Footprints in the Mud

grandfather grandson

I grew up as a young lad on a farm in eastern Washington State—high desert for those of you who have never visited this northwest region of America. We were “dry land farmers,” more than a few of whom possessed sturdy Danish heritage. Grain crops varied in bushels per acre depending on a rainfall averaging 7-15 inches annually. It goes without saying, when the rains came, it was gratefully received.

And for me the rain was first and foremost an excuse to play. To carve out mighty rivers from ruts in the dirt road in front of our home. To turn small puddles into great lakes, and blocks of wood into battleships and aircraft carriers fighting wars in which the good guys always won. To dream, to imagine, and to play as raindrops fell during springtime squalls was a grand occupation for a boy who lived in the country.

A time to leave footprints in the mud.

Eventually, however, the rains ceased. The sun came out. And all too quickly, things changed. The road steamed and baked in the heat of the day. Mighty rivers and great lakes that had been scenes of great battles quickly disappeared. Cars and trucks, tractors and animals ran over them. Imagining was over. Reality set in, and life went on.

The footprints were gone.

A few weeks ago we took our 10-year-old grandson, Jesse, who was visiting from Savannah, Georgia, to the farm where his grandpa grew up, and where his own father had spent two summers working. I wanted him to experience …what? A childhood memory? How it was when I was 10? We stood on the roadway and looked around. Everything was the same. And everything was different, too. The dirt road was still there, but it too had changed somehow. Or was it I who had changed? Was this a mere youthful regression or would it arrange itself meaningfully in the memories of our grandson?

Memory is a beautiful gift, reminding us of where we’ve been, what we’ve done, how we’ve lived our lives. We can share it (and we should) with our children and theirs. But we can’t expect it to be for them what it was for us. Times have changed. These are the days of Wii, Nintendo DS, Xbox 360 and Playstation 3; cell phones and movies on demand. We can’t possibly connect with the generations that follow us. Or can we?

I watched the evening turn into night as we sat ‘round an outdoor fire, cooked burgers and chili and roasted marshmallows, while Jesse and his cousin’s dog wore each other down chasing a ball. And later, working at a table, I watched him form up the “Seven Wonders of the World” with wood blocks of varied shapes. Impressive to say the least. Why hadn’t I thought of doing that? Then he took pictures of it with his Nintendo DSi. Okay, there are some things I could never have thought about. One thing for sure though, new/old toys do mingle. So do new/old ideas and experiences. And new/old generations.

After almost two weeks together, we sat with Jesse in the airport, waiting for his call to board the plane and begin the journey home (one more thing I never dreamed of doing when I was 10). Just before it was time to go, he looked up at us and said quietly, “I’m sure going to miss you!” My words exactly.

 

What are the takeaways for each of us? Here are three:

  1. We can and should share our past with those who follow us; we just can’t live there.
  2. It is a new day, but dogs and balls and burgers and chili, roasted marshmallows and wooden blocks still work their magic with any generation. Linking the changeless with that which is ever changing is a good thing for any generation.
  3. When connecting across the ages, with 50s or 30somethings or teens or even 10 year-olds, often all it really takes is enough time invested in listening, reflecting, laughing and sharing.

…And making footprints in the mud.

 

 

 

 

 

Ward