Yesterday morning was another reminder of the rapid passage of time and the need, as Jack told Rose in Titanic, to “make it count.” I disassembled the crib both my children had slept in as babies and toddlers. Took it apart, section by section, in order to store it in our attic for…someday. Mostly not a parenting someday, but a grandparenting someday. Hopefully not for a Goodwill someday.
My oldest child even assisted in the disassembly. And, bizarrely enough, as I was watching us take the crib apart I had a vague vision of watching us 20 years from now—me as that grandfather, helping her put it back together. The whole thing was like clips from a movie that spans a man’s life, hitting the key sacred moments. With each turn of the wrench and each loosening of the bolts that held together the structure that once held something precious, I contemplated the holiness of the situation and prayed its imprint would not fade from my heart or mind.
Later that same morning we all took a journey to a park, located adjacent to some woods into which the Harpeth River of Middle Tennessee flows. Despite the mud, we ventured deeper and deeper into this wonderland. I realized I was a woods person after all; these woods were not hot, itchy and, well, flat. Watching my oldest climb over rocks and tug at massive tree branches felt like a scene from Bridge to Terabithia. It reminded me of building forts and exploring the very limited woods of Ormond Beach, Fla., as a young boy.
And there I was again, watching clips from my life, seeing a boy exploring the woods who is suddenly a man with a child exploring the woods, who as an old man will hopefully explore the woods with a sense of peace about the whole, breakneck speed thing of this snapshot in time called life.