Fathers' Day. There's been a bunch of good ones marked by after-lunch naps, not-so-excellent suppers prepared by newbie cook's hands of my children, crayoned cards expressing love. Not so this year.
I've got a thirteen-year-old daughter who's at a moment in her life where the freight train of adolescence is meeting up with her father having to make some tough life decisions that directly impact her. I am "selfish." I don't "have a clue."
And she is pissed. And I am, both fairly and unfairly, the bulls eye.
So this Fathers' Day...not so good.
Enter in one of those little tragic occurrences that provide the turning point on which such bigger things can pivot. Anna went swimming with her cell phone.
Such teeth-gnashing, such despair you have never seen (unless you, too, are closely related to a teen with a smart phone that gets broke.)
I took a deep breathe and put out the offer to fix it. Now those of you who know me know that I have a knack for fixing most anything, especially electronic...but a smart phone that went swimming?
As I laid it out on the dish towel next to my tools at the kitchen table I paused and considered. If I fix it, great, Anna will have a bit of faith restored in her father's wisdom and perhaps even find a doorway in her hardened heart thu which we can begin to heal. And if I cannot? Stony silence, and much more foot stomping lay, ahead. And what if I not only cannot fix it, but also make it worse? Not being able to get it exactly, perfectly back together will be confirmation of my ineptness in handling my life and my daughter's future.
Within an hour, I had stripped that cell phone to little piles of tiny screws, four circuit boards, touch screens and membrane switches. Parts so tiny that I needed reading glasses to see, and tweezers to manipulate.
Fortunately, I found the fault in a tiny switch that no longer made electrical contact when pressed. But, how to fix this? Our relationship wouldn't be moved the slightest in a positive direction by being able to proudly announce that I had figured out what was wrong, and then present her with a table-top full of shiny electronic bits. No, success would only be measured with a bit of tinny music and a welcome message on the screen.
Using a magnifying lens and a razor blade, I slit open the membrane switch and sprayed contact cleaner inside where the lake water had oxidized the contacts. Three hours of tweezers and jeweler's screwdriver work later I had it all back together. Just so.
And it worked.
Does our relationship work? Absolutely. Always did and will. Gizmos break and that's the end of them. Human beings, built by the great master inventor, have a circuit of hope, an assembled program code of family, and are powered by love.
Monday, June 18, 2012
Sunday, June 10, 2012
father and son
"Dad, are those your initials?" We both looked incredulously at the two letters, MF, scratched on the door along with the year 1971.
I was up at Holden Village for a few days. Hidden away in the bosom of the Cascade mountains, it is an old copper mining town turned Lutheran retreat community where I had lived as a boy for a year or so. My father had brought us here from the Midwest. And the contrast of this little village was as big as the mountains that surrounded us. From flat dull yellow corn fields to fresh glaciers and sharp black granite peaks that sawtoothed the sky. Tight-lipped staff at a Missouri Synod Lutheran grade school to the Hinderlie era of 1970's free-thinking young theologians and artists. From a family who's dinner guests were depression and alcoholism to a wide community table filled with laughter and diversity.
And here I am now as a fifty-something with my young boy out for a day hike to show him where I tramped when I was his age.
All boys want to see old mines. It's in our make up. So, when he jumped at the chance to peer into one of the old access portals, we set out. It took awhile to get there and my memory was a bit fuzzy about the exact path to take. But even my pulse quickened when I saw the gray ventilation tunnel doors.
"Here it is, Soren" I said pausing to catch my breath.
"Wow, how cool is this!" as he ran over to look at the double door air-lock, swinging the heavy wood on stiff hinges.
And, then we saw it. Actually, he saw it, even though the letters were right in front of my face.
MF, 1971. So 40 years ago, as an eleven-year-old boy, I was off by myself exploring around this mountain side, my interest piqued by the mine tunnel. And now, here I was with my young boy showing him the same things.
I'm tempted to try to explain what this poignant occurrence means. We both felt it's richness. But I didn't pick at it then and I won't now, either.
I can't even begin to compare how much different, let alone better or worse, my son's childhood is than mine was. It all is what it is. And what it was.
I felt my boy's hand slip warmly, comfortably into mine. "Let's keep going, Dad."
I was up at Holden Village for a few days. Hidden away in the bosom of the Cascade mountains, it is an old copper mining town turned Lutheran retreat community where I had lived as a boy for a year or so. My father had brought us here from the Midwest. And the contrast of this little village was as big as the mountains that surrounded us. From flat dull yellow corn fields to fresh glaciers and sharp black granite peaks that sawtoothed the sky. Tight-lipped staff at a Missouri Synod Lutheran grade school to the Hinderlie era of 1970's free-thinking young theologians and artists. From a family who's dinner guests were depression and alcoholism to a wide community table filled with laughter and diversity.
And here I am now as a fifty-something with my young boy out for a day hike to show him where I tramped when I was his age.
All boys want to see old mines. It's in our make up. So, when he jumped at the chance to peer into one of the old access portals, we set out. It took awhile to get there and my memory was a bit fuzzy about the exact path to take. But even my pulse quickened when I saw the gray ventilation tunnel doors.
"Here it is, Soren" I said pausing to catch my breath.
"Wow, how cool is this!" as he ran over to look at the double door air-lock, swinging the heavy wood on stiff hinges.
And, then we saw it. Actually, he saw it, even though the letters were right in front of my face.
MF, 1971. So 40 years ago, as an eleven-year-old boy, I was off by myself exploring around this mountain side, my interest piqued by the mine tunnel. And now, here I was with my young boy showing him the same things.
I'm tempted to try to explain what this poignant occurrence means. We both felt it's richness. But I didn't pick at it then and I won't now, either.
I can't even begin to compare how much different, let alone better or worse, my son's childhood is than mine was. It all is what it is. And what it was.
I felt my boy's hand slip warmly, comfortably into mine. "Let's keep going, Dad."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
