Something More Mundane

Today is Father's Day. As I have 4 children, I qualify. In honor of the day and the incredible sacrifices I have made to be a father, my lovely wife lets me sleep in. This is a tremendous gift. It is gift because I hate morning. I hate morning with a contempt beyond words. I am pretty sure that my hatred of morning is a genetically controlled emotion, dependent upon a myriad of misfiring chemical signals in my brain, but I digress. I hate morning. And I have hated it since I was about 11. My father literally had to kick me out of bed to get me to school. He was good at kicking. Or my mother would sing at me. My mother is an awful singer. And she knows it. So not having to get up with Everett at 6:15 am is a gift. Being left alone in bed until 10 am is blessing. And that is what I got this morning. When I was 15 I could sleep until 1 pm. Nowadays I can't go much past 10 am until my conscience kicks in and I realize I really should get my lazy ass out of bed and go yell at somebody (by 10 am, all the shit has hit the fan and I can hear the screaming of at least 3 children). If I were an amoral man I would just stick a pillow over my head and go until at least noon. Unfortunately, I have the burden of conscience and not really being interested in having my wife scowl at me all morning.

Ok, here is my point. When I sleep late, it's not actually a great sleep. I do appreciate it, but I am half-conscious. I am slowly waking up so I often remember a lot of my dreams. This is a rare pleasure. This morning, I dreamed of my elementary school walk. When I was in elementary school I lived in Milford, CT. I walked about a half-a-mile to school. I went to Central Grammar School. It's a middle school now, if it even exists. Anyway, I remember the whole walk. I remembered going to the corner of the street, to the apartment complex. I remembered turning onto Green Street, going past the telephone company building, past the Chief of Police's house, through the parking lot behind the doctor's office, past the bicycle shop, crossing the Milford Green, walking under the train tracks and finally past the private girl's school and into the elementary school grounds. The killer thing is that I remember it all with almost perfect clarity. The last time I made that walk was maybe 22 years ago. I have not thought of that walk or those places in a decade. But it's crystal clear. And then I remember the school. It's all perfectly formed in my mind. I remember the kids I went to school with. I remember their names and their faces. I remember the first girl I had a crush on.

Flash forward to 2001. I'm a graduate student. I get off a van everyday at 5 pm and make a 3 mile walk from the bus stop to my apartment. I'm 25. And this is only 7 years back. But I can't remember a damn thing about the walk. I did it for at least 2 years, maybe 3? All I remember is being attacked by tree swallows going past the horse corrals. I just can't pull any of it back and the little i do see is fuzzy.

Memory is a funny thing. I guess we don't realize how much our childhood sticks with us. Which brings up the important ponderable: despite how banal we (as jaded, angry, irritable adults) may see each day, each day may be critically important to the development of the children standing around and watching us. These memories will stick with them. Despite their attempts to rid themselves of childhood scars, the memories all remain. Memory, it's always there. On this day, I hope to remember that the next 364 days aren't about me at all, but the little children around me, both mine and yours.

Happy Fathers Day.

(Editor's Note: Nathaniel's mother insists that she does not have an awful voice. She has a beautiful voice but intentionally sang poorly to wake Nathaniel up. Nathaniel retorts that this was the only time her ever heard her sing and it was not "beautiful").