Uncharted Territory, To Be a Man, Dining on Crow, and Revisiting Priceless Works of Art

“In his heart a man plans his course, but the Lord orders his steps.” –Proverbs 16:9

Nov 06, 2023

For the past few weeks, our individual lives and our life together have changed so quickly and so dramatically, current circumstances are such that I find myself feeling very much as though I am in uncharted territory.

Many moons ago, way back in June as a matter of fact, when we here in Texas were just beginning to experience the Summer of the Great Oppression (three-plus months of consecutive days of high temperatures in the triple-digits), my wife and I hosted her three grandchildren for a weekend. This is what I wrote, then:

Since Monday of last week, my wife’s grandson from California has been staying with us – he’s here until the end of the month. This past weekend, the other two grandchildren were here, too – so it was a full house, and I loved every minute of it.
Today (Sunday), the other two went back home and that was when the ice cream truck arrived. Once again, I’m eight years old, tightly grasping my money in my hand waiting for this magical vehicle to come to a stop. I purchased a couple drumsticks for my wife and me, and a multi-flavoured push-up for the grandson. As my ex-wife and I selfishly chose to not have children (words cannot describe the bitterness of such regret – may God damn it all to Hell), that’s something I’ve never experienced before now, so I was more than thrilled to do it for my wife’s grandson. It’s the closest I’ll ever come to doing it for my own.1

I’ll amend my sentiment to read:

~~God damn my selfishness~~
May God forgive my selfishness

~~God damn my cowardice~~
May God forgive my cowardice

What I couldn’t have known then was that approximately three and one-half months later, the youngest grandson would be coming back to stay for a while.

The God I worship is the God of many things, but one of the best is that He is the God of second chances.

Let me establish the following:

The grandson belongs with his father, and one day, he will be able to return. For now, his grandmother and I will be seeing to it that his current living environment is safe and stable; structured, with boundaries; that he is in school*; that he is involved in activities outside the home; making friends, and having the opportunity to just be a regular a nine-year-old as much as is possible.
This nonsense about changing names to protect the identity of those involved is just that – nonsense. Anyone reading this has no idea what the grandson’s given name is – it could be Aloysius, Neville, Ian, Colin, Sanjay, or Manuel – and no one would know the difference. In fact, using a name at all is unnecessary. Nonetheless, for the purposes of this piece, he will be referred to as either The Kid, The California Kid, Cali, Joe Cantaloupe (I’ve never seen anyone – let alone a nine-year-old – put away as much melon as he does), or, The Abyss – as God is my witness, he never gets full!

Neither of us seeks to replace his dad – certainly not I. However, since my wife has already raised two kids of her own on her own, she knows what to do, and how to do it. My role is largely that of support and being a dad-like presence.

Toward that end, I take advantage of every opportunity for us to spend time together. Recently, we visited an AT&T retail outlet to restore to operability a tablet I no longer used – I then gave it to him as a gift. Afterward, we bonded over a Kid’s Meal at Wendy’s. In short, creating memories he may recall long after his grandmother and I have each shuffled loose this mortal coil, is the goal.

Among the more pleasant recollections I have of spending time with my dad is the weekly trip to the post office to collect his business mail on Saturday mornings – hence, The California Kid accompanies me on my Saturday errands. I want him to be exposed to things that men do like purchase new tires for the car, or attend an event at the local Harley-Davidson dealership, even if it’s only for an hour, or so!

Stranger in a Strange Land
On Halloween, I accompanied The Kid on his quest for processed sugar in its various incarnations.

None of the apparently new "traditions" - bowls of candy on the stoop instead of mothers answering the front door; "trunk"-or-treat; this along with the sheer number of people just flat-out refusing to participate - were even remotely recognizable, to me. Despite all that, he made a pretty good haul.

While his grandmother and I agreed that it was a golden opportunity to teach him about government & taxation ala Ron Swanson:

…hers was that discretion is the better part of valour, so I exercised restraint. The energy just wasn’t there, anyway.

We were out for not quite the better part of two hours – but forty-five minutes in, I could not keep up. Had we been on the run for our lives, he would have had to kill me because I was only slowing him down!

Truth be told, I might be able to remember maybe ten percent of what my dad ever told me – it’s what he did, what he demonstrated, how I felt in his presence that I recall. It’s what he exemplified in being a loving and faithful husband, the best dad he could be under some of the most difficult of circumstances, and just illustrating what it was – and is – to be a man that had lasting impact.

First and foremost – to be a man is to have integrity:

A man’s word is his bond – he says what he means and means what he says.
A man makes good on his commitments and his obligations.
A man owns up to his mistakes when he makes them.
A man pays his bills on time.
A man makes sure his problems don’t become anyone else’s.
A man is courteous to, and considerate of, his elders.
A man is chivalrous toward women, even if it isn’t appreciated.
A man minds his own business, and doesn’t become involved in anyone else’s unless he’s forced to be.
A man does his job to the very best of his ability, regardless of any other concerns because the quality of his work is a reflection on him, and no one else.

Second – to be a man is to put those who depend on you, first.

Being responsible for The Kid’s welfare, even temporarily, has brought about a change in my behaviour (I haven’t ridden my motorcycle since he arrived because my wife depends on me to help care for him as long as he is in our charge), and in my priorities (only that which is in his best interest matters).

Having seen the film, Sound of Freedom, earlier in the summer, with its use of live footage of kids being snatched off the street in broad daylight, almost everything is perceived to be a potential risk, even in the most ordinary situations. Everyone is regarded with suspicion because I assume the worst of my fellow man.

For example, during our expedition on Halloween, when The Kid went to the front door of any given house, I remained on the sidewalk within full view of whoever it was answering the doorbell (on the handful of occasions it actually happened). It later occurred to me that had someone been so diabolically inclined, they could have opened the door, snatched him and taken him inside, and I would have been powerless to do anything about it.

By the time our community’s finest would have been able to respond, the kidnappers would have had time to flee, and The Kid might never be seen again. I’m not sure what conceiving of such a scenario says about me, but it chills me to the core every time I think of it.

This controlled paranoia is why errands with him take twice as long. When finally we get back home I am absolutely exhausted, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Running errands isn’t the only time I spend with him, though – it can’t be, because it won’t be enough. Quantity is quality. As it is getting cold here in Texas, there won’t be much opportunity for outdoor activities, so time spent with him will have to be something done indoors. Given that for him, a significant part of recreation is playing video games**, if I wish to spend any additional time with The Kid, I need to meet him where he is.

Mea maxima culpa vis-à-vis Video Games
For me, this means a one hundred-eighty degree turn in re: my attitude toward video games, and their value. Until now, my perception of video games as a whole, those who played them, and the parents who allowed it was rather jaundiced with no shortage of myopic, self-righteous judgment and condemnation. While my pride and arrogance blinded me to it then, know that the irony is not lost on me now.

Part of what is driving my new perspective is coming to understand what The Kid has been through, and what he had to leave behind. For that reason I’m inclined to cut him more than a little slack. I’m not sure that I wouldn’t have come out of it any less traumatized. If playing video games helped him cope with the insanity and mayhem at home, more power to him.

Perhaps my skewed outlook is borne of envy because some of these games and the hand-held devices on which The Kid plays them would have come in handy on the round-trip from Newton, Iowa (at the time, home of Maytag appliances) to Tustin, California, home of our cousins. That cross-country odyssey was, for all intents and purposes, our family’s summer vacation that year.

Even now, the sheer boredom – compounded by having to sit between my older sister and my older brother over the hump in the back seat of our 1968 Chevrolet Caprice (396-ci. V-8 engine, 275 horses – plenty of power, even if it was a station wagon) – is vivid in memory because once you’re west of Omaha, Nebraska on I-80, “I Spy With My Little Eye” becomes difficult.

Also, since AM reigned supreme and control of the car’s radio resided with the folks up front, it might just as well not even be on – and, it wasn’t!

Besides, the deeper one got into the western reaches of the Midwest as we were, there wasn’t much of a signal to be received in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. As a result, everyone else in the car was treated to the sound of my brother drumming his hands on the tops of his legs, and my incessantly asking, “Are we there yet?” or, “How many more miles?” not having the slightest clue what the answer, “...one million…” meant.

So, I am embracing the digital world of video games, and am committed to learning how to play one. The Kid, at my request, does his level best to explain to me just what the objective is in any given game he plays – Minecraft, for example – but my eyes glaze over after thirty seconds – he might just as well be speaking Portuguese.

The only one that seems to be within my grasp is, Mario Kart. It looks fun, but will likely prove to be beyond my capabilities once I begin playing. The Kid has made it clear, however, he’s not going to make any special allowances for me just because I’m old. If I want to defeat him in that game, I’m going to have to be better, end of story.

Meritocracy may survive, after all.

Not Entirely Smooth Sailing
We are now more than three weeks in to our new normal, and I would like to report that all is going swimmingly, but I can’t because it isn’t.

The Kid is here because my wife was able to persuade his father to send him to us while he was experiencing an instant of clarity in the midst of his struggle with alcohol. This meant his father not only would not go to jail, but he would also have an opportunity to get treatment and begin to get well.

He managed to bring The Kid to the airport via Über, then persuade security personnel (who typically take a very dim view of someone who is clearly under the influence) to make an exception so that he could take him to the gate,2 and while following through on the promise made to my wife speaks well of his character, it is sad that such was his condition in the first place.

At the moment, The Kid’s father’s struggles are beyond what anyone can even begin to imagine, unless one has lived through the same. The situation is all the more maddening because it is clear that he dearly loves his son, and he strives to be the best dad he can be. There is nothing he wouldn’t do for him including once again getting well, and taking seriously the responsibility for being vigilant in managing his condition.

It is his being responsibile for his condition on a daily basis that is crucial, because this is not his first relapse. Apparently, each one tends to be worse than the one previous – the time between them, shorter – the downward spiral, longer – and each time the odds of recovery diminish until it is all but unlikely.

Therein lies the truly existential threat – because it isn’t just the vital organs like the kidneys, and the liver, that are affected. Matthew Perry’s struggle with drug and alcohol abuse resulted in a rupture of his colon requiring surgery that carried with it only a two-percent chance of survival even if successful, and having to wear a colostomy bag, perhaps permanently.3

What I’ve learned to be a common mentality among those who are in the grips of dependency – whether it is alcohol, prescription medication, or illicit narcotics – the next drink, or the next fix, is all that matters. Clearly, when one is in such a state, one is completely possessed by the addiction, and is not one’s self.

While that may be true, there are consequences for which the The Kid’s father will need to take responsibility. Any relationships with loved ones and others that may have been severely damaged – perhaps irreparably – may or may not be restored or even re-established. In the case of The Kid’s father’s former sponsor, he will have nothing to do with him.

We have since learned that he is once again attending AA meetings, that he is once again attending church, and that he is once again on the road to recovery, with a new job. As glad as we are about this development, for his mother to even entertain discussing when The Kid returns to live with his dad, said recovery will need to be sustained. There cannot be another relapse.

Wrapping Up on a Happier Note
On Sunday, we celebrated The Kid’s ninth birthday with the other two grandkids. We had a party at a nearby pizzeria, then came home for cake, and so that he could open his presents. With everything else that he’s had to cope with – a new living arrangement, a new school, new routines – we made sure that he was honoured on his special day.

There were plenty of presents from his dad, his mom, his aunt and uncle, and his Godparents. For our part, in addition to our gifts, we made sure there was a personalized birthday cake, and we picked up the tab for the food and beverage.

If nothing we ever do for children is wasted4, then we can be sure that we did more than just arrange for and provide a birthday celebration.

Grandma can be sure that she is doing more than just spending time reading to him.

I can be sure that I am doing more than just including him on my Saturday errands.

Hopefully, these will be part of an embarrassment of riches in priceless works of art in his memory the same way that mine are, to me.

Thank you, dear reader, for your indulgence.

Until next time…

Cultural Orphan

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