HERB BENHAM: After we were finished, life raised our children
| Monday, Oct 26 2009 03:45 PM
Last Updated Monday, Oct 26 2009 03:45 PM
Saturday, I went to a wedding reception. The wedding had been in Hawaii. This was the after party.
The reception was deep in Rosedale. You could see the almond trees at the end of the street. A half-finished housing tract sat frozen to the south.
This isn't about the housing market, Hawaii or the price of almonds. It's about growing up. Growing up and those of us who are surprised when it happens.
I didn't have a lot of business being at the reception. I was Tier Two. Tier One was my son Sam and his friends, who went to high school with Kris, the groom.
They are 23 now. Maybe 24. In that range, up or down.
Every school class is different. Parents know what this means. Some are quiet, almost tepid, hard- to-remember names.
Some aren't. Not only do you remember names but incidents -- as vivid as crime scenes. How a phone call can turn inner peace into vertigo.
Was Sam's class really as wild as it seemed? The boys, as one father described them, were full of personality. That, coupled with a bravado and fearlessness, kept their parents as balanced as a Great Dane on a rubber raft.
We sat on the patio in the backyard overlooking the pool and watched guests arrive. I greeted the groom and met his wife. They had been high school sweethearts. Now they were partners, and Kris worked for her father in an environmental testing business.
Kris walked right over. Opened his arms. We held on. He and his older brother had navigated a tricky childhood that had its share of minefields.
As the backyard and our glass- topped table filled, I noticed something was different. First, I was in no hurry to leave, even though in thinking about the reception, an hour seemed appropriate. The real party could begin when some of the parents left.
Another difference. It was enjoyable sitting with a son who, for years, wanted nothing to do with his father. Or his mother. Although this permafrost is common, when it shifts, the warmth is as pleasurable as a fire after a day of sledding.
To the boy, now young men, everyone walked up, grabbed my hand, looked me in the eye and smiled. I wasn't alone. They weren't just greeting me, they were shaking hands with the world.
This didn't change that day. It's been coming for four or five years. Now, however, the rage against the machine has found new channels.
Channels include: An air controller in the Navy; cleanup work in the construction business; college degrees, near college degrees and I'll-get-back-to-it-later college degrees.
Most worked. Or had. Work or no work, they knew what it was.
When did they turn nice? That's not a word normally associated with red-blooded boys, but here it seems appropriate. Especially when contrasted with the pills they had previously been.
We talked. The conversations flowed. I was interested in what they were doing, but what had changed was they were willing to talk about it and ask questions in return.
I think we know what happened. We raised them and then life took over. Sometimes life does a better job.
"Most of them are going to turn out OK," a friend told me long ago.
I believed it, didn't believe it and now I believe it again.
I stayed for three hours. Then Sam looked at me, asked me when I thought I might be leaving. We both laughed. It was time.
I said goodbye to the new husband and wife, their families and friends. It was almost sad. This was a good sad.
