Deep Waters

I've long been enthralled with the sea, the ocean, the beach, the waves crashing, tides rising and falling, and the hidden things of deep.

Today is no different, and yet it is.  The sun is setting, sinking lower in a cotton candy colored sky and I watch and listen to these that are mine.  My husband.  My son.  My daughters.

I sit in the soft, wet sand with a baby on my lap or sometimes at my side.  She's one now, not yet walking, but exploring constantly.  She digs fingers and toes into the sand and splashes as waves bring briny water over my legs and into her lap.  She watches as her big brother digs for tiny clams.  When he offers her one for examination it goes straight to her mouth and immediately back out.  She looks curiously and digs her fat baby fingers into sand, searching for a treasure of her own. 

 The waves toss white foam and the older three make their own discoveries. 

Nicholas, now 7, battles the waves valiantly, charging into surf, no longer needing a grown up hand to feel confident.  He jumps, he punches, he crashes into them as they crash into him.  When he's knocked down, he comes up tugging at trunks that have slipped a bit below modest, wiping salty sting from his eyes, and turns to meet the next challenge.  He's becoming stronger and more independent right before my eyes.  He calls back warnings to younger sisters, and occasionally takes one by the hand, leading her into the adventure.

 Mackenzie is 5 and she loves to do whatever her big brother does.  Where she once was fearless, because she simply didn't know to be afraid, she has learned to be a bit more cautious.  She wants to go deeper, but she wants Daddy with her.  She holds a hand or sits comfortably on his hip, arms wrapped securely around his neck, and they move into the waves.  She runs along the edge of the water and points our her favorite pinks and purples in the setting sun.

Annie grins as she "tip-toes" along to try to catch a bird.  She's content in the soft sand and may occasionally venture onto the packed wet portion, just to wet her toes, but she doesn't care much for the waves right now.  She's collecting...pieces of seaweed, driftwood, rocks, piles of sand, some shells. 

These that are mine, they are each so exquisite in the magical light of the setting sun.  Water glimmers and wet skin reflects and they're brilliant.  And I realize that they are also deep waters. 

This man, who fathered these children of mine, who is a safe place when waves roll round, that even as I know him and am known by him, has such depth that I may never fully know.
 
This boy child, the first to swim in the salty fluid places of my womb, growing by bits and pieces toward manhood. 

The first girl, the one that doesn't speak unless she's very comfortable, she runs with grace and has a tenderness in her touch. 

The second girl, with giggles and grins, with silly dances and always something to entertain her self.

This little one, with squishy arms and legs, with curious eyes, with a little voice that sounds so sweet with a few words, the one who makes demands that are sometimes incomprehensible, this one that changes daily as she learns new skills.

I see just this tiny coastal view of who they are now and who they'll be farther from me and there's so much more over the horizon that I can't even begin to know. 

My heart is full and my own salty waters spill over lashes and down cheeks to mix in the sands with this ocean.

My Papa

Some people have grandfathers that smell of Old Spice and tell tales like those of H.C. Andersen and C.S. Lewis. I'm not one of those people. My grandfathers are admirable men, but there aren't greeting cards available that capture just what you'd want to say on Father's Day. This is the gift I gave my Papa last Father's Day...

My Papa is a mechanic by trade. Not the kind of mechanic that went to a vocational school or had any sort of special training, but the kind that began learning, at a very young age, the way things worked by his own experience, using his own hands. 
 

He has strong hands, my Papa, full of skill, usually with a few bandage wrapped knuckles and grease around the fingernails, scarred from use and wrinkled with time. His hands have built countless engines, repaired carburetors and transmissions. They’ve built houses, sheds, and his very own garage. “Come here scootie, come see Papa for a minute,” he says as those rough hands lift small children onto his lap and hold them close so that he can tenderly hold the child’s hand in his own and brush the back of it against his ever-present chin stubble--which usually brings a smile to the child and always releases a grin from Papa.

He has clear blue eyes, my Papa, that glisten with sorrow when he hears of tragedy or speaks of the girl he loved for more than fifty years. They almost sparkle when he sees “the grandbabies” and seem to dance a little when he offers his standard greeting of, “Yeah, how ya’ doin’?”

He has a loud voice, my Papa, which might lead you to believe that his hearing is not so good, but you’d be wrong. Sitting on the front porch he can hear a car before it rounds the curve and tell you if it’s a “front-end-pull or back-end-push”, if it’s idling too high or too low, and if you say it’s “pinging, knocking, or rumbling,” he’ll know just what to do.

His ears aren’t just attuned to the problems associated with cars, but he also hears their drivers. From his garage he offers automotive repairs and his own brand of counseling. His words are direct and to the point, but I’ve found great value in really listening to what he says. It sometimes takes a little bit of translation or interpretation, but if you look just beneath the surface, there are valuable lessons to be learned from his advice.

“Once you make a bid, you gotta commit. Just keep the pedal down and don’t let up ‘til you get across,” he told me as I relayed the story of wanting to cross the median of a divided highway to avoid a major traffic jam. His words made me smile as I imagined the number of times he’d probably done this very thing. I understood that he meant don’t start something that you don’t intend to finish and once you’ve started, give it all you’ve got if you really want your efforts to succeed.

“You ought always have ya’ keys in ya’ pants pocket. That way, if ya’ got your pants on, you got your keys,” he explained to my brother after realizing he’d left his keys at someone’s house and couldn’t drive himself home. Papa’s words are true and seem quite obvious, but once again, there is vital information just beneath the surface. Be intentional, even with the obvious things. Be aware of your priorities and make sure you do what needs to be done in advance so that you’ll have the freedom to do what you want to do in the future.

“Keep a wrench or screwdriver, some WD-40 and a grease rag behind the driver’s seat” is a piece of advice that most of us heard as we got behind the wheel of our first car (most often one that frequently required the use of these items). Papa encourages us to be prepared for difficulties and be able to handle it, to some degree, on our own. He’s willing to pick you up on the side of the road somewhere and tow you back to the garage, but it’s always helpful if you have the required supplies behind the driver’s seat.

He has quite a heart, my Papa, that beats loyally after multiple surgeries and near death experiences that range from chain saw incidents to falling cars. His heart is filled with love for those he holds dear. It is the heart that makes him willing to help you out by cashing a check or making a run to the “parts house”, a heart that sometimes grumbles, but always loves and hopes for the best life has to offer us. A heart filled with devotion for family, good food, and Fords. And like any truly devoted man, he doesn’t compromise in his choice to continue loving, even when his words are sometimes harsh, his actions sharp or impatient, and his obvious disagreement with bad decisions we’ve made.

It’s like the way he wears coveralls over his Sunday clothes. The exterior may be a bit rough around the edges, but if you can get underneath it you’ll see what a fine man my Papa is.