“It is not flesh and blood, but heart which makes us fathers and sons.”
— Friedrich von Schiller
Moving a little slowly this morning, suffering from this crud I've confirmed with a test kit is not Covid. My nose is red as a strawberry. We all should've bought stock in Kleenex.
The tenth of December holds a special place in my life. Twenty-nine years ago today I became a father, to this little spud.
Jimmy, J.R., James Rampy, Jim Bob, and now just Jim. The little guy I used to drive around the Barrow County Courthouse at 2 a.m. when I was in law school, trying to get a colicky two-year-old to fall asleep. My partner in the jog stroller when we'd go on long runs on red dirt country roads outside of Bogart. The young man down the hill in the next deer stand, talking through the challenges of life on our long drives back and forth between Panama City and the deer lease on winter weekends.
I haven't seen Jim in the flesh in a long time--he's lived in Russia for years now, teaching English and by all appearances having the time of his life. The restrictions brought on by the pandemic prevent him from returning to the States for a visit.
Now entering his thirtieth year, I can look back and see the season when he transitioned from trying to do what his dad wanted to see to being his own man. He quit playing football, an endeavor in which he was fairly gifted, after his junior year of high school. He went to New College, not Sewanee or UGA, and got a great education down there among the hippies. After he graduated, walking across the stage in a penguin costume (true story), he eschewed getting a master's or going to law school or flying jets, deciding instead to embark on an adventure overseas from which he never returned. Now he's finally back in grad school, at the Moscow School of Economics, working on a graduate degree not because anyone else thought it was time to move on from teaching, but because he decided it was the right thing to do.
I guess I'm most proud of Jim for that attribute--with very little help, he's taken the road less traveled, stepping off an airplane in Moscow with nothing but a Visa, backpack, and skateboard, and making a life for himself that is of his choosing only. That has taken guts.
Over the last few years my life has gotten broader, and P and I will be celebrating another birthday on Sunday.
A decade before Jim came along, Issac arrived and has been the apple of his mother's eye ever since.
I didn't know the micro version--he was already this six foot six man when I met him. I had to struggle a little to find a photo with a collared shirt.
The stories of him riding sidecar with his mother through anesthesia school, his years living at a military academy, and then starting a business doing landscaping with Olivia before venturing into the tech world give a sense of how he grew into the man he's become. A polymath who makes his living in front of a computer but can also read classical Greek and comment intelligently on the strengths and weaknesses of the maniple as a fighting formation, you're likely to find him out on a tractor in the yard or installing an irrigation system when he has the time. And he manages to maintain an incredibly droll sense of humor without a hint of sarcasm, a gift that is the mark of intelligence.
Upon reflection, these two young men are a lot alike, each picking a path that may not have been their parents' choice, but one they elected and have trod successfully in ways we could never have imagined. A true hero's journey.
If they ever found themselves in the same place, they'd also be able to share their love of video games, a passion that leaves P and me scratching our heads. A different generation, I guess.
So happy birthday, Jim and Issac. You've both made my life a better place. One day maybe we'll circle up at Wyldswood or in Andover or on some Greek or Croatian island, and I'll buy you both a steak and a beer. Or Peg will whip up a gourmet meal for everyone, turning sticks and twigs into something delightful. It'll be a celebration.
留言