Sparks of Interest

My parents always thought I was strange. I played with trucks and trains and hated dolls. From the time I could speak, I refused to wear dresses. While most girls wore their hair in cute styles of braids or ponytails, I liked my hair short. When I was twenty I buzzed my head and have done so ever since. I love the fuzzy feel of it, and I have the perfect-shaped head for it. Crop tops, short shorts, a necklace, an anklet, and sneaks are my go-to outfit. For nearly two decades I’ve had multiple piercings in my ears, and I have a tat of a dragon that covers the middle of my back.

Though I’m not much of a people person, months of quarantine stirred loneliness in me. On a whim I order a bus ticket. En route to my grandfather’s house, I pull my sketch pad out of my backpack. At the next stop, a man in his fifties boards and asks if he can sit with me. I shrug and move my bag to the floor.

“What are you drawing?”

“Just doodles. I’m not an artist. I’m not sure what I am.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t like reading, writing, or math. When I was eight, my dance teacher told me she’d seen spaghetti more graceful than me. Music lessons bored me. Sports aren’t my thing; I don’t like inanimate objects flying at me, and I’m not competitive. I tend to be clumsy or sloppy because I don’t have much patience.”

“So you know what you’re not good at. What do you enjoy doing?”

I shrug.

“What can you do for hours, and you don’t realize how much time has passed?”

“Nothing.”

“Then you haven’t found your passion,” the man says. “It might be something as unusual as sword swallowing—” My brows wrinkle. “Or mud wrestling.” I shake my head several times. “Keep experimenting. You’ll find your thing.” The rest of the ride, this tumbles through my mind.

When I arrive, Grandfather hugs me and kisses my cheek. “Beloved child! What a lovely surprise.”

“Grandfather, sometimes I think you’re the only person who loves me.”

“Nonsense. Your parents and siblings love you. They might not understand you or relate to you how you need them to, but they love you.”

“They don’t understand me. I’m not sure I understand me.” I glance out the window at the shed and think about the many times I peered into the workshop and saw my father welding. As a child I held my breath and watched, stepping away as quietly as I could to breathe before watching again. During my teen years, multiple times my father shooed me away, saying, “Welding’s not for girls.”

“What if I wasn’t supposed to be a girl?” My grandfather sets the knife in the mayonnaise container and turns toward me. My jaw drops. For many years I wondered that, but had I actually said that out loud?

“Perhaps you’re a different type of female so you can help other young women discover and embrace who they are.”

Grandfather sets a serving tray of soup, a ham and cheese sandwich, a huge oatmeal raisin cookie, and almond milk in front of me. As I chew my sandwich, I mentally chew on this wisdom. The conversation with my seatmate plays in my mind. “Grandfather, do hobbies matter, or are they a waste of time?”

“Well now young lady, they’re as much a part of you as your personality. They add depth to your character and give you a chance to create or achieve and add beauty and purpose to your life and others’.”

That night I fall asleep on his sofa, watching a horror movie. Memories of attempted hobbies whirl through my mind, spotted with an occasional view of a man in an office studying papers on a wall and going from house to house asking questions. Finally he comes to my house and asks if I know who I am.

Bear, a barrel-shaped chocolate lab mix, jumps onto my stomach, crushing several organs. With his constant empty-headed look and his tongue hanging out, he’s too cute to be mad at. “If you get back on the floor, I’ll smuggle some of that ham out of the fridge for you.” He cocks his head and stares. “Down.” I point at the floor. “Treat.”

At that he jumps down. Maybe he’s smart enough to realize I have to get off the couch to give him a treat. There’s hope for him.

Later I awake to the heavenly aroma of bacon, eggs, biscuits, and coffee. Part of me wants to wolf it down, part of me wants to savor every bite. With some effort, I slow down enough to taste every forkful. Handing me a vanilla-frosted donut, Grandfather suggests we spend the day at the lake.

We fish with minimal words though many churn through my mind. I’m not who my parents say I am. What am I good at? Do I matter? “Enough!”

“What’s troubling you?”

“Everything. Me. Who am I?”

“I’ve told you many times. Precious child, I can’t make you believe.”

Grandfather invites me on a walk so we head into the woods where I fuss about being lonely and how boring my work-from-home job is.

“A hobby might do you good.” When I toss my hands in the air, he says, “Find what makes your soul alive and share the results with others.”

When we return home, Grandfather suggests I help him find something in the shed. “Does your father use the torch or the gun?” I point at the gun. “Would you like to try it?”

“Sure, why not?”

Grandfather walks me through how to use it, demonstrates, and observes. The next few days I weld, mindless of the time.

Slipping one of his jackets on me, Grandfather hugs me and tells me to visit again soon then drives me to the bus station. Stepping out of the car, I feel my heart frown, and I realize it’s because I’m leaving the MIG gun behind.

As soon as the bus stops, I run into the station and call my friend to pick me up. The whole way home I babble about how much fun I had at Grandfather’s and all the projects I plan on doing now that I can weld.

“That’s nice. Let’s stop for burgers and check out that new punk band.”

Itching to buy a MIG gun, I mutter, “Okay.”

“Don’t go getting all weird on me. We’ve been talking about this for weeks. It’s gonna be great.”

“You’re right. My new hobby can wait. Shawn, right? He’s the lead singer. He’s hot!”

With Meg at the wheel, I stare out the window. I don’t have to reinvent myself to have a great life. There are people who love me the way I am, and I have a new hobby. Life isn’t so bad after all.