Archives: May 17, 1983 - A Day to Remember
The archive below was published on May 17, 1983, when Tyler was six years old. Tomorrow, May 23, he will be 33. Still too young . . .
We had the house together, he and I. For lunch he had a hotdog. I had cold pizza. On his hotdog he had ketchup and pickle relish. You start to wonder from where these tastes arise.
The ketchup was Heinz, which he believes is too runny. "I'll be glad when we get some Del Monte ketchup," he said. I had put on two hotdogs, thinking he would be hungry after his game. His team won, 28-27, its first victory of the season. This is "tee-ball," where the hitters hit the ball off a rubber tee and the defenses are, well, forgetful.
He played catcher and had four hits. He has a nice stroke, he's a good thrower, and he catches all right, but he does not yet appreciate the concept of turning the glove over for low throws and ground balls.
He didn't want the other hotdog. "For lunch," he reminded me, "I always have only one hotdog, or sometimes one and a half." So I ate the other hotdog, with mustard.
"You have a big appetite," he said. "Let's go sit in the swing," I said. "That's a good idea," he said. "You can read me two stories."
He went by his room and picked out two books. I hoped they were not "Fish is Fish," or "How Engines Talk." He met me at the swing, and Terry the Pup jumped up also. The afternoon was warm, almost hot. But the canopy took the bright edge off, and at the back a little breeze wandered in. It was every bit of all right.
"Read this one first," he said and handed me "The Pumpkin Smasher." "And read this one second." This one – "Mouse and Tim" – he showed to me, but did not hand over. "The Pumpkin Smasher" is preschooler stuff. Every Hallowe'en Eve, someone smashes all the pumpkins in town. It gets so bad that the mayor is thinking about calling off Hallowe'en.
But a couple of kids have a plan. They paint a boulder to look like a pumpkin. Sure enough, the pumpkin-smasher – it turns out to be a witch – tries to smash this pumpkin. Then she gives up and flies away, saying she will never come back to this town again.
This book I handed back, and he handed me "Mouse and Tim," which is better. In fact it is terrific, if you have never read it. The trick is, both boy and mouse give points of view, the mouse in italics. Reading it aloud, toward the end, when Tim is going to let Mouse go, you have to stop every little while to let your sob reflex relax. More is going on than boy frees mouse.
"That's a great story," I said at the end. He didn't say anything. We rocked in the heat and watched the summer bugs dip and dart. I tried to see the afternoon through his eyes, and I almost could, having been there once. The view, I think, doesn't change. Sharing it with him was special.
We could have spent the afternoon, but I had things to do in the kitchen. Company was coming. "Well," I said. "I have things to do."
"No," he said. He rolled onto my lap and wiggled his cheek into my chest and pinned me with his arms.
I would not have had to move a muscle to get to heaven. Someday I will have to let him go, but now I clung to him, clung to the day, and the hour, and the minute, and the pressure of it squeezed free a drop that rolled down my cheek and plopped on the brown bill of his baseball cap.
I was not at this point just going to get up without a good excuse. After awhile I said, "Want to listen to the little records?"
"Yeah!" he said. The little records are 45s of mine, nearly all 1950s rock and roll, that he and I have been listening to for years. He likes it, and I tell him it is better stuff than hits the charts today. Some of these I am taping for a friend. I figured I could do that and other stuff too. He sat on the couch, and I loped between stereo and kitchen.
I was at the stereo when he said, "Dad, do you think I will die in the 20th . . . the 20th . . ."
"The 20th century?" I said. "Naw. I sure hope not." I told him that the 21st century would start in the year 2001, 18 years from now. "You will be 25," I said. "You'll just be getting started. And I will be, uh, 58. I think it will be exciting, living at the turn of a century."
He was not distracted. "I hope I die before you do," he said.
"Why?" I said.
"If you died before I did, I would be sad," he said. Psychologists say such statements are normal because the kid at that age sees the parent as hero. I trust it is also normal for the parent, hearing it, to feel mighty heroic.
"Now wait a minute," I said, and went over and leaned down in his face. "What about me? If you died before me, I would be sad. Ever think about that?"
"Well," he said, "we could just die on the same day."
"No," I said. "You will always be too young." And he always will.
We had the house together, he and I. For lunch he had a hotdog. I had cold pizza. On his hotdog he had ketchup and pickle relish. You start to wonder from where these tastes arise.
The ketchup was Heinz, which he believes is too runny. "I'll be glad when we get some Del Monte ketchup," he said. I had put on two hotdogs, thinking he would be hungry after his game. His team won, 28-27, its first victory of the season. This is "tee-ball," where the hitters hit the ball off a rubber tee and the defenses are, well, forgetful.
He played catcher and had four hits. He has a nice stroke, he's a good thrower, and he catches all right, but he does not yet appreciate the concept of turning the glove over for low throws and ground balls.
He didn't want the other hotdog. "For lunch," he reminded me, "I always have only one hotdog, or sometimes one and a half." So I ate the other hotdog, with mustard.
"You have a big appetite," he said. "Let's go sit in the swing," I said. "That's a good idea," he said. "You can read me two stories."
He went by his room and picked out two books. I hoped they were not "Fish is Fish," or "How Engines Talk." He met me at the swing, and Terry the Pup jumped up also. The afternoon was warm, almost hot. But the canopy took the bright edge off, and at the back a little breeze wandered in. It was every bit of all right.
"Read this one first," he said and handed me "The Pumpkin Smasher." "And read this one second." This one – "Mouse and Tim" – he showed to me, but did not hand over. "The Pumpkin Smasher" is preschooler stuff. Every Hallowe'en Eve, someone smashes all the pumpkins in town. It gets so bad that the mayor is thinking about calling off Hallowe'en.
But a couple of kids have a plan. They paint a boulder to look like a pumpkin. Sure enough, the pumpkin-smasher – it turns out to be a witch – tries to smash this pumpkin. Then she gives up and flies away, saying she will never come back to this town again.
This book I handed back, and he handed me "Mouse and Tim," which is better. In fact it is terrific, if you have never read it. The trick is, both boy and mouse give points of view, the mouse in italics. Reading it aloud, toward the end, when Tim is going to let Mouse go, you have to stop every little while to let your sob reflex relax. More is going on than boy frees mouse.
"That's a great story," I said at the end. He didn't say anything. We rocked in the heat and watched the summer bugs dip and dart. I tried to see the afternoon through his eyes, and I almost could, having been there once. The view, I think, doesn't change. Sharing it with him was special.
We could have spent the afternoon, but I had things to do in the kitchen. Company was coming. "Well," I said. "I have things to do."
"No," he said. He rolled onto my lap and wiggled his cheek into my chest and pinned me with his arms.
I would not have had to move a muscle to get to heaven. Someday I will have to let him go, but now I clung to him, clung to the day, and the hour, and the minute, and the pressure of it squeezed free a drop that rolled down my cheek and plopped on the brown bill of his baseball cap.
I was not at this point just going to get up without a good excuse. After awhile I said, "Want to listen to the little records?"
"Yeah!" he said. The little records are 45s of mine, nearly all 1950s rock and roll, that he and I have been listening to for years. He likes it, and I tell him it is better stuff than hits the charts today. Some of these I am taping for a friend. I figured I could do that and other stuff too. He sat on the couch, and I loped between stereo and kitchen.
I was at the stereo when he said, "Dad, do you think I will die in the 20th . . . the 20th . . ."
"The 20th century?" I said. "Naw. I sure hope not." I told him that the 21st century would start in the year 2001, 18 years from now. "You will be 25," I said. "You'll just be getting started. And I will be, uh, 58. I think it will be exciting, living at the turn of a century."
He was not distracted. "I hope I die before you do," he said.
"Why?" I said.
"If you died before I did, I would be sad," he said. Psychologists say such statements are normal because the kid at that age sees the parent as hero. I trust it is also normal for the parent, hearing it, to feel mighty heroic.
"Now wait a minute," I said, and went over and leaned down in his face. "What about me? If you died before me, I would be sad. Ever think about that?"
"Well," he said, "we could just die on the same day."
"No," I said. "You will always be too young." And he always will.
![michaelgrant2 [at] cox.net](http://www.michaelgrant.com/blog/uploaded_images/email.gif)
