Little House on the Precipice

Throughout my life, an image of a sweet little Cape Code style house has on occasion floated through my mind.  I see myself as barely more than a toddler exploring the yard and discovering to my great surprise that the house is on the edge of the world!  The grassy area is enclosed by a fence, but through the wire mesh of the fence I see an enormous hole…the biggest and deepest one I have ever seen in my young life.  Each time the pictures play across my brain, they are accompanied by the feeling that I was supposed to live there, but I know the various places I lived as a child and the memories don’t match up with any of them.

I thought perhaps this was a sort of Freudian dream that had some importance to understanding my psyche.  But, once when I described the house and yard to my mother, she shrugged and said, “Well, we almost lived in a place like that once.”  Although she offered no further details, I decided that it wasn’t symbolic of anything….that it was a genuine memory.

One of my uncles was the last survivor of his generation, and as he approached the end of his life, he reminisced about many things.  Without me asking any questions, he shared one day that my parents had planned to move to a little house located right on the edge of a quarry.  My father had actually made a purchase offer and down-payment on the house.  When he took my grandparents to see it, his father was horrified.  He said, “You cannot move that little child into this house.  It is too dangerous.”

My father, being young, freshly out of World War II and struggling to establish himself, protested that he had already made a payment and couldn’t afford to lose the money.  According to my uncle, my grandfather gave my father the amount of the down-payment, so that he would not move me into that house. 

My grandfather was not a wealthy man.  He was a blue-collar worker who had raised his family in the Depression.  He died at the age of 69, when I was only 6 years old.  My memories of him are few and not as intense as those of the other three grandparents who lived until I was a “tween.”  I do remember that he took me for long rides in my wagon, and that he had a hearty laugh.

To these, I now add and treasure the memory of his concern for me.

Stranger on a Plane

During the second leg of our journey yesterday, my husband and I were assigned seats on the plane that were not together.  We aren't sure how this happened as he had booked the tickets several weeks ago.  The agent at the departure counter was at least able to change our seating so that we were across the aisle from one another. He sat next to a man wearing a headset, who was not at all interactive.  I sat next to 9 and 12 year old boys.  Their mother and sister were in the row behind us.  I tried offering that my husband and I would switch seats with the mother and her daughter, so that their family group would all be within sight of each other.  She declined.  My offer was not entirely altruistic.


I repeat.  I sat next to 9 and 12 year old boys...on a four hour flight.


The mom had plenty of food along which she passed between the seats to the boys.  The 9 year old, who was next to me, ate a sandwich wrap as soon as we were airborne.  It was filled with lettuce, other veggies and chunks of chicken, which fell out in all directions as he ate.  I actually found this somewhat amusing, but only because I am not the one who cleans the plane.


The boys were remarkably well behaved for the first three hours.  They had electronic games to keep them busy.  However, after that time period, they apparently hit the wall and began hitting each other.  I had not tried to engage them in conversation prior to this, not knowing how the mother would feel about a stranger behaving like a grandmother.  But, when the punching started I told the boys to "cool it," and then started to talk to them to distract them from each other.


At first the older boy, who was next to the window, talked to me briefly, telling me their names and ages, where they lived, and where they were going.  That produced a hiatus in the altercation.  When things heated up again, I talked to the younger boy who was sitting next to me.  I learned that he is a twin to his sister, that his favorite subject in school is PE (because recess is sometimes boring), that he likes lacrosse, and that they were on their way to a skiing vacation for two weeks.  We covered a great many other topics.  His most poignant comment was this:
"I have a grandfather that lives in Maine."
I asked, "Where in Maine?"  
"I don't know, " he replied.  "We never visit him," and then wistfully and with a slight shrug, "I don't know why."


I thought about my two granddaughters who live in Maine, and how much I enjoy visiting them.  I wondered what family dynamics caused the lack of visits for which the boy had no explanation.  I didn't ask any questions, although my head was spinning with them. "Is the grandfather, the father of an ex-husband?  Is he a drunk or otherwise undesirable person for children to be around?  Is he the mother's father, and are they estranged?"  I didn't want to be a busy-body stranger on the plane, so I took the conversation in another direction.


But, I wonder if the grandfather's heart aches over this.  I think a little boy's heart does.  Being a 9 year old boy, I doubt that he dwells on it, but when it occurs to him, there is a twinge.


Sometimes as adults, we make decisions with little thought as to the impact on children.  We think they are oblivious, but a stranger on a plane may learn otherwise.