The Tricks That Time Plays

Last weekend, we spent a couple days in Vermont, running around in the woods, deciphering secret messages, and following fictious maps from a very real Revolutionary War general named John Stark.

Because this is the kind of thing we do for fun.  Deal with it.

It was a nice getaway which reminded me, at moments, of other weekends spent many, many years ago, not in Vermont, but in New Hampshire.

I in no way mean to imply that Vermont and New Hampshire are indistinguishable from each other.  I’m saying that outright.  They look pretty much exactly the same.  Residents of either state can feel free to send me hate mail.

Anyway, the mental comparison has very little to do with the states themselves, or much to do with the scenery (picturesque mountains, babbling streams, beautiful lake vistas), but instead had everything to do with something has been on my mind quite a bit lately, which is time.

When my sister and I were kids, our grandparents would sometimes take us up to a lake house in New Hampshire.  I have no idea where in New Hampshire, although last year, while visiting Storyland and North Conway, I realized that I had totally been there before, so it must have been near there. 

And I remembered the log I would play with in the lake, just the right size to try and ride like a horse, only to have to rollover and dunk me under.  And bringing my favorite bear, Jack, and the time he “fell” off the porch of the house (he might have been pushed…conspiracy theorists, take note!), and I bandaged his arm using my socks like a cast.

This is Jack, my bear since as far back as I can possibly remember...

And this is what happened to him after my daughter got hold of him.  Look at it!  LOOK AT IT!

And with that memory, came all the other memories attached to it, like a parade of the past, marching before my eyes, of going fishing with Grandaddy, of going to church with Grandma, of a hundred more, or a thousand, or more.

And now on this trip, seeing some of the odd signs, the roadside eateries, the beautiful scenic vistas, I couldn’t help but think of Grandaddy stopping there to show us something, or talk to the folks there, or play some practical joke on us.

Why was I thinking about New Hampshire all those years ago while watching the scenery of Vermont pass by?

Because time plays tricks on you.

Not memory, though memory does play tricks on you.  In fact, everything I’m remembering could in fact never have happened.  Or could have happened, but only in, say, New Jersey.  I’ll never know for sure.  Because that’s the kind of trick memory plays.  Time plays a different, and more subtle trick. The trick time plays is all about people you love, people you lose, people you miss.

When we lose someone that we love, no matter how long (or how short) we’ve known them, they take pieces of us with them when they go.  What they take, indeed, is often completely out of proportion to the length of time we’ve known them.  What they take can never be replaced, but that emptiness, while painful, helps to define us, to make us the people we are.  And when the person we lose is someone we’ve known and loved our entire lives?  Well, you see, that’s part of the trick that time plays.

And often one loss awakens the echoes of other losses, and time plays its tricks again.

 

Grandaddy passed away years ago, before my daughter was born, which seems a shame, ‘cause he would’ve gotten a kick out of her.  Grandma, or as my daughter knew her, Great Grandma Mary, passed away just over a month ago.

A rare photo of my pre-facial hair days...

So it wasn’t surprising that this was one of the things on my mind as we drove through Vermont.

I try to be a positive person.  (This statement alone sometimes comes as a surprise to people who have known me for years.)  And this blog is meant as a way to capture what I think and feel about being dad, and being a husband, and about the world, which I still believe to be an essentially good place.

But time, don’t you see? It plays tricks on you.

I’ve written before about the importance of talking about sad things and bad things, in a way that comforts, while resisting the urge to pretend that bad things don’t happen.

But not shielding your kid is very different from having to actively hit it head on, which is what I felt I was doing when I had to tell my daughter that Great Grandma Mary had passed away.

It went a little something like this:

Me:  I have something important to tell you.

Her: Ok.

Me: It’s about Great Grandma Mary.

Her: Ok.

Me: Well, sweetie, she died.

Her: <gasp>  (The momentary look on her face was the look of anguish, of sadness, or mortality.)

Me: She’s in Heaven, now.   She went to see God.

Her: Why?

Ok, now, I’m not a theologian.  I’m not even an armchair theologian, or a Monday Morning theologian.

I’m more of a Comparative Religion kind of guy.  I don’t know what awaits us in the hereafter, I have little to no opinion about our immortal soul, and while I try to live a life that is good and moral, I ultimately have no idea how, or when, or if I will be judged based on that life.  I have some ideas about God and the afterlife, but I also know I’m as likely if not more so to be completely wrong.

Thank God (no pun intended) for Catholic schooling.  Heaven was something she knew, something she understood.  Probably better than I do.

As to why, that’s the question, isn’t it?  And not one I was really prepared to answer.  So, I told her what I knew to be true.

Me: You never knew your Great Grandaddy.  He died before you were born.  But he loved Great Grandma Mary very much, and she loved him.  And she’s missed him ever since he died.  Now, she gets to see him again.

Her:  In Heaven?

Me: Yup.

Her:  Oh.  And they loved each other?

Me:  A lot.

Her:  Oh.  And now they’re together again?

I nodded.

Her:  Oh.  Ok.  Can we play Ninja Surfer Team, now?

(Sidebar:  “Ninja Surfer Team” is that greatest name for a TV series ever.  And I call dibs.)

I don't know where she gets this stuff from.

Grandaddy and Grandma had many influences on my life, on who I am and how I think about things.  About storytelling (they could BOTH tell a story, like only a Virginian grandfather or an Irish grandmother could), about cooking (I remember how proud I was when we bought our house and I was able to invite Grandaddy to dinner, as a way of saying thanks for all the dinners he’d cooked for us), about being Irish (if I know all the words to Danny Boy—and I do—it’s because of Grandma).

Goodbye, Great Grandma Mary.  Ella was very lucky to have known you for as long as she did.  As am I.  Tis you must go, and we must bide.

Tell Grandaddy we say hi.