in “The Threefold Life,”
And the pale faces of baby mice.
6.
Perhaps our life is made of struts
And paper, like those early
Wright Brothers planes. Neighbors
Run along holding the wingtips.
7.
I’ve always loved Yeats’s fierceness
As he jumped into a poem,
And that lovely calm in my father’s
Hands as he buttoned his coat.
Love, love, love this post! Keep writing!
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