For anyone peering out into the graduation season, this one's for you...
So it’s about
fifteen years ago and the two of us are circling the ice rink with short,
choppy steps. Not a lot of elegance
between us. But, like a Rocky movie, we
are still standing. My preschooler does
not seem to appreciate my great lack of ice skating skill or how badly my feet
and lower back hurt, but she knows that I once ice skated on actual frozen
ponds in New Jersey as a kid and that seems to be enough to impress. To her, I might as well have grown up in
Oz. I was from some sort of elsewhere
and rode an alien-style pod, landing it behind some dry desert brush here in
Southern California and now I walk amongst the natives undetected.
“Tell me about
periods,” she says, each word represented by a tiny puff of cold air. I’m impressed. I look up at the hockey scoreboard and nod,
knowing that the word “period” is clearly not on a usual preschool word
list.
“Well, in hockey
they have three periods. It’s a little
different---“ she cuts me off, annoyed.
“No, tell me about
the period with the blood.” I can’t help
but notice that she seems to give a slight emphasis on the word “blood,” like a
serial killer back from a busy evening. Not
quite what I had in mind.
“Well, I have
never had a period. You should probably
ask your mother.” Surely, my ignorance
gets me off the hook.
“But, I don’t want
to know her answer. I want to know your
answer.” I’ll spare you my botched
dissertation on the menstrual cycle.
Honestly, I thought we were heading into hockey.
Around the same
time, we use to listen to old radio shows on some satellite channel while she
took a bath. “Burns and Allen” came
up.
“Hey! Her name is Gracie! Why haven’t you told me about this
Gracie? I’m the only Gracie I know.”
“Isn’t there a
Gracie at daycare?”
“No, I make the
kids call her Other Gracie, so I’m still the only Gracie,” she explains with
absolutely no shame. “And this is a
famous Gracie!” She listens intently,
very pleased each time Gracie Allen gets a laugh.
“Do you know about
this Gracie?” My mother was a huge fan,
so luckily I do know more than the average guy.
That night at bedtime we end the day with the show’s closing catchphrase.
“Say Goodnight, Gracie.”
“Goodnight
Gracie,” she says, giggling at the joke.
And for the next few days all she wants to know about are old shows from
radio and television. Naturally, I steer
her towards The Three Stooges. Not the
best choice for someone who hasn’t broken into kindergarten yet, but I felt it
was worth the risk. I’ve got all kinds
of information for her. Of course I
do. I’m the answer man.
And this is how it
has gone. I’m the answer man. For better or worse. I think my love of telling stories and having
stockpiled away years of useless information gave Gracie the impression that I
knew far more than I did. No
matter. I savored the role. Probably a bit more Cliff Clavin from Cheers
than actual master of knowledge.
“What’s the
economy?”
“Why don’t
airplanes just fall out of the sky?”
“Why doesn’t
Grandma believe in evolution?”
And to my credit,
I have tried not to say what I did not know.
My credibility seemed to grow by saying, “I don’t know. Let’s find out.”
Like I said, I
have truly loved being the guy for answers.
It has been a good run. But, I
must prepare for the next phase. As
Gracie heads off to college, I can’t be the answer man anymore. My college experiences? They were all pre internet. Can’t be the answer guy for a lot of
that. And soon, I won’t understand the
current job market. It won’t be my job
market. It will be hers. Retirement is still a bit down the road, but
it has become a tangible entity, perched in the distance.
Now, this is where
people my age become cranky and cantankerous.
We do not embrace our new roles.
Sometimes we insist we know more because we have more years. But, many of those experiences have
expired. They are no longer a source of
vital information. My role, our roles,
are changing. Embrace it. We may have fewer and fewer immediate
answers, but we will have something better.
We will have wisdom. Our front
porches and our favorite chairs will become our mountain tops and if we have raised
them right, they will return for our wisdom.
How to handle
heartache and pain and loss? Those
answers don’t seem to expire and never seem to change. Which battles to choose and when to hold tightly
to your principles? Where else will they
go for that? We will become the keepers
of wisdom. And that’s good work if you
can get it. Who knows every single
person they had to be in order to become the person they are right now? Who knows all of their layers? That would be you. And your wisdom. And who will be the keeper of their
childhoods while they charge into adulthood?
Again. You. You and your full, swollen heart.
I get a bit of a
reprieve this summer. We will be working
together at the local community college.
I will get to be the answer man for eight extra weeks. What a gift.
And when the summer ends, the shift will begin. So Gracie if you find yourself reading this,
know that your childhood was one of the absolute greatest gifts life has given
me. I can never thank you enough. As you roll into adulthood, know that I will
be right where you left me. And, I will
be happily waiting for my new role in your life. Obviously, this isn’t a goodbye. It’s just a sunset of sorts. Maybe more of a goodnight. So? Say
goodnight, Gracie.
If you're enjoying the blog, here's a book I recommend. "Our Kids: Building Relationships in the Classroom," is available at Amazon.
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