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."