A Season Passes

As the old man sits on the porch, the rhythmic rocking of his chair produces a creaking noise that clashes with the harmonious notes coming from the cardinals in the trees. He’s unaware his movements make a disruptive noise that offsets the birds' animated warble. He is too preoccupied to take in the free avian recital.

His thoughts have wandered back to how the days passed so quickly without notice or urgency. He remembers carefree summers of his youth running barefoot through the pine forest, the branches jutting out like arms trying to slow him down. He recalls his mother's baked pies sitting on the windowsill to cool, the enticing aromas permeating the kitchen. He relives the thrill of catching crayfish in the brook next to the decrepit barn as the invigorating water swirls about, anchoring his feet to the streambed. He reminisces of drifting off to sleep under a canopy of stars as his oldest brother stirs the smoldering embers of a waning campfire.

He retraces the path that he took to get here by inventorying both the jubilant as well as heartbreaking moments. Like the intermittent cool breeze from the oscillating fan on the weathered floor, the memories fluctuate between turbulent and calm, refreshing and stifling. Throughout it all, he endured the dark times, the low points, knowing that sadness is offset by the comforting times which follow life's natural ebb and flow. 

There was optimism for a bright future. Then the war and its disruptive, lasting impact. The various jobs and associated travels he took. His wedding day, the tragic death of his middle son, the birth of his grandchildren and the passing of his wife seem evenly distributed over time. Maturity has purged the resentment and self-pity associated with the setbacks punctuating his 77 years.

He tempered his attitude about life's harshness knowing there were never any guarantees. Feeling cheated or bitter at this point wastes precious energy and time, both of which are finite commodities not to be squandered. Tears will dry up and smiles can be retrieved. He appreciates the good and weathers the bad because you can’t have one without the other. He understands that life balances itself out. 

Yet sitting there, as the condensation from the glass of lemonade beads up around his swollen fingers, the old man can't help but be envious over the possibilities available to his granddaughter. He longs for the intellectual stimulus of college; something he never finished, much to the dismay of his father. He yearns to socialize among peers, an opportunity lost since most of his friends are physically or geographically absent. He desires the wonderment of learning something new and overcoming inexperience. He wants to be mentored. These are unattainable now, stolen by the passing years. “Youthful innocence" is not compatible with anyone his age.

She’s the future. He’s the past.  

His granddaughter sighs. Sitting quietly on the porch steps listening to the birds, she knows it’s time. Summer is ending which means sixth grade is only one week away. She dreads going back home to start a new school year in a new building with different teachers and different subjects. She wishes she could trade places with her grandfather. In her eyes, he doesn't have a care in the world. No worries. The idea of waiting months before she has a summer free to do nothing with him again is daunting. She hopes time passes quickly.

The decorations were left out well beyond normal this Yuletide season. Usually, the house was reset, converted back to ordinary before any battery-operated toys needed fresh double A’s. Preparation for December is hectic. Finishing the Christmas/New Year’s Eve combo means her focus turns to Valentine’s Day. After that, her anniversary is followed by a month laden with birthdays. Before she knows it, the garden needs tilling. Summer’s blur precedes another school year. Time really accelerates post Labor Day. Then it’s bundling up for winter and she’s right back here changing out calendars.

Looking forward and diverting attention to an upcoming event detracts from enjoying the current one. She knows this yet felt powerless to fend off the anticipation. Until now. This holiday was different because her youngest had become self-aware that Santa wasn’t real.

The doubts started formulating well before Thanksgiving. He listened while opinions were bantered about on the bus and spontaneous, one-sided debates unfolded in the cafeteria. The logistical requirements being implausible made sense. Independently gathering the facts his siblings were already privy to but not sharing, he formulated the truth.

That changed the narrative. There’s no reason for anyone to perpetuate the charade anymore. Without the risk of ruining any traditional secrets, the curtain was inalterably pulled back. The Kringle wonderment was abandoned. Like the others, she knew her baby would come to this conclusion at some point. Still, it arrived too fast.

She sighs. No longer would there be child-like awe on any of her kids’ faces after coming down the stairs and finding new presents under the tree. It’s disheartening. From this point forward, Christmas won’t be seen through an adolescent filter. So, here’s yet another watershed moment in their march toward adulthood. A march she completed over fifteen years ago.

Having children forced her to drive in the HOV lane of life. Her speed exceeded that of solo travelers leisurely cruising on the same road. Milestones were approached with a blistering velocity and then discarded by the wayside before being savored. She wonders if her parents and grandparents experienced this while watching their children and grandchildren grow.

Taking advantage of the stillness which has settled over the house from everyone else being distracted by outside forces, she begins the delayed eviction of the holiday by herself. This might prolong the season, if not for just an hour. She’ll cherish any extra time at this point.

The labeled plastic totes are situated within arms-reach, ready for packing then destined for the attic. A systematic dismantling of the decor begins with the tree. Working from top to bottom, she anticipates seeing the special ornament she got during eighth grade. Prominently displayed on the front of the tree, her eyes soften and the corners of her mouth curl up ever so slightly when she reaches it. Removing the miniature rocking chair hanging from a hook, she nestles it in the dedicated cardboard box lined with cotton batting. She pauses and gazes at it.

She happened upon this random piece of dollhouse furniture among the scattered, unrelated knickknacks on the bottom shelf at a local thrift store shortly after her grandpa’s funeral. She would have willingly paid much more than the $0.49 asking price. That was a bargain because of the overwhelming nostalgic rush that washed over her when spotting it. Although a cheap assemblage of simple wooden pieces, one of thousands mass-produced, it was made specifically for her. This memento transported her back to the happy times spent with her grandfather on his porch.

She always assumes responsibility for the placement of this ornament. Her trained eye knows how to find the perfect location. It needs to be unobstructed by adjacent boughs, ensuring ample space for the ornament to dangle freely from the satin ribbon she fastened to the top rail. This positioning ensures that when the kids, even after repeatedly being told not to, run past the tree, the breeze left in their wake gently sways the chair.

The rest of her family have no emotional attachment to this ornament. She’s reiterated its backstory on numerous occasions. Sometimes solicited, mostly not. Transferring its personal connection and provenance onto her children is futile. They’ve heard the history and get the importance. Still, to them it is just a tiny chair. But for her, it’s a childhood. When it’s prompted to tenderly move among the pine needles, it reminds her of him.

When exactly did her carefree life as a child get ousted by a chaotic life as an adult? She wonders if there was a specific moment this happened. Or was it a slow, grinding process over a protracted length of time. Like the way a glacier’s methodical advancement scours the substrate hidden beneath, leaving behind a transformed landscape.

She thinks back to the June prior to his passing, when she asked, “Pop Pop, tell me about the good ol’ days when you were young.” His response was unabashed, “Oh Baby Girl, the good ol’ days are right now. If you have something to be thankful for, you’re living in the good ol’ days.” She didn’t fully grasp the context of his statement. Amid the clutter, she does now.

A lot has transpired during her brief existence. She reminisces about family vacations. Getting then losing her favorite doll. Her first kiss. Smiling for her driver’s license picture. Being asked to both junior and senior prom. Graduating college. Her storybook wedding. The birth of her children. The divorce’s protracted bitterness. Saying, “Goodbye” to beloved pets. Falling in love with a new soulmate. The biopsy results. A fulfilling career. She chronicles the laughter and weeping and success and failure that composes the movements of her symphony.

Contrasting the younger version of herself with her current version is insightful. She appreciates how the trajectory established during her adolescence has successfully directed her to maturity. She doesn’t diminish the fact that the issues faced then weighed heavily on her mind despite paling in comparison to the struggles of today. But getting through those tough times is why there’s optimism that the future will be better for her kids.

The family room is void of its decorations. Christmas is over. A new year has started. So far, she’s stuck with the two resolutions made. The first was to enjoy the moment. The second was to think about her grandfather on a regular basis instead of waiting until the totes are dragged down from the attic and that dedicated cardboard box is opened. This way, his fond memory will be a constant source of comfort, unlike the breeze from an oscillating fan that disperses once it brushes against the skin.

She hopes the time doesn’t pass quickly. But it will. It always does.