Becoming Men
I stole down the steps before dawn, crept through the black and reached to the floor to nudge awake the mass of teenager hidden in the blankets. The boys prefer the cool dark of the basement to their own beds upstairs for a good night’s sleep.
“Time to go to work,” I whispered, hoping the other set of slow heaving shoulders wouldn’t stir. He still had a few hours of rest while his brother and I set off for storm work. With two-stories on the schedule, I thought it wise to bring along some extra muscle.
Through the groan, I thought I could make out the words, “I don’t want to do this.”
Yeah, I’m not sure I do either.
But we did anyway.
After a quick breakfast on the run, we bounced down the highway. His head lolled to one side, then the other, as heavy sounds of his sleep sang harmony to the engine’s hum. Karen, as we called the GPS, broke in now and again to berate me for transgressing her route.
I reached to squish a mosquito on the side glass and looked at my boy — this man — his 6’7″ frame folded into the passenger space beside me. I hoped my thoughts weren’t so loud as to wake him. His legs, now longer than mine, crushed into the dash and I reminded myself, You’re not the Lanky Dude around here anymore.
I smiled at the scruff poking out of his chin that he doesn’t feel like shaving now that it’s vacation, and my memory trembled with the reverberations of his man-voice bass tones.
Just the day before, his brother nearly looked me in the eye and demanded a height comparison on the spot right there in the grocery aisle. Sure enough, he’s climbing too, the top of his head now at my eye level.
How long before I’m reaching up to straighten his neck tie before school on a game day or a concert too?
They’ve turned into men on me.
::
The bank sign had flickered 92 degrees as we drove through that sleepy Iowa town. He stood on the ground, as was his job, sweat rolling off his cheeks in the hot stillness and watched his mom crawl and scrape around on a roof that was just a little steeper than I prefer to work.
I marked with chalk and ran my tape, calling out numbers for him to record. Then I felt my foot slip from its place. A footwear malfunction, I called it. The soles just didn’t hold against the loose asphalt granules and I went skidding down the slope.
As I caught hold of a providently placed pipe vent and stopped the slide, I also caught his eye, peeking through the languid green of the weeping willow where he’d sought cover from the baking sun.
Was I about to make him more of a man than he ought to be just yet?
I came down with a burned and bruised backside but wondering, had that vent been on the other slope instead, what I might have burned or bruised in my boy’s tender eyes and heart. For his body might belong to a man. But his insides aren’t ready for all that just yet.
We recovered, and moved on to the next. I’m pretty sure he kept a close eye on me after that, quiet but steady. But he might never admit it.
We drove home back into the early morning, our 700-some miles covered, telling stories and quoting movie lines and dissing each other’s taste in music. We talked smack to the voice that bossed us from the windshield, especially when she rerouted us to a low-maintenance dirt road that terrorized like us an old wooden roller coaster. We laughed and drank Mt. Dew and ate HoHos and Zingers as we recounted the highlights and lowlights of the day’s adventure, mom and son on the job.
I passed by them, sprawled out on the basement floor as I started my day again this morning. They grow bigger, stronger, wiser.
Strange, I suppose. But as I look long at these boys — these men – as I know them a little more every day, it becomes easier to believe that once they lived and grew inside this broken body.
It seems it should become more impossible with each new inch or shoe size or armpit hair.
But somehow, at the same time, it becomes most wonderfully, possibly, possible.
::
Photo: Outdoor Faucet by Charles Thompson, via Stock.Xchng
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Lyla.
I don’t even know what to say.
I’m balling.
This is incredible writing. And my heart knows this so well.
love to you.
and um, why are you climbing around on rooftops? I assume it’s all part of your job, but now I’ll be watching you more carefully too.
2010/05/28 at 4:38 PM
Wow…you right from a different place here…Lyla
and I.Love.It
You have opened your heart with these words and painted a beautiful picture with them. I actually felt like I was in the back seat of the car as you were looking at your son.
Please though…do be more careful when “working”. Perhaps we should wrap you in Charmin and bubble wrap?
Love ya
2010/05/28 at 6:25 PM
You probably don’t want to watch. It’s not so good to look at. And Julie, while the padding might blunt a fall, I’m pretty sure one with my coordination doesn’t need any more obstructions.
I think we’ve resolved the footwear issue and should be ready for another Iowa tour next week.
2010/05/28 at 6:51 PM
Wow, Lyla. This is an incredible story. I love the way you write — your descriptive sense of place and detail is really amazing.
And I want you to know…I sometimes come here, read a post, and then think, “Oh, I need to think about that before I comment…” and you know how that goes. I don’t come back to comment. But I’m reading…
2010/05/29 at 7:26 AM
Such a beautiful, intimate look into your relationship with your boys. Truly wonderful!
2010/05/29 at 9:49 AM
Lyla:
Great post. I’m sure you didn’t climb up onto that roof so that you could create a ‘teaching moment’ for Isaac. I’m sure it will be a one of this everlasting memory for him, nonetheless.
As a kid growing up, I observed my dad doing lots of repairs, projects, etc around the house. As my mom said on more than one occasion, “we never get anything new, your dad always fixes everything”. This approach to household chores, repairs and problems, no doubt, allowed me to tackle various projects without too much trepidation.
When I was 11 or so, dad had agreed (or volunteered) to install a new electrical outlet in the bedroom of my grandparents house. The house did not have a real basement. It was dug out just enough so you could crawl around underneath the house plus there was an area that was a little deeper that was used as a root cellar.
Dad and I were down underneath the house, kneeling on the damp earth and crouching over to keep our heads out of the spider webs between the joists. I asked him if I should go back upstairs and remove the fuse for the circuit that was going to provide the power for the new outlet. “Nah”, he said. “This is an easy project and it won’t be necessary”. Well, while he was connecting the new outlet to the existing circuit, he managed to make a good solid connection beteen his fingers and the hot 110V. He was kneeling on very damp earth, not standing on concrete in rubber soled shoes when this happened. Needless to say, he received a good jolt (but it was easy for him to let go). At that point, he determined that it would be prudent for met to go upstairs and remove the fuse, if for no other reason than to relieve my apprehension. The job was finished without further incident.
I have to admit, somewhat sheepishly, that I haven’t always taken advantage of the lesson I learned that day. That is, I too have often worked on switches and outlets without throwing the breaker. Hopefully, Isaac will remember this incident next winter when he is up on the roof shoveling the accumulated snow off. Maybe he won’t tease you with his daredevil antics while climbing around 10 to 15 feet off the ground.
Dad
2010/05/29 at 4:33 PM
Oh … wow.
Simply gorgeous writing.
I don’t know what else to say. I felt this, deeply, and I don’t even have children with armpit hair. ~smile~
This rocked, Lyla. I want to write like you when I grow up.
2010/05/30 at 4:55 PM
Dad, Mom and I were just talking about all these great stories you share in the comments, some of which we’ve never heard (or perhaps don’t remember?). I need to start archiving them somewhere. Speaking of which, any word on Grandpa getting me the chicken story?
Jennifer, you have such kind words. Truly though, I’d hate to see you go backwards when you grow up.
2010/05/30 at 7:03 PM
This was just beautiful, Lyla. Terrifying and beautiful–not so much the skidding down the roof part, but the watching your children transform before your eyes. I had one of those moments after naptime this afternoon. As I swept hair out of sleepy eyes, I rubbed a smooth cheek that no longer folds into my caress but crinkles in ticklish giggles and pulls away. Growing up so fast.
2010/06/01 at 9:13 PM
This is so beautiful. I’m glad it’s on the list at THC today, or else I would have missed it. And oh, how I needed to read it today with my two grown children sleeping under my roof during this holiday season.
“…most wonderfully, possibly, possible.” That right there? Says it all. It really does.
2010/12/27 at 12:40 PM
This is simply beautiful. My favorite part is: “Strange, I suppose. But as I look long at these boys — these men – as I know them a little more every day, it becomes easier to believe that once they lived and grew inside this broken body.” Thanks for sharing
2011/01/06 at 4:59 PM