I am not a fan of chilly weather. This is a well-known fact among my friends and enemies alike, as I make no bones about it. It may have something to do with that traumatic event that occurred when I was a freshly minted baby. I was born in Florida and lived there until I was five days old. That’s when my parents adopted me from the Daisy Hill Puppy Farm and brought me to north Georgia. I am what you would call a “rescue.”
Don’t get me wrong. I love living in the foothills and spending time on the lake. But genetics may have a grip on my gripe with cooler temperatures.
However, this year is different. It isn’t because I am older and more mature. While I am the former by default, I am not even working on the latter. Rather, it everything to do with a certain box in the closet under the stairs that arrived from the 95060-zip code over the summer. And I have been anxious to enjoy its contents ever since.
That is because it contains pullovers from my son. And there’s one sweater in particular that has been a real friend as the days have shortened and the temperatures have dropped.
It isn’t fancy or expensive. Yet, it has a quality and connection that brings an added warmth. It is what you would normally call a hand-me-down. Since it comes from my son, however, I guess it would qualify as a hand-me-up. This is only possible because he and I wear the same size in most things. At one point while he was in high school, we shared a suit. Not at the same time. We took turns.
The sweater arrived along with assorted other sweatshirts and such that he sent back home when he moved from California to Hawaii. They were thrift store bargains that kept him warm on those foggy mornings and cool nights that were a part of where he was living on the West Coast. And something he wouldn’t have to deal with any longer.
He could have easily dropped them back at the thrift shop but knowing my propensity to wear long sleeves in the summer, he knew they would come in handy when the leaves fell and winter came knocking.
Unlike other sweaters in my arsenal of woven yarn (yes, I have quite the collection), this one does more than warm my body. It comforts my soul. Like all parents, I am glad both our children have left the nest and are able to soar on their own. And, like all parents, I miss them.
After spending 18 years washing, cleaning, feeding, encouraging, laughing, crying, fussing and loving those little genetic replicas of you and your spouse every day, you can feel a bit lost when they leave. At least, I did…and still do to a certain extent.
I wear it and watch the leaves fall, each reminding me of autumns that seem more long ago than they really are. Memories of Halloween costumes donned while crusading for candy. There was Superman, Batman, a Jedi and—possibly his best—an old lady, complete with wig, dress and cane. What made that one so great was he didn’t tell anyone what his costume would be. He made quite a splash when he came to the neighborhood Halloweenie roast to debut his creation. If social media existed then and we’d posted his picture, he probably would have received an AARP card in the mail the next week.
Now, when I put on that fuzzy hand-me-up sweater, I feel a warmth that helps bridge the 4250 miles that separate us. I remember when he visited last Christmas for the first time in three years. He wore the sweater several times during his two weeks home. It was an enjoyable time, and now I have a wearable memory. A hug made of cotton and polyester; easily washed and somewhat fashionable.
It was during that visit that he gave me another gift that helps keep us connected. It’s a rock. Small and smooth. Worn by hundreds of years of water washing over it. It had been part of a tower of rocks he made at the beach a month or so before his visit. You see these things along rivers and beaches sometimes. People make them by stacking stone upon stone. Starting big and ending small. They are often called prayer or meditation towers.
He was just starting a business and barely had money for necessities, let alone presents. He returned to the beach to find his pile of rocks still standing. He took one of the small stones from the top to give to me as my Christmas present. What better gift than another connection?
In our youth, we only see ourselves as we are in the now with small glimpses of what could be. We rarely look back and are often embarrassed when our parents start a sentence with “I remember when you…” thinking that they don’t see us for the adults we are struggling to become. At least, that’s the perspective I had as young man.
It is the unique ability as a parent to see our children’s lives all at once…as a whole. We can stand back and take in the entire picture, not just small sections. That isn’t to say that I don’t see him or his sister for the wonderful adults that they have become. I do. It is only in seeing the journey with its struggles and victories that we truly appreciate the destination. Sounds like something you’d read in a fortune cookie, right? But sometimes those sayings are true even if the lottery numbers on the back aren’t.
It is interesting how much meaning a simple object can have. And how varied it can be from person to person. I suppose that is what fascinates me so much about archaeological finds. The bowls. The coins. The everyday objects that people used several hundred years ago that held little significance to their owners beyond the objects intended use. All these years later, they are a bridge to another time—a connection that humanizes history and the people that made it. They were regular people just as we are. And like them, we’re making our own history and building bridges across time with the things we leave behind.
I have chastised myself about the silliness of putting so much meaning into a simple object like a casual garment that will one day be threadbare and discarded, having lived out its usefulness. Or in a simple stone worn smooth by the ocean and having witnessed more years than I could ever hope to live. But as I have considered and reconsidered it, I realize that these objects are more than what they appear to be.
They are entries in the card catalog of the mental library of life—search engines, if you will, to the special times and the special people who helped create them.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to wash this sweater. Not to worry, though. I’ll only be removing the dirt, not the memories.
