by Rich McDowell
Back in the day, also known as the time I was in school, June marked the start of summer vacation.
In these here parts, June marks the start of the count down until school begins. My kids, both grown and having their own families now, still remember the summer vacation that wasn’t and still hold a grudge against dad for moving them from upstate New York to Georgia.
For the son, it meant starting his senior year in Columbus, where his favorite sport, lacrosse, was as unheard of as fried cheese curds. And the daughter missed out on finishing middle school. Tough breaks for kids who’d moved all their lives with a military father and had finally found some stability—the same home for four years.
During the year in question, school in New York ended June 21 and started in Columbus in August. Actually that was a good thing, because it meant they couldn’t hang around the house and mope. They were forced back into circulation. That happened even sooner for Todd as he reported for football practice.
Parents are faced daily with decisions about the welfare of their children and the best way to raise them. Making that call was the toughest these parents made, but leaving them with friends, like they wanted, was not an option in our book.
Thankfully, most kids turn out alright despite our efforts.
Maria, our daughter, even admits (now) that maybe parents do know better than kids, saying there were times when we were right and she wished she’d listened to us. She says she even wishes now that we’d pushed her harder.
I don’t know where I was the day they passed out manuals on how to be a father, but I sure didn’t get one.
I do know, though, that I did teach both of them the most important lesson in life—up to their 15th birthdays anyway— how to drive a stick shift. And that was no small task. It took a lot of patience.
But guess what, we do get second chances in parenting. It’s called having grandchildren.
I kind of model myself after the grandfather in the Pickles cartoon who’s always got an answer for the grandson.
Right now our 22-month-old grandson is visiting. His brain is like a sponge. I take him on nature hikes around our property. Tear leaves from sweet gums and wild ginger and let him learn what they look and smell like.
We cross the bridge, play in the creek, inspect the beehives, splash in mud puddles and stomp out mushrooms. He gets to taste the blackberries and is warned about fire ants and poison ivy.
He rides the lawn tractor, pilots the pickup truck, mimics my funny faces and noises and apes my silly walks. And when his mother and Nana learn what he’s done, I hear about it. But just like in the Pickles cartoon—grandpas are more fun.
I’ll never live to see the fruition of these efforts, but I like to think that in some small way I’m contributing to his development.
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