A Present from the Past

St Louis, MO
March 7, 2018

Last week we celebrated the birthdays of two younger members of our clan…and tomorrow honor one who, somehow, while no one was looking, joined the ranks of the older ones.

Alexander has turned 18…and Isla, finishing her first year a couple days later, will do so before her weary parents can bat their tired eyes. Brett has reached that milestone a couple times and, as another grain falls thru the hourglass, is now well into his third attempt.

My elder son became a legal adult…whatever that means…one week ago Tuesday.

He celebrated the event the week before…first in New Orleans (where 18 is as good a legal age as any) with his father and brother, then a couple days later in Miami with his mother…the one person who deserved the gift more than its recipient.

A week later, his father has settled into his designated seat beside his accustomed fire, with a few moments to contemplate and absorb the notion that he has a son eligible for conscription to the military or to jury duty.

He hails the glass of wine his friendly waitress had already prepared for her predictable guest, and reflects on the paternal pleasure, tribulation, and pride that carried him across a veritable generation…from the lobby of a maternity ward to lobby of luxury hotel.

Regarding our children, the mind, as André Gide observed, is the heart’s dupe. 

When discussing our offspring, sober objectivity often rides shotgun, while clouded judgement, like Congress on a spending spree, heads out for a night on the town…with four on the floor, whiskey under the seats, and wedding rings in its pockets.

His parentage notwithstanding, our son is not perfect. Like a Kennedy or a Kardashian, but with far fewer dollars and much more sense, he (like any teenager…or his father) periodically contends for what Woody Allen once called the Zelda Fitzgerald Emotional Maturity Award.

But he also astounds his parents with his resilience, his affection…and his perseverance. 

When Alexander wants something, King Canute can’t resist the tide of confidence, cunning, and craft he applies to its attainment. 

A couple years ago he wanted to see his grandparents in Tampa, but his skinflint parents told him flights were too expensive. He immediately mined the Internet like Yukon Cornelius, picked at obscure veins of connecting routes and alternate airlines…and dug up a few nuggets at cheaper rates. 

A couple weeks later, he and David were cooling their heels in my parents’ pool.

When he wants the Medical exam necessary to ultimately obtain a pilot license, or visit Auburn to validate his preferred college for pursuing his Professional Flight degree, the forms are quickly completed and appointments promptly made. He and I were at the doctors office, or strolling across the Auburn Quad, within days.

Of course, his heart is not always in every task he must accomplish, but it is always in the right place. And he will learn that excellence focuses unrelenting attention on the prolonged pleasure accompanying worthy ends, whereas mediocrity is distracted by the occasional dreariness of necessary means. 

Meanwhile, as an honest man’s pillow is his peace of mind, Alexander (and his parents) can sleep ever soundly knowing his innate moral compass and inherent decency will keep ethical lapses from marring his motives or methods.

We have been through quite a bit with, and learned quite a lot from, our wonderful son. Our lives have been immeasurably enriched by his early years, are precariously enlivened by his adolescence, and are anxiously emboldened by his prospects as an adult. 

I know that in seventeen years Hugh and Kelly will be as proud of their first born as we are of ours…and as my mother is of her second favorite child as he grabs another rung on the ladder of middle age.

And, when they are, they will no doubt reflect on the speed at which her childhood evaporated in the intense heat of incessant activity, emotion, and dedication by which those remarkable years were enveloped.

They will likely underestimate the subtle color and line that their own personalities, habits, and tendencies contributed to the extraordinary portrait that will go forth to dazzle denizens of disparate galleries in which it will soon be displayed.

They will recall with a smile the innumerable foibles, fears, and foment that in frequent, tho’ usually fleeting, moments seemed of lasting and dire consequence to their precious angel…and that within days were deemed irrelevant, or even beneficial, to healthy development (of parent and child). Or, more likely, to be forgotten altogether.

They will forgive themselves the multitude of ostensible missteps that at the time appeared irredeemably detrimental their child’s future, but that in retrospect were merely colorful threads woven into the fabric of a more sturdy garment.

Such absolution is warranted, and essential. Forgiveness is, to some degree, nothing more than giving up all hope for a better past. And I cannot imagine a past preferable to the one that provided me the son I have today.

JD