Sails Below the Horizon

Note: This essay originally appeared under my previous blog's banner, "Pouring Music From a Cup" 2015. The sentiments remain the same, though, no matter where we are, as long as we are father and son.

     My man child turned 18 in November and spent his first birthday away from home. He got a visit from the parental units that weekend because there happened to be a home football game and his mama wasn’t about to let the day of her first-born’s birth go unacknowledged, if only on a minor scale. But the man child wasn’t able to come home to be properly recognized, which is where birthdays should be celebrated, until Thanksgiving. Even then he only had a couple of days of down time at home . . . just enough to kick off his boots, raid the refrigerator a few times, and monopolize the couch and TV remote before gathering his things and heading back to the Land of Higher Education. Wanting to maximize our time together, he and I spent an evening at Cavender’s western outfitters- his favorite store -the second night he was home, and I had him pick out a couple of shirts he liked- the birthday gift I hadn’t trusted myself to choose tastefully according to a discerning 18-year-old Texan’s eye.

     Our man child was glad to be home, and we were glad to have him back. But soon enough he was on his way back to school, and he was none too thrilled about it. Understand now, this is a young man who had wanted to go to Texas A&M ever since he heard his first “Whoop!”, ever since he was in intermediate school. Who had gone to a football game or two at Kyle Field in recent years, at the strong encouragement of his Aggie mother and indifference on the part of his skeptical, non-Aggie father. Who had toured the campus informally numerous times with his Aggie mother because . . . well, because his mind and vision were dialed in on College Station before he was halfway through high school. As an Aggie outsider and a dad secretly hoping his first born would go to a different school, possibly back east (Virginia Tech and Ohio State, for example, were both temporarily on the radar screen), I more or less recused myself from the whole college search process once it became clear that A&M and Clay were honing in on one another. There was little I could do to alter the direction of that particular comet, so I resigned myself to catching its tail and reluctantly went along for the ride. 

     Well, it’s been sufficiently documented in the half year since my man child and Texas A&M accepted each other that dad’s had a major paradigm shift; that he’s drunk the A&M, Corps of Cadets, and Fightin’ Texas Aggie Band Kool-Aid. He now refers to the A&M campus as “the Promised Land,” much to the amusement (and slight exasperation) of the true Aggies, at work and at home. It’s also been sufficiently assumed by that same jumpin’ Jesus dad that his son has been buoyed enough by his old man’s reborn enthusiasm for all things maroon that, while the man child would be enthusiastic about his impending and well-deserved four-week break for Christmas, he would also be enthusiastic about returning to his “hole” (dorm room) and “buddies” (fellow freshmen BQs in his outfit). It’s been assumed, too . . . well, decidedly, it’s been known . . . that Dad, being the sentimental sap that he is, was not looking forward to his son’s eventual departure to the “Promised Land.”

     The Christmas break went by much too rapidly, and far too many activities he and I had planned and talked about doing when he got home never got done. Oh, we did plenty, many including his brother and some including his brother and mother, and one or two involving all four of us, but my desire to cram in all of the things he and I wanted to do in those four weeks went largely unfulfilled- enough so, that I felt as though I had let him (and myself) down. Knowing he would soon be on his way, I wanted to repeat a thousand pleasant memories of things small and great he and I had done when he was just a little cowboy who had to reach up to hold my hand and all the things we got used to doing together over the years since. 

     As we left Fort Worth this afternoon on our way back to College Station, I had to ask the obvious question: “You have mixed feelings about going back?" His answer was spontaneous and honest. There was little doubt in my mind before we ever left the house that he wasn't anxious to get on the road, and his response confirmed it. He spoke of how conflicted he felt: “Some people,” he said, “and I know you’re one of them, like to move around and change from one place to another. When you’re in one place, you’d rather be somewhere else. But I’m not like that. I like to stay in one place. I mean, I’ve lived here (Keller) almost 18 years- it’s the only home I’ve ever known.”

     “Now wait a minute,” I interjected, “weren’t you the one who always said how much you loved A&M and couldn’t wait to get to College Station?”

     “Yes, but I wasn’t living there.” 

     “I lived on campus at Tennessee,” I reminded him.

     “Okay, but you had things to do there. Knoxville’s a lot bigger.” 

     “That’s true,” I said. “I did have the mountains nearby. But even then, they were two hours away.”

     “I understand that. But when you were at Tennessee, you were just a few miles from your home.” Not entirely true, I corrected him. Knoxville was home for the last two years of high school before my family moved to Texas and I left for college in Boston. 

     “And why did you transfer to Tennessee?” he asked. 

     “Because-"

     “Because it was home,” he answered for me. “You wanted to be home.”

     Home. That was the word that nailed me. I realized when he said that, that in spite of my frequent doubts and second-guesses, I had succeeded as a father. Not only do I have the kind of relationship with my son (both of my sons, actually) that allows us to talk openly and freely with each other about pretty much any topic- and, yes, there are plenty of times we don’t even come close to agreeing -but that his mother and I succeeded in providing the safe harbor every son or daughter needs and yearns to return to in times of storm and calm. In spite of all his new responsibilities and friends and independence, my man child still feels at home, at home. Not to be confused with feeling entitled or lazy or afraid, he knows he is and always has been loved. Accepted. Welcome. 

     We talked about many things on the three hour drive to College Station, some topics general and lightweight in content, others personal and candid. These kinds of talks are not rare with my boys, but they can be infrequent with my man child by virtue of the fact that he is not the kind of person to reveal his feelings, and I am just the opposite- a conversational recipe that can easily lead to awkward silences or irritated shrugs of the shoulders.

     But here’s the thing: I did not want to return him to College Station, and he did not want to go. In spite of the remarkable success he has had in his first semester; in spite of the enormous, almost embarrassing, pride I take in him as a member of the Corps of Cadets; in spite of the fact that I can’t help smiling as I watch him becoming a man . . . in spite of everything that announces to the world that a new young man who is intent on contributing good to life has taken notice of the horizon, I am a selfish dad. I want my son and my friend to stay home. He wants it too. Yet, he knows every bit as well as I do that home is not where he belongs anymore. Whether or not he and I want to admit it, his ship has sailed. 

     I miss him every day, though I take comfort in knowing that he will from time to time sail against the current and return to the ones who love him true. But for now, he’s on his way to a destination that is his and his alone. My joy and my pain are to stand on the shore and watch as his sails disappear below the horizon. 

     Godspeed, my son.