It was
always a big deal when a routine shopping trip included a stop at Bremers – the
lone department store in downtown Bremerton
during the ‘50s. Another season
approached and something of significance was looming. Maybe Christmas - there’s a very vague
recollection of sitting on Santa’s lap.
Or back to school always demanded some new piece of apparel for my older
sister, Carol.
Just off to the side of the
“women’s section” there was a short, dead-end hallway with four, I doubt six,
individual fitting rooms. Two rooms per
side. And on the wall at the end of the
little hall was mounted a floor to ceiling mirror. Now also, between the two doors, on either
side-wall of the hallway, there were full length mirrors as well.
Well, Mom was helping Carol
try on a new skirt or something in one of the dressing rooms and left me in the
hallway to wait. That was OK back then –
it was safe. And without warning the space
in between those doors went magic.
Suddenly, there were tens, maybe hundreds of “me” lined up in a row. Each receding image slightly smaller and off
just a smidge to the right of the previous “me”. That was really fascinating. Why regressively smaller? And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t
make myself line up straight. Why the
subtle arc?
It would be any number of years
before there was an understanding that the walls were ever so slightly off
parallel and the distance increased with every passing bounce off the wall.
About the time that I finally
came to terms with those conundrums, another season of life had come to be. I was up early on the premise of
fishing. The sky was just barely turning
gray and only the brightest of stars remained visible while the lesser lights
slowly withdrew. The tide was high and
the waters of Hood
Canal were perfectly
still - the thermals had yet to stir.
The resident harbor seal, influenced by the launching of the tiny dingy
from the pebble beach, slipped silently into the depths. No doubt, his “skill” would be rewarded with
breakfast while my “luck” would payoff in less tangible ways. Soon, the oarlocks squeaked a rhythmic
cadence against the silence. And again
my simply being there touched the position of a blue heron resting in stately
repose. An isolated squawk greeted me before
echoing off into the distance. And then
the wooosh,,,wooosh,,,wooosh of massive wings pressing against the earth’s
pull. Even now, if I can’t sleep at
night, that peaceful morning will replay in my mind and before long I nod off.
Well, the morning rays were
now dancing off the mountain tops on the opposite shore. And a ways down the canal, one small,
secluded cove was particularly inviting with alders draped over the water as if
admiring themselves in a mirror. And they
called. Shimmying out the trunk just a
few feet I soon found myself lying on my stomach, almost parallel to the water,
and little more than arms-length above the surface. And looking down, there I was, looking back
up. But my presence had disturbed the
solitude – a piece of bark or debris fell from the tree. The ever expanding ripples distorted my
features as they moved across my likeness.
The apex of the first tiny wave stretched my nose while the trough of
the next shrunk my chin. And in the
quiet of the morning, I was struck with another quandary. What is the real image of me?
Quite some time later, I was
married and yet another season began. A
stepson, Ryan, came into my life. And it
came to pass that Ryan and I attended a Father/Son Weekend that our church was sponsoring. I recall there being a period of free time on
Saturday afternoon, so my friend Ted and his son, Ryan and I, decided to take a
short hike. While the boys raced ahead
with enviable exuberance, Ted and I strolled after a ways back.
And Ted asked me, “What’s it
like being a stepdad?”
“It’s good. But I’m still feeling my way. Probably, not much different than any other
Dad. But sometimes he seems like a
stranger. It can be really hard to
identify with him - understand him.”
Ted paused for a moment, then
offered, “I see a lot of myself in Jason…..problem is……he’s a good kid……but I
see my own failings and short comings in him too.”
I had never thought of
fatherhood in that light. It’s stuck
with me.
Bremer’s was long ago
demolished. That wonderful alder tree
has lost its battle with gravity and very little of it remains in its watery
grave. My friend Ted has moved and we’ve
lost touch. Ryan now lives on the other
side of the country. The seasons are
forever moving forward.
But three lingering
reflections remain.
