This is a picture of my grandfather, my father, and me from 1964. I was two. It’s the only picture I own of the three of us. And I enjoy the representation of the generations. My grandfather was a character. My father has strong character. I have characteristics of my grandfather and I share a strength of character with my father.

One of the greatest aspects of having multigenerational friendships is that I’m able to observe the cyclical nature of humanity. My Father’s generation is remembering its passed. My generation is burying its past. The younger generations are building its presents and making its presence. And I appreciate having a presence in the midst of the melee.

In the past twelve months I’ve two friends who are now grandfathers, three friends who’ve added to their folds, two friends who’ve become fathers, and two friends who’ve become mothers. That’s quite a year!

I have no children. I sired no sons. I doted on no daughters. When I turned 36, I was devastated. I yearned for a lineage. I filled with regret and sopped in the sorrow. And then I came to the realization that I had drawn the line and made my choices. Should I marry, I’d remain childless. I’m too old to care for anyone so young. And with diabetic feet I’d rather not step. I don’t wish to be stepped over. And I don’t wish to step aside.

I raised my nephews and I treasured the task. Yet I knew they weren’t mine. I don’t know why men feel the need to carry on a surname. I felt that though. I hate being called “sir” and I’ve been called enough names to answer exclusively to my own. I intend to make my mark but I don’t see myself leaving my mark. I have self-confidence and I know that I’m unique and I treasure my distinctions. I’m sorry they won’t be continued. I’m certain they’ll be missed.

I’ve learned these valuable parenting principles from my parents while I raised my nephews. I’ll pass them on here:

1. Never lie to your children. It’s a new unspoiled relationship. If you don’t think you’ll have to answer for your actions to your God and face His consequences, be assured you will have to answer to your children. Your son will question “why” and he will not be satisfied until you offer adequate justification. If you doubt my veracity - wait until your son queries you about insects. He won’t exhaust his questions before you exhaust your knowledge. I assure you. Love is not his greatest need; truth is. You can trust the truth. Ambiguity is an imprisonment without logical or defined bars.

2. The greatest gift you can give your child is to remember what you felt, what you desired, and what worried you at his age. If you remember his proportion, you can offer appropriate portions of discipline, wisdom, and kindness. An allowance is not a monetary supplement. An allowance is a momentary indulgence that allows your child to be his age and be forgiven for his ignorance.

3. Silence is the outward sign that confusion is present. If your child is sullen and somber, take him into the kitchen, fill the dishpan, hand him a dishtowel, and remain quiet. No child can be bound to a space and not speak. He’ll spill. Listen. He doesn’t need your advice. He needs your ear. You wash; he’ll share.

4. Education is not the greatest gift you can offer a child. A spine was meant to hold flesh and principles, not just pages and texts. Teach him what to stand for, what to defend, and what to honor.

5. A child must honor his father and his mother. Act honorably. If you love him, why make the task unattainable?

6. It takes two parents to raise a child. One must inform the other when one parent is wrong. It’s a matter of simple civics: checks and balances.

7. Every child wants to hear every word you care to say. One of his first actions is to put his fist at your mouth. Remember the responsibility.

8. Every child must be the middle child. Why in the name of a good God would you make any child stand at the end? Surround him; your arms make a circle.

July 2, 2007

You take his hand as he toddles across the living room. You take his hand as he walks across the street. And then one day his backpack is strapped over his shoulders and he slips his hand from your grasp and he walks through the playground toward the door. Your heart shatters. You remind yourself that you’re on view and you gather your tears as you inhale and you slide into your car and you leave the lot.

And then one day you’re walking and he silently slides his fingers into your hand and your knees buckle with the gratitude that he hasn’t forgotten who you are and he remembers what he means to you. And your heart breaks. You remind yourself that you’re on view and you gather your tears as you gently grasp his hand. And you exhale in the moment of the exquisite peace.

You take his duffel from his hand as you wait for the announcement of the flight. He’s not holding his favorite stick. He’s not holding a fistful of his brother’s hair. He’s not holding a baseball bat. He’s not holding a fishing rod. And you reel with the knowledge that soon he’ll be holding a gun. And you hold him tight without a care of the view or the cost of the tears. A shake of his hand and a kiss on his cheek is all you’ll have to hold.

He tells you of his duty and you remind yourself of your duty. You dutifully wish him farewell. You watch him slip out of your sight as he slides out of your life. You silently scream as you walk out of the door of the terminal. You tremble as you fumble for your keys. You slide into the seat. The sadness crushes your lungs and you experience a grief that no man should have to endure. But you endure. You haven’t any other option. You promised him you would the first time she slipped him into your arms.

September 2, 2007

I pulled my head out of the refrigerator cavity and screamed my sentiment as I balanced my body with my hand on the handle. “Awe … you bought Diet Coke. Now you know why I’m friends with you,” I slavered with more than a sip of silly. “Oh get over yourself,” he echoed, “she bought it before she left. She’s trying to lose weight.” I grabbed ice from the chest and poured myself a portion.

I returned to the great room with a glass and a coaster in one fist and a bowl of chips on the other. I looked over and saw the son perched on his father’s stomach and the daughter cozied at the end of his feet. Somewhere beneath the two he sprawled. “Where’s mine?” he whined as my seat started to reach the cushion. “You didn’t say you wanted anything,” I justified. A Barbie was tied with yellow ribbons to his toes. His eyes looked longingly at my soda. His bottom lip may have quivered. I’m not certain. “What?” I exasperated. “Oh … just a glass of milk” he gasped as his son marched up his stomach toward his chest. “Milk and chips,” I scolded. “I don’t even want to know what you’re teaching your kids,” I tisked as I tottered toward the task.

I entered the room with a tumbler of milk as I coasted to the end table near his head. I silently sat the glass at its rest and sighed my way toward the seat where I’d rest, “what are we watching?” “Lady And The Tramp!” his chorus of children chimed. “My favorite,” I concurred as I sat down.

 

October 13, 2007

I sat sprawled over the table. I had a laptop above my knees, a Diet Coke within my reach, a pile of pages that I felt bound to read, a sack of chips that included one I had placed on my shoulder, and a pair of bifocals that I had removed so that I could read. I looked up from my task and peered over the screen at a small face. “Hi!” she charmed.

“Hey kiddo,” I replaced my glasses on my face. “Where’s your dad?” She pointed to a path. Children often feel that gesticulating replaces annotating. I don’t think it’s sloth; I think it’s simplicity. They don’t have to excuse an expression they feel they must express. “Did you find a book you want to check out?” I inquired. She lifted her Hello Kitty case and I assumed her assent. I looked up as her father approached her back. “Why the hell are you following me?” I laughed as we shook hands. “Just because you have her with you doesn’t make your actions less suspicious. You so need to take a class on surveillance.”

“We came to get a book,” he said as he patted her back into a seat at the other side of my table. “What are you doing?” I filled him in on my news. He started rifling through my artifacts as she glanced through her book. He lifted a stack of compact discs from the piled. “Alanis Morissette, Shangri-Las, Sarah McLachlan, Annie Lennox, Joss Stone,” he cleared his throat, “Mark, um … are you an angry lesbian?” He peered at his peer.

“Ok … first, be glad Sweet Pea is sitting beside you because I’m omitting maybe eight really good words I don’t want her to hear.” We laughed. “Would you believe I am working on a piece chronicling the evolution of women’s aural expressions of hostility? I’m calling it, “Leading the pack – from menstrual cycle to motor cycle to recycle.”

“The hell you are!” he chortled.

“Ok, really I’m just a lesbian,” I conceded while chuckling.

“Me too,” he giggled. “I’m thinking there’s a support group somewhere.”

“Yeah man, it’s called a locker room!” We were getting a bit too lively for a library. “Let’s go eat,” I said as I packed up and packed it in. “You guys have plans?”

“Ok, but no more fighting with Emily over the toys in her lunch,” he scolded, “you negate all my lessons on sharing.” We laughed as the library doors slid closed. I always have a happy meal when I share it with my buddy.

January 16, 2008

He stood in a stupor on a stoop outside the bar. A cigarette dangled over the corner of a bloated cheek. His arm dangled to the height of her hand. His head hung over the curves of his chubby chin. His gut hung over his hips. He’d be hung over in the morning.

She hung onto his hand as she tottered and twisted in his grasp. Her parochial pleats twisted as she swayed her shoulders and tapped her toes to a silent beat. Her sock slid down a shin. Her Mary Janes needed a shine. Her pixied hair dangled over her brow. She was browbeaten by blusters of wind.

She was killing time. He was killing her.

 
 
April 29, 2008
© 2007-2008 Mark R Trost