Free At Last

I’m sitting in the truck watching, trying to understand it. I’m wondering how I can ever explain it. I sit and try to understand why it’s a beautiful scene.

The Grandkids are climbing on a gravel pile. It’s sizeable by any standards, but to them it must be like climbing Everest. They take turns trying to run up the side. They slide down one side and then the other. The littlest, at 4, tries going down head first. He survives, so the bigger kids try it too.

This little play date is near the last of the summer. The kids will go back to the city, and to school. They’ll be deep into the morning rush to catch the bus. There’ll be homework and a plethora of after school activities and events before falling into an exhausted sleep.
But for now, it’s “The good Ship Summer” and Grandpa is the cruise director. The kids can’t imagine it, but Grandpa has painfully few summers left in him. He’s starting to feel the urge to make the most of the ones he has.

Maybe it’s really a grasp to catch a little of life in the moment. The kids have no thought of civilization or rules or responsibility. They’re purely in the moment. Their universe consists of their comrades, the sky, and the mountain of rock.

The previous days were spent camping, if that’s what you call it when you take your air conditioned comfort with you to the country. There were butterflies to admire, hills to climb, and frogs to chase. There was the creek, oh yes, the creek.

All the rules were broken. The slide down the muddy bank into the unpasteurized water stirred up billions of germs and other foul things. Hands weren’t washed or feet wiped. Maps were useless in the uncharted meandering stream bed. Every curve held a surprise and a new obstacle. I followed the little explorers and for a moment became 8 again, seeing this for the first time. Tomorrow could bring itchy insect bites and allergic sneezing, but not this day. This day it was just the eternal creek and its treasures.
The sun started sinking and I led the explorers back to the world.

We threw caution and common sense to the wind. After brief instructions the kids each split wood and emerged with all of their limbs intact. Their parents would never allow it, yet we ventured on. They learned about matches, and used them to light the fire. No one died, and another memory was fused into the little brains.

Our being completely out of control exhilarated us. Rules are made to be broken, and we complied. I let the kids ride in the bed of the truck, which was so alien to them they thought they’d gone to heaven. I even left my seatbelt off in disobedience to everything we’ve been taught for the last 40 years, and it felt wonderful.

The natural culmination of our civil disobedience resulted in each child, in turn, taking the wheel and driving over hill and dale. The conveyance was permeated with the fear and joy of piloting a real truck in contradiction to everything parents and police enforce.

We grew into wild things, and charted our own destinies. We had no fear of anyone or anything. Rules of etiquette and safety were alien and indecipherable. Each of us was truly free. Each of us survived and thrived without the ever present, debilitating rules against everything fun. We wore no helmets, no shin guards, and used no sanitizer. We survived. More importantly, we really lived. For them, they really lived for the first time in their lives. For me, it was the first time in decades that I’d really lived.

The sky is showing red streaks and the pile of gravel in noticeably shorter and wider. It’s time to go back to the grind of school and practice and homework. Maybe in half a century they’ll each come back and lead their Grandkids down a creek and up this very mountain of rocks. Maybe in half a century they’ll each throw caution to the wind and live free for one last summer. Maybe I’ll somehow be there with them, watching. We’ll all be truly free for just a while.