Feeding gulls just out of reach?
Clouds of animals drifted by,
Changing places in the sky.
It borders on a shameful crime
To leave one's childhood summer time.
Although we were not hosting our grandson visiting from Thailand at the beach, this poem conjures up for me images of childhood-delights that go hand-in-hand with summer days. Remembering Tristan's visit backward, as we put him on the plane today, I am hoping that his cup is full, that his memories of Summer 2014 in the 'merica (what he used to call the USA when he was a little guy) will be treasures. I pray that in the days ahead, which sometimes feel claustrophobic to an outdoor boy who lives in a Bangkok apartment building, he will unpack the nuggets that are filling his heart today. Not unlike his traveling bags that are bulging with souvenirs, Tristan's mind is surely brimming with adventure-stories to be told and re-told, lived and re-lived, savored and shared when the 'merica is far away.
We were thrilled to meet Tristan at the onset of his Tour de la States and to host him for another few days before he boarded the plane to Bangkok. Simple pleasures like catching lightening bugs and lizards, making a squirrel trap and hooking the big one, filled his days.
Aunts and uncles and cousins and friends rallied at a Braves game, congregated around World Cup broadcasts, joined Tristan at the pool, took him caving, and treated him to all his favorite eateries! When blueberry picking, Tristan upheld the reputation of his uncles who always ate more than landed in their pails. He polished up on his culinary skills deciding he was going to learn to make Grandmoni's lasagne for himself and graciously agreed to divulge the secret recipe for his honey-bun breakfast crescent below.
-slit the crescent with a sharp knife
-put chunks of butter inside
-this should go in the oven at 350 for a minute (because Grandmoni's microwave is broken)
-now squeeze the honey into the warm crescent with melted butter
-have a bite
-perfecto!
Tristan honed his shooting skills with an accumulating collection of artillery (here's hoping he does not look like a short blond terrorist at customs) with uncles, Grandenny and great-Granpa eager for their turns. Whenever there was the slightest lull in activity, Tristan jumped the fence to head to our pond where three generations of fishermen spent a precious summer morning.
Like the rest of us, Great Granpa and Gramma couldn't get enought of this guy. They treated him to pancakes, root beer floats, pizza. They offered romps with Trooper their dog, a tour of vintage steam engines, shenanigans on the riding mower, and a few games of checkers.
And no, he never got tired, NEVER! Always a bright and shiny, expectant face each morning, no matter how late he had been up the night before. The only time Tristan would even remotely chill would be when we drove from one venue to another. And yeah, Atlanta traffic provides for some loooooong commutes, enough time for a power nap.
Whoever said, "parting is such sweet sorrow" is nuts, I am pretty sure. And so, as this boy leaves a childhood summer-time behind, we are grateful for the fireflies that have sparkled in the mason jar, the fabricated trap still waiting for an unsuspecting squirrel to happen by, and that little container of worms still tucked in the fridge awaiting the fisherman.
Thank you, Lord, for little boys.
As You continue to mold and make this one in to a mighty man of God, please do not let him grow up tooooooooo fast.
