Photos, baby book entries, plaster of paris casts of
kindergarten aged hands, greeting cards made of glitter, crayon and white
paste, and water color paintings of houses, yards and family members, grade
cards, ribbons won and tear stained jerseys when a loss was hard – markers of
childhood. Lucky kids are presented a
box of such memorabilia when they hit their fourth or fifth decade of
life.
Flipping through grade cards,
merit badges, newspaper clippings, and school projects would have brought back
happy times filled with pride for mom and dad but, for me, going through the
box felt more like an archeological dig than getting lost in the reverie of
long dormant memories. But some things
saved – last.
Sepia toned photos were the way to preserve moments in the
growth of kids. Gerry and I were dressed in sport coats and bow ties – ages 6
and 3. Mom liked to say that the photo was entered
into, or perhaps won, a photo contest of some description. Parents are allowed such pride. I’m really
glad to have the photo but it triggers very different memories for me. Gerry and I had some grand adventures –
adventures where he showed great patience with a tag-along little brother. Today, Gerry, although gone for over fifteen
years, will become a grandfather for the first time. I suspect that the little guy, to my eyes,
will look like Gerry.
My childhood was much harder for my folks than it was for
me. They had to handle the angst of successive
diagnoses knowing that the current procedure was just prelude to the next. Any kid who has unexpected needs also creates
a non-stop responsibility for his parents who must yield control of their lives
to the whims of their child’s affliction.
Parents often make sacrifices for their kids. Rarely do parents see such actions as sacrifice
but they do experience the frustrations of its effects. Financial stress, emotional stress and the
dream they once held for their child must be rewritten.
In the midst of that all that is difficult, there are happy
times – times when something done brings out a reason to smile. At this time of year, I remember the joyful
times brought on by two toys. Mobo is a
horse. He has two stirrups that his
rider can push on until he’s standing tall making Mobo gallop forward. Mobo’s legs move forward and aft and his
hooves are fitted with wheels. I was the
cowboy. Some days were given to joining in
with the Lone Ranger or riding along while Gene Autry sang his songs on the
radio. That Mobo’s purpose was to
strengthen my underdeveloped legs is of no importance to the memories of my
most powerful steed.
At my third Christmas, only months after I had finally taken
my first steps, my eyes widened when I saw the tree. There circling around was a Lionel 1046
engine pulling its tender, three box cars and a brick red caboose. A three year old is too small to know how to
handle a toy that required gentleness. Knowledge
about how to use the basic set to build cities and fields of imagination would
only come later. Dad used to say that I
mostly carried the engine around and often dropped it making frequent repairs a
necessity. But the gift persisted. As Christmases came and went, Dad taught me to
build layouts that filled me with the allure of riding to distant places and
meeting far away people.
While the purpose of the model train was to give me a hobby
that could use my eyes and hands more than my legs, the gift lasted through
childhood and beyond. Building things
and fixing things were the ways Dad and I spent time. Each step in the process taught me lessons that
became the foundation that have allowed my life to be useful. The best part was when Thomas was born, the old
Lionel 1046 found a home in his room. It
is a connection for him to his grandfather and great grandfather even though
model trains have given way to DS, Wii and Legos.
In the day by day way we must live our lives, we cannot know
how the things we set in motion will land.
Each toy given, each photo made, each hand-crafted card saved is a
memory. It is also a launching pad for a
stream of connections. Mobo sits in our
home. He is more than decoration or an
antique toy. He earned his place as the
instrument of parental love that taught me to walk. Lionel 1046 is retired and rests upon a shelf
near a grandson. It has earned its
rest. In the miles it covered, it taught
me to see a world larger than myself.
What a set of miraculous parental gifts!
--td