Thoughts from a 13 Degree Hanger
“I’ve talked to my brother..”, my younger son says in hushed tones.
Conversations which begin like this are never good, at least not for me. They, my sons, have gotten together and have decided what I need to do.
It makes me take pause because I never tried to run their lives in a way that would make mine easier and now that they are adults I really don’t interfere much and truly try not to at all. Oh, I admit that when they were in college or first on their own I constantly took them oranges and/or inquired if they were drinking their orange juice. (Scars I readily admit that come from a college roommate of mine contracting scurvy…but that’s another story.) Other than that I let them make their own decisions about where they wanted their life to take them. I never proclaimed…”Over my dead body…” nor did I throw myself down to block entrance into a military recruiter’s door. I’ll also admit that I had high standards for speech, behavior and intellectual development, but controlling I was not.
“You need to stop running off to Spain and stay home with dad,” he continues. There is no reply to be made. To offer a counter argument is to start an argument. To argue is to alienate them which I choose not to do. I bite my tongue. I shrug. My silence is my response.
I am always going somewhere…paddling a river in Canada, walking across Spain or just going to Mexico for a week with friends. Oddly enough, it is my husband who most encourages me to go. He is no sit-by-the-fire widower waiting for me to return. Until recently he had a motorcycle, a sailboat and an airplane to occupy his time.(A year ago he sold the sailboat to concentrate more on his flying.) The motorcycle has been ridden through 44 out of the lower 48 states. We love our time together and our time alone. It’s a good marriage which has lasted for forty-two years and through two children whom we raised with all of the love, fortitude and grace we could manage.
For the past several years this younger son has been encouraging me to write down all of my stories. “Think what a great book it would be. You could make a fortune.” Usually I simply nod, smile and say something in agreement for I do love all of the stories I bring home. I love telling them again and again, finding humor and humanity in moments I would never know if I had simply stayed home. Nevertheless, I have tried to express my feelings to some degree saying, “I’m getting older…..how many summers do I have left when I can be alone for days at a time on a remote river like the Yukon?” What I want to say is, “Time is short. What do I do when I’m done writing…..weave more baskets, make another stained glass window or just sit by the fire and watch the embers die?” I’d rather live my stories, tell them, and let somebody else write them down. Most of all I’d also like to laugh and point out that if I made more money I’d just travel more.
Besides, why do I need more money? I have a roof over my head (strange though it may be), enough to pay the bills, enough to buy groceries and an occasional bottle of wine. So what if the “new” pick-up has over 200,000 miles. It runs well and the “old” one has driven me to Alaska and back three times plus multiple trips to New York, California and upstate Michigan. Also,l et’s not forget the airplane and the motorcycle. We are not poor nor are we rich. We simply keep a budget and in the end we are comfortable.
Make a fortune, for what?…..so I can buy more material junk for them to sort through and pitch when I die?…so I can leave it to them…so they can count it, save it, buy a house that takes up three zip codes instead of only two?…so they can leave it to their children? I’d rather leave a legacy of travel, of adventure, of trying things even though you are scared and unsure of the outcome.
The kids were bad enough, but now it is also the neighbors. Two different ones have recently informed me that I should stay home. One told me that I was gone too long and that my husband really missed me. The other quoted me Biblical references about a “good” wife. My husband readily admits that he misses me when I am gone. I miss him too but he is wise enough to know that if I never left home I would wither like some frost-bitten plant. I was a bit dismayed at their comments but mostly taken aback that they were made at all, especially the Biblical quote which came from someone on their third marriage. As with my sons, my response was my silence.
All of this brings me to the question, “Why do we care how loving and responsible people live their lives?” I know that my children love me and that’s part of the answer. Love always is. But more than that we seem to have images or ideals of how people should be, how they should act and especially how they should grow old. What I’d really like to say is, “Time is short. I have plans…trails to hike, rivers to run, road-trips to make, and political campaigns to help run…they may not be your plans, they may not be your ideas of what someone my age should be doing; they are mine. Please smile, give me a hug and wish me well. I ask for no more.“
Scallop Songs 