The Boy Felt Lost

It was one of those almost perfect early summer days. The boy sat on a large lower branch of the ancient oak tree 8 or 10 feet above the ground.  Above him a hawk circled against the bright blue sky.  He was so glad that school was out for the year. He was looking ahead to a summer filled with wading in the creek, fishing, riding his bicycle, swimming, playing in the woods, or building hay bale forts in the haymow of the barn.

The school year that had ended two weeks earlier had not been a happy time. Teachers told his parents that he was a bright boy but not working up to his potential. His grades were not failing, but achievement seldom exceeded average.  He really didn’t understand how it was possible that he was “bright” when he found school so challenging.  It was hard for him to stay on task, his mind wanted to go everywhere except to the task or subject at hand.  

Those academic issues had been difficult for his father to understand or to know how to help.  His father had been an exceptional student who had brought home report cards full of A or B grades.  His Dad would get so frustrated trying to help with math...Often that frustration turned to angry frustration,  and his anger just made those sessions all the more unhelpful. His father had also been a good athlete and had excelled and enjoyed both baseball and basketball during his youth.  Throwing, hitting, or kicking balls felt awkward for the boy.  

The boy idolized his father.  He always had. Even before he knew the definition of the word ‘hero’ he thought of his father in that way.  He wanted to be the man that was his father.  He wanted to please his father but had no idea how to do that.  He often felt that he didn’t fit in at school, he felt adrift and in some indescribable way he also felt different, but couldn’t explain that either.  He climbed down from the tree and then over the fence into the adjoining open woods where a dozen cattle grazed quietly.  

The boy moved effortlessly through the herd and down the hill to the creek where he found some small flat stones which he skipped over the smooth surface of the slow moving water.  A trick his dad had taught him.  

A splash in the creek got his attention…it was a muskrat and the sound had startled him out of a day dream.  He decided it would be a good day to do some fishing and he walked back home, found a can in the trash and went looking for some bait.  He easily found a dozen or so worms under some old boards out in the barnyard, got his fishing pole from the shed and returned to the creek where he made himself a nest in the thick grass at the bank, baited the hook and dropped it into the water.   That day he caught a couple of sunfish, a bluegill, 3 small catfish, and some 6 or 8 inch chubs.  He released them all back into the creek.  He wondered if he had ever hooked any of them before. 

Today that boy (me) is more than 70 years old but occasionally he feels as if  he is still recovering from his childhood.  "What the hell?" you say, and if you know me you would be right to feel surprised by my statement.  My childhood wasn't tragic, I wasn't abused, didn't go hungry, had a warm bed every night of my life, had friends and a 320 acre farm including a creek and woods to play in.   There were fish, frogs and turtles to be caught, hay mows to climb in and bikes to ride.  I just wish my relationship with dad had been closer.  There are times when I still get a nagging feeling that I disappointed him.  I understand that might just be stuff in my brain and not having any relationship to the truth.  

 

 

Many of us, or maybe it would be more accurate to say "most of us" have dozens, or hundreds of photographs of family members that we treasure.  If we are lucky we could have photographs of 5 or 6 or even 7 generations all carefully and lovingly organized into scrapbooks, photo albums, or stored in boxes, file folders or maybe framed and hanging on the living room wall.   They are pictures of ourselves, our siblings, parents, children, grandchildren, grandparents, great grandparents, cousins, and other relatives and friends.  In total that big collection of photographs make up the visual history of ourselves and our families.  

Would you be willing to gather up your family photographs, pile them in the back yard, douse them with gasoline and strike a match to the pile?  Of course not,  but many of us are blindly setting into motion that very ending of those cherished pieces of our history.  A lot of us will go to great lengths to make sure that such family treasures get passed along to those who will appreciate them but let me describe one oversight that too many of us, and our grandparents have made that makes it much less likely that those treasures will survive into the future.  

The one thing that will doom the preservation of those photographs by those who follow us is the lack of identification on them.  Just that simple.   Document the faces or those faces will become lost to history sooner than you ever thought.