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August 18, 2007
Summers and Kids and Smiles and Tears
August 18, 2007
I’m crossing the Saskatchewan border at 102 miles an hour, leaving Manitoba yet again. Bob Dylan’s is singing “Tambourine Man” on the stereo. I’ve got it cranked up and I’m singing along and I’m trying hard not to think of the fact that I left my kids in Winnipeg again two hours ago and it’s not working and I’ve got some tears running down my cheeks and I don’t care how many times people tell me it gets easier over time because they are wrong, it hurts like hell to wave goodbye to the two little people in my life that I care about more than anything. It doesn’t get easier, it just doesn’t.
And I hope it never does.
It was a great summer. I hope they had fun. I think they did. At thirteen and eleven that’s all they’re supposed to do isn’t it? They shouldn’t have to worry about the stuff they’ll get to worry about later on. That’s my job and if I do it right, they won’t have to worry. I think it went ok. Their summer is all about leaving home and coming out to visit with me on the West coast. Nothing against Winnipeg, but home will always be where you start, and where you start to grow up.
When I was a kid, I used to love going out to my Aunt and Uncle’s farm for a week if they’d have me. It was a huge part of my summers. The days went sort of like this:
Get up whenever we felt like it. It was great. We could sleep in as late as we wanted. My aunt Anne would never kick us out of bed, but we just couldn’t stay there after 8:am. Not with a whole farm to play on. We might miss something. Something important like collecting the eggs or watching some chicken eat a frog that might have accidently gotten thrown into the chicken pen or nearly suffocating by jumping into a storage shed so full of grain it was almost up to the rafters we would use to jump off and into the deep grain. You know, good stuff like that. Her rules were simple. If I ask you to do something, do it (she almost never did) and be in for dinner. It was always ready around 7:o’clock. There was a lot to do on a farm. Haylofts. Kittens in the barn. Kittens in the summer kitchen. Kittens in the garage. Lots of kittens. Cows to check on and pigs to feed. I think my uncle Pete was the smartest man alive. If he wanted all the pesky weeds pulled out around say, the granaries or the barn, he’d make a point of telling us not to feed any to the pigs because they really like the weeds but they might spoil their appetite. As you might guess by the end of the day the pigs were well fed with a spring green salad of broadleaf weeds and we were trying to get the sticky weed sap out from under our fingernails. I miss those days. Auntie Anne and Uncle Pete were two of the best people I’ve ever known. Decent, kind and caring. The world is a poorer place with them not around anymore.
I don’t have a farm. But I do live right by the ocean and there are four kayaks, a canoe, a crab trap, seven fishing rods and all manner of delights by the sea. In other words, paradise for kids. My kids, their cousins and my girlfriend’s kids. Gather them as a group. Point and release. They always come back for dinner.
My rules are simple:
Don’t drown. Don’t drown your sister or your brother or your cousins or your friends. Don’t put anything into the ocean that shouldn’t be in the ocean. Have fun. And don’t drown.
For the most part it works. Everyone is still with us and there is a minimum of collected detritus at the bottom of the sea. Ok, there’s a few dozen wine bottles, but that is the start of an artificial reef about 75 feet down and there are now hundreds of little sea creatures that have homes that were homeless before. Really, it’s for the best. You don’t want to have a bunch of weary little homeless crabs pushing tiny shopping carts around the sea floor, begging for scraps from nearby salmon and trying to find discarded scallop shells to sleep under, behind whatever it is they use for garbage bins in the back alleys on the sea floor would you? No, of course not. Now they have like, condominiums with names like Mondavi or Mission Hill or Chateau de la Gardine. It’s better this way. Really.
Summer was great. The trip back to Winnipeg was fantastic. We stopped at Headley, British Columbia and went for a tour of the Mascot Gold Mine which was built at the turn of the century on a rocky outcropping, literally on the edge of a mountain, 4,000 feet above the valley floor. It may be one of the most spectacular and enjoyable workouts you ever have, worth every penny and every drop of sweat. Do it if you can.
Of course there was West Edmonton Mall and the incredible wonderful wave pool. The ‘Castle in the Mountains’, also known as The Banff Springs Hotel, amazing in every way a hotel can be. But most important perhaps, was just the time alone with my kids, enjoying their company and sharing smiles and laughs with only ourselves.
Our last night on the road was in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. If you haven’t been there, drop by sometime. It’s kind of off the beaten path known as the Trans Canada Highway, but worth a visit. It was the 15th of August and we enjoyed a walk along the river front walk in the downtown. My son grabbed my hand for a while as we strolled along in this new place and again, I remembered the time and place and was glad I could still give him quiet comfort in this gentle way. His hands have grown since last year as he is quickly becoming a fine young man. But he still has the touch of youth and I wonder to myself about all the things his hands will do and touch and the places they will visit in the years ahead as he makes his own life special and unique.
My daughter is growing up too. Eleven and going on god only knows what. Girls it seems are in more of a hurry to grow up than boys these days. It’s disquieting as a father to see what they have to deal with as image models. The things we would at one point call attractive take on a whole different meaning when applied to one’s little girl. But she is sweet and careful. Always intelligently cautious until she’s sure, and then meets the world with confidence and a sense of joy and wonder. She’s such a talented artist, I sometimes wish I could record how the thoughts go through her head when she looks at something new and spectacular for the first time.
As a father, I couldn’t possibly hope for more wonderful children. I only wish I had more time with them. When we do have time together, we make every second count. They are precious and far too few and you can never get them back when they’re gone. And I guess that may be the real reason the tears roll down. The time that circumstance is stealing from me and all I can do right now is point my car west and hope that Bob Dylan can help me get through until the next time I can hug my kids.
~ AP
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