Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Fatherhood
Does the apple ever fall very far from the tree?
After my father died, my sisters and I had a little stone bench built near his grave. Inscribed black marble, “In Loving Memory…”, it’s a tiny memorial that sits under a tiny pine tree in a quiet corner of a large cemetery, far down by the coast where he lived.
Though it is far, I sneak away when I can and sit on the tiny bench. I lean my back against the little pine tree and stare into the sky. I listen to the trees murmur in a language I long to understand. Mourners come and go, but none disturb my refuge. Time passes while I watch the clouds contort, trying to impress the sky with their acts of mimicry.
Sometimes I think of the day my father died. That was the day I first realized that I was truly on my own. The teaching was done. No more advice would be given. I hoped I had learned all that I needed to know - everything that I would one day be called upon to teach before my time, too, was done.
Tiny things conjure my father’s memory, his voice, to my mind. I find that many of his favorite things have become my favorite things. Rocks on distant shores, open spaces, a bent rod, a singing reel, wrought wood, well cooked fish, novels about the sea...
It’s been said that men eventually become an image of their fathers, and I hear others lament the inexorable transformation. For my part, I’m content with the change.
After my father died, my sisters and I had a little stone bench built near his grave. Inscribed black marble, “In Loving Memory…”, it’s a tiny memorial that sits under a tiny pine tree in a quiet corner of a large cemetery, far down by the coast where he lived.
Though it is far, I sneak away when I can and sit on the tiny bench. I lean my back against the little pine tree and stare into the sky. I listen to the trees murmur in a language I long to understand. Mourners come and go, but none disturb my refuge. Time passes while I watch the clouds contort, trying to impress the sky with their acts of mimicry.
Sometimes I think of the day my father died. That was the day I first realized that I was truly on my own. The teaching was done. No more advice would be given. I hoped I had learned all that I needed to know - everything that I would one day be called upon to teach before my time, too, was done.
Tiny things conjure my father’s memory, his voice, to my mind. I find that many of his favorite things have become my favorite things. Rocks on distant shores, open spaces, a bent rod, a singing reel, wrought wood, well cooked fish, novels about the sea...
It’s been said that men eventually become an image of their fathers, and I hear others lament the inexorable transformation. For my part, I’m content with the change.
R.T. Lemur 10:03 AM
2 Comments:
Very touching, lemur.
I know those particular trees, I have visited that town many times just because of those trees. They are unlike trees anywhere else in Texas that I have been to. The trees at the old park next to the remains of the sugermill used to be my favorite. The park is gone, but the tree lined streets still fill me with excitment every time I visit. I like to cruise around town like I used to ride my bicycle all over the place. I have always wanted to go back to that small town, not just because it was home, but it was the right place. It would have been the ideal place to raise my child.
Its not really that small town anymore, but those same trees and sky are there. I learned you can't go back to what was, its moved on, now its something new with elements of the remembered. Those memories still shape who we are though, and what we become is sometimes more enjoyable than the innocence of youth we left behind in those "small towns"
We begun to learn new things to teach our children, even some things we rediscover that we had fogotten we were taught. Its the giant wheel that we are giveing another spin around. Hopefully with as much skill as our parents.
Its not really that small town anymore, but those same trees and sky are there. I learned you can't go back to what was, its moved on, now its something new with elements of the remembered. Those memories still shape who we are though, and what we become is sometimes more enjoyable than the innocence of youth we left behind in those "small towns"
We begun to learn new things to teach our children, even some things we rediscover that we had fogotten we were taught. Its the giant wheel that we are giveing another spin around. Hopefully with as much skill as our parents.