Elijah no longer watches CNN or any other news channels. He’s become a Gopher — a Minnesota Gopher fan, but he doesn’t care about sports or any kind of competition. He’s all smiles watching his mobile characters stroll across his crib, enjoying the music and his mother’s and grandmother’s voices.
We should all be so happy!
Elijah is not happy when he arrives at Grandpa’s and Grandma’s at dinner time. Adult dinner-time, not his! Elijah still eats every two hours, all day, all night.
He hates his car seat.
He yells and screams at Mom for the 20-minute drive from Mom’s to his Grandparents’ home in Chaska.
The conversation begins while removing the straps of his straitjacket.
“Elijah, Mom needs you to be quiet when she’s driving. You need to be more respectful. Mom has needs, too.”
“No she doesn’t! Mom’s a warden! I hate that cell!!!”
“No, Mom loves you! She’s not a warden; the car is not a prison; and your car seat is nothing like a prison cell.”
“Uh-huh!!! I thought you were my friend! You’re just like Mom! You don’t care about me. You think I’m just a thing, like my car seat. I’m not coming here anymore.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way. Do you want me to get you out of your car seat or not?”
“No! I’m staying here just like Martin Sostre did in solitary confinement because he refused to submit to the warden’s rules.”
“Well, Martin’s case was altogether different. Martin was a political prisoner at Clinton Correctional Facility in Dannemora, New York. Chaska’s a long way from Dannemora.”
“You loved Martin more than you love me, and Martin wasn’t even your grandson!”
“Well, there’s a big difference between you and Martin. Martin was a man of courage. He didn’t scream and yell. He didn’t cry. Martin didn’t terrorize his mother.”
“You care more about people who aren’t members of the family than you do about me! That’s not right! Martin was a criminal. I’m a prisoner, but I’m no criminal.”
“Elijah, there’s a big difference. Martin was an adult. He wasn’t in solitary for his own safety. He was put there to humiliate him. Mom puts you in your car seat to keep you safe.”
“Uh-huh! And because she’s enforcing the law! Mom’s a warden and you’re a guard! How come you won’t help me! I’m your grandson! I’m gonna go on a hunger strike!”
“Well, okay. But remember. If you go on a hunger strike, you’ll still get strapped in your car seat. The only things a hunger strike would change are you’ll make Mom happy ’cause she doesn’t have to feed you every two hours . . . and you’re going to starve.”
“That’s not fair!””
“No, it’s not, Elijah. Life’s not fair. As my old football coach used to say, ‘Life is tough! You must learn to adjust.”
“Not in my car seat!”
Elijah and Grandpa had just read the President’s tweet about Mika Brzezinski when Elijah said a bad word.
“You need to be more respectful of the President!”
“Why?” asked Elijah. “He’s not my President! Look what he just did to Mika! What’s he have to do that for! He’s mean, Grandpa!”
“I wish I knew, Elijah. Most of his tweets happen when he wakes up early in the morning.”
“Maybe he needs to be nursed as soon as he wakes up. That always calms me down.”
“Well, I’m afraid Donald Trump’s mother is way beyond being able to nurse him. She’s really old, way older than Grandpa, Elijah.”
“Then you should call the White House. They should give him a bottle as soon as he wakes up before he attacks another mother! When he stops tweeting insults at women like Mika, I’ll stop calling him a mother.”
She was homeless when he welcomed her into his parents’ new townhouse. So far as the parents knew, she was “sort of” their adult son’s “girlfriend” but they weren’t exactly sure what their relationship was. It was strange. It didn’t seem romantic. She seemed different.
Among the neighbors everything seemed fine until the squad cars’ flashing red lights lit up the street and four uniformed police officers ran by their homes reaching for their holsters. Something was different.
The parents of the son who’d invited the son’s “girlfriend” to live with them had called 911 after a screaming meltdown in the upstairs bathroom where their guest had poked huge holes in the walls with the towel fixtures she had yanked from the walls and had threatened to kill everyone in the house.
When the police arrived and called upstairs, she calmly came downstairs, curious to see what the ruckus was about, appearing calm as a cucumber, without a care in the world while the son’s mother sat trembling with her head between her hands and the 35 year-old son stepped outside for a smoke.
No charges were filed. The parents had come to realize over time that the girlfriend had “some problems” and thought they could help her. The four of them continued to occupy the house after the incident was “resolved” by the police visit.
Two months later the red lights appeared again after another upstairs commotion left the son’s face looking like Rocky Balboa after his fight with Apollo Creed. This time the girlfriend was no Adrian. Adrian had acted like Apollo…with a knife.
This time Rocky was rushed to the emergency room. Adrian was taken away in handcuffs, screaming at the officers, the boyfriend, and his parents, for another committal to a mental health facility for violation of probation resulting from previous domestic assaults. The parents stayed where they are, dumbfounded how compassion can turn out so badly.
“Life is like an onion. You peel it off one layer at a time,” said Carl Sandburg, “and sometimes you weep.”
Elijah’s Mom, and Grandma just learned of Pumphouse Creamery. They’re getting excited. They want Grandpa to drive them to the Pumphouse for ice cream.
Elijah’s never had ice cream.
In a pinch, he’s had pumped milk, but he’s never been to the Pumphouse. Listening to Grandma talk about all the flavors and the Sundaes, Elijah’s starting to get excited.
Elijah, they have special flavors at the Pumphouse.
Like what?
Like Madagascar Vanilla, Fresh Rhubarb, and Belgian Chocolate.
Are they organic? I can only do organic.
Yes, Elijah, they’re mostly organic. It’s handcrafted ice cream that starts with natural, organic and locally-sourced ingredients. It says so right on the Pumphouse website.
Grandma, do I have to go in that car seat?
Yes. We’ll take you in your car seat.
I’m going to tell Grandpa! I hate my car seat! Sometimes Mom pumps right here in our own little pump house!
Grandpa, who are the Twins? What’s baseball?
Well, Elijah, the Twins are Grandpa’s team.
What’s a team?
That’s a little like us – more than two people working for the same goal.
Yeah, like us! Trying to sleep through the night so Mom can get some sleep. Right, Grandpa?
Right! Because you and Mom are on the same team. She’s the Manager. You’re her only player.
I thought you said we were Twins. How can I be the only player if I’m a Twin?
Well, you and I are Twins. Mom, not so much. Mom likes basketball.
We’re twins?! How’d that happen? You’re old. REALLY old. Poor mom! She must have been in labor a long time. Wow! How old is Mom?
No, Mom’s a lot younger. We’re not twins like that. We’re Twins FANS. We watch baseball. The Twins are our favorite team. When I was your age I was a Boston Red Sox fan . . . but I didn’t know it yet. Then we moved to Philadelphia and Grandpa became a Phillies fan. And then a Cleveland Indians, fan; and then a Cincinnati Reds fan; and now I’m a Twins fan. We love baseball.
Yeah. That’s what we’re watching, right, Grandpa? BORING!
It is, Elijah. Baseball’s much more fun to play that it is to watch. Some day you’re going to be a slugger! But remember our conversation yesterday about day and night? You need to stay awake until it’s bedtime so you and Mom can sleep through the night. Mom’s the Manager. Without Mom you don’t have a team. You’re on Mom’s team.
Yeah. I’m on Mom’s team. And we’re twins. And night is when the sun goes to sleep. The sun went to sleep hours ago. Good-night, Grandpa.
Elijah is confused. He thinks night is day and day is night. Which is very inconsiderate of his mother.
Elijah, you’re three weeks old now. You need to start sleeping at night.
What’s night, Grandpa?
Well, night is when it gets dark. It’s when the sun goes to sleep.
I like to sleep in the light. It makes me feel safe. Mom’s happier in the light.
No, she’s not. She’s really not. You need to be more considerate.
Uh uh! Mom’s afraid of the dark!
No, Elijah, she likes the dark. She just wants to sleep all the way through the night.
But what about me? I get hungry in the night! I need Mom.
I know you do. And she needs you. She trying to teach you something important.
Like what?
Well, like “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” When you don’t sleep at night, you’re not treating Mom the way you want to be treated.
Grandpa, I just get hungry a lot. Mom loves me as she loves herself . . . . Doesn’t she?
She does, Elijah. She does! But she needs your help. Mom needs her sleep. She just needs you to get into a biblical rhythm, like it says in the Bible. “In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters. Then God said, ‘Let there be light’; and there was light. And God saw that the light was good; and God separated the light from the darkness. God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And there was evening and there was morning, the first day.”
Wow! God can talk?!
Yes. And right now Grandpa is God talking. If you want Mom to treat you the way you want be treated, you need to sleep through the night. Otherwise you won’t get fed. There will be a formless void and darkness all the time!
“Grandpa, I’ve already learned to swim, and pretty soon I get to go to kindergarten, right? Will my kindergarten teacher teach me everything I need to know, like Miss Britten and Robert Fulghum taught you before you got to be decrepit?
“Remember, Grandpa, what Rev. Fulghum said? ‘Don’t worry that children never listen to you; worry that they are always watching you.'”
When I’m old like you, will I still smile? Or will I be a frowning curmudgeon?
How much of you is written already by the latest rendition of the old doctrine of predestination? Not so much by religious predestination as by your DNA? Or are predestination and DNA the same?
Reconnecting with the second cousin from the Andrews family raises the questions. I’d only met her once sixty years ago, yet, like twins separated by distance and circumstance, the parallels of perception, pencraft, and psyche are unmistakable.
Mr. Rogers assured the children that each of them was special. I like the sentiment but have preferred the word ‘unique’. None of us is nearly as ‘special’ as we’re prone to think we are, but, come to think of it, neither is any of us quite as unique as ego might lead us to think.
As Carl Sandburg reminded me, “O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie inside my ribs!” Many of the creatures in my zoo were not of my choosing. They were, you might say, predestined. They predetermined me. Some of them date back to the Andrews family in Andrews Hollow, Maine, and as farther back into time than memory can follow.
After several days away from writing for Views from the Edge, today’s Daily Post invitation to write something about ‘revelation’ struck a familiar chord, so to speak.
Andrews Casket Company mill in Woodstock, ME
Earlier this week an email arrived from a complete stranger who believed we were family. In a google search she had come across Views from the Edge’s photograph of the Andrews’ family property.
What’s that have to do with ‘revelation’?
It revealed a blood relative I didn’t know existed and led to the correspondence with the second-cousin I’d only met once on the old Andrews’ homestead years ago but had never forgotten.
The emails we’ve exchanged have removed the cover (i.e., ‘revealed’) from family origins that had remained hidden for almost 75 years.
The reflections of the second-cousin who grew up on the ancestral property of the Andrews family help explain both the sense of homesickness and forlornness I felt while visiting “The Hollow” last month. The latest visit confirmed the feeling expressed in “The Forlorn Children of the Mayflower” in “Be Still!”
Until this week’s correspondence, I hadn’t know the property was “The Hollow” to the relatives who grew up there, or as “Andrews Hollow” to the those whose relatives’ funerals had been handled by the Andrews family. It all came as a revelation.
So, today I take time out to write this post in reply to The Daily Post’s invitation. Perhaps life itself is a life-long pilgrimage of revelation – the unveiling of the deeper chords and cords of the DNA that lives on in the tissues and bloodstreams of later generations.
Views from the Edge 