My parents were divorced when I was two years old. My mother remarried soon after, and we moved away. Not far, but far enough that my father and I only saw each other every few months.

Because I was so young and so far away, I never knew how to behave around my father. We simply didn’t have the time to get to know each other, to learn what it meant to be a father and son. I remember being uncomfortable, and uncertain. We were never close.

He visited a few weeks ago, for Ian’s fourth birthday. We went to the Missouri Botanical Garden; always a good idea, but even more so in the spring. Everything’s green and shiny and vibrant. Everyone smiles at the children, who are also green and shiny and vibrant. It’s like a Flonase commercial, without the forced dialog.

After we conquered the hedge maze, we walked along a path bordered by cypress trees. The ground was covered with tall and deep green grass, blades the width of my pinky. My father bent and pulled a long strand from the edge of the path. He called Ian to him, and stretched the blade between his thumbs. He put his thumbs to his mouth, and blew.

A long squawk echoed along the path and made Ian jump. I nearly looked up, searching for the bird that had crept so close to us without making a sound. My father blew again, this time opening and closing his hands, raising and lowering the pitch. Ian grinned, the smile he makes when his mind stops turning and turning and just stops, lying with its hands behind its head and finding animals in the clouds.

And I remembered. I remembered seeing my father’s hands cupped, a blade of grass taut between his large-knuckled thumbs. I remember the amazement that this man, my Father, could do something so wondrous and loud, simply by folding his hands.

I stood by my son and father, and peeked at his hands. He tilted them toward me, and showed me how to hold the grass, how to stretch it over the top of my thumb, and to keep my thumbs together at the sides. The secret, he said, is the gap between the joint and the knuckle. The blade goes. right. there.

I dipped my hand into the grass, and tried to center the blade I’d chosen. I blew, and somewhere a banshee died. My father blew, and again the strange bird called across the garden. I blew, and a kitten called weakly for its mother. And between us, my son - his grandson - walked, listening to our hands sing, and laughing.

So, my oldest has completed the first grade.  His last day of school was just a couple days ago.  Before school ended, he brought home a flyer about a program from a local fitness center that introduces children to Track and Field events.  Great.  Something to keep him busy for part of the summer and maybe something that he will have some sort of hidden talent for.

He was very excited for the first day.  He was also excited about the fact that my wife bought him several bottles of Gatorade, so that he could drink them after running.  Because, that’s what athletes do.  They drink Gatorade.  And as you know from my previous post, Supposed to Be, my son had very set views on how certain things are supposed to be.  Gatorade after sports is one of those things.

My wife called me at work from his first day doing the Track and Field thing.  “How’s it going?”

“Well,” my wife said.  “Do you remember that episode of Friends where Rachel didn’t want to run with Phoebe because of the way Phoebe runs?  He runs like Phoebe.  And he’s slow.”

Ouch.  Ah well, at least he’s having fun. 

I have come to the conclusion that my oldest will probably not be an athlete of any kind.  Granted, he is probably too young to tell.  Also, I am not one of those dads who wants to push his kids into this sport or that sport, so if he isn’t good at hitting a baseball or if running the 800 doesn’t make his day, then I am fine with that. 

What I do want is to be able to help him find something he enjoys doing.  One thing I believe made those tough adolescent years a little easier for me was to have something that I connected with.  And in turn I also connected to other kids who had similar interests.  For me it was theatre.  It provided me a group to which I could belong and belonging to something goes a long way when you’re young.

Of course, maybe he is still too young to worry about finding something to connect to.  I just so don’t want him to be one of those kids who gets picked on.  That would just crush my heart.  He likes chess.  Those guys aren’t overly teased, right?

Right?