I asked Keith if he wanted to go down to the stream. He was seriously involved in Nickelodian channel on TV. He might not be able to break off the surgery in mid-operation. I was mildly surprised when he said 'yes'. The only thing I know about how kids see things, whether they say 'yes' or 'no', is that it is always changing. I'm the only one who is a donkey. My path is known.
He brings down his things to get ready. Only one sock has a hole in the toe. All my socks have holes so I was ready to cram his foot into the shoe. But he wouldn't do it. It was unacceptable. He'd have to go back upstairs and get another sock. He sighed and went.
"Some things take longer than you thought," I called up after him. Now there's something he can hold onto until old age.
He came back down and pulled his socks on super tight. The shoes went over his feet. The socks have to be right or it's nothing doing. A crease is not right. It doesn't feel right. You can't go on.
We walk over the bank where the deer have made a trail and look at the stream. The water is running over the ice. I know it's supposed to run under, but it's not. Keith wanted to break ice and I didn't want him to. I was at the other side of the equation now, I was the Dad and mine was the opposition party. I just saw safety. Then he wanted to go to the other side of the stream. The other side was exactly like our side except it was over there. I didn't want to cross and break a leg or get wet. It was too boring. But not Keith.
You had to look at the stream from over there. It was different, and it was important. Any one could see that.
When I was young there was a big rock in our path. My brother and sister walked the gentle slope of its shoulder and over. I climbed the face of it, straining just a little.
"Why did you do that?" Mom had asked. "That was hard, there was an easier way."
"Yeah," I grinned at her, "but it wasn't as fun."
Keith would be across this any time he wanted, real soon.
We walked along the stream, still following the tracks of the deer, and checked all of the dams we'd built during the summer. They were holding up nicely. Miniature fields could have been cultivated by the alternative water ways the boys had directed. Land was being brought to fruition through the tireless effort of the farmer.
While we were standing there a wind came by.
"A storm is coming," Keith said, and I wondered how he knew that.
Because a storm was coming. It would be here later tonight or maybe tomorow the weather channel said. But he didn't know that.
This wasn't just an ordinary wind, though, it was a strange one. The wind is always acting up in the Rocky Mountain West. You can count on that if nothing else. It blows. But this wind started out at maybe 3o-40 miles per hour and then steadily kept pushing, kept upping the force as if by the control of some giant knob on God's headset. It steadily improved until I was making plans for how we were going to be standing; it was that strong. The wind goes through the trees at the top of the limestone cliffs, and it goes through the trees in the bottom of the valley, and it does this sometimes seperately and sometimes together. It makes a sound I like very much. It's a constant in the West, and you can easily become inured to it, oblivious, but I liked it and paid attention. The trees were howling both bottom and top and it was wonderful standing there.
Then it just subsided.
"We'd better go up now." Keith said.
He meant it in no particular hurry but that our time was over, satisfaction having arrived, and it was time to leave.
We walked up the bank and into the house. The TV was still on.
munk
He brings down his things to get ready. Only one sock has a hole in the toe. All my socks have holes so I was ready to cram his foot into the shoe. But he wouldn't do it. It was unacceptable. He'd have to go back upstairs and get another sock. He sighed and went.
"Some things take longer than you thought," I called up after him. Now there's something he can hold onto until old age.
He came back down and pulled his socks on super tight. The shoes went over his feet. The socks have to be right or it's nothing doing. A crease is not right. It doesn't feel right. You can't go on.
We walk over the bank where the deer have made a trail and look at the stream. The water is running over the ice. I know it's supposed to run under, but it's not. Keith wanted to break ice and I didn't want him to. I was at the other side of the equation now, I was the Dad and mine was the opposition party. I just saw safety. Then he wanted to go to the other side of the stream. The other side was exactly like our side except it was over there. I didn't want to cross and break a leg or get wet. It was too boring. But not Keith.
You had to look at the stream from over there. It was different, and it was important. Any one could see that.
When I was young there was a big rock in our path. My brother and sister walked the gentle slope of its shoulder and over. I climbed the face of it, straining just a little.
"Why did you do that?" Mom had asked. "That was hard, there was an easier way."
"Yeah," I grinned at her, "but it wasn't as fun."
Keith would be across this any time he wanted, real soon.
We walked along the stream, still following the tracks of the deer, and checked all of the dams we'd built during the summer. They were holding up nicely. Miniature fields could have been cultivated by the alternative water ways the boys had directed. Land was being brought to fruition through the tireless effort of the farmer.
While we were standing there a wind came by.
"A storm is coming," Keith said, and I wondered how he knew that.
Because a storm was coming. It would be here later tonight or maybe tomorow the weather channel said. But he didn't know that.
This wasn't just an ordinary wind, though, it was a strange one. The wind is always acting up in the Rocky Mountain West. You can count on that if nothing else. It blows. But this wind started out at maybe 3o-40 miles per hour and then steadily kept pushing, kept upping the force as if by the control of some giant knob on God's headset. It steadily improved until I was making plans for how we were going to be standing; it was that strong. The wind goes through the trees at the top of the limestone cliffs, and it goes through the trees in the bottom of the valley, and it does this sometimes seperately and sometimes together. It makes a sound I like very much. It's a constant in the West, and you can easily become inured to it, oblivious, but I liked it and paid attention. The trees were howling both bottom and top and it was wonderful standing there.
Then it just subsided.
"We'd better go up now." Keith said.
He meant it in no particular hurry but that our time was over, satisfaction having arrived, and it was time to leave.
We walked up the bank and into the house. The TV was still on.
munk
