Mirrors (Kid Stuff)

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. 

Link:  Reflections (Psalms and Prayers)