Father Time is a weekly column dedicated to the concept of time in a parent’s life, particularly a father’s life. The point of view comes from a father of two young sons, both under three-years-old, and how time really is just that: a concept.
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My maternal grandmother was waif thin, almost frail, which was remarkable for a woman who was, for the entire decade of the 1940’s, a baby factory. She had given birth to nine children, back to back, my own mother one of her six daughters. My grandfather was a World War II veteran, and died long before I ever got to meet him. Though his legend lived on, it was my grandmother that seemed unbreakable, though it sometimes felt like you could break her she was so petite.
She’d had heart attacks, a stroke, pneumonia, and other illnesses that scared us for years. Many times did we pack up and drive to Clayton thinking that this was goodbye.
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She passed away at the age of 80, when I was in college, and it was a sad loss, especially for my mom. My mother had a special relationship with my Grandma. I’m sure all my aunts and uncles did, but I saw something in the way my mom loved my Grandma, how she cared and prayed for her, that was different from my aunts and uncles.
For this reason, I felt that attachment, too. While I loved both of my grandmothers, it was mom’s mom that lived in that special place. Part of it was that toward the later part of her life, she was fighting some sickness or another. She’d had heart attacks, a stroke, pneumonia, and other illnesses that scared us for years. Many times did we pack up and drive to Clayton thinking that this was goodbye.
There was nothing extraordinary about having lunch at a fast food restaurant, yet I had a strong revelation that this wouldn’t last forever. Grandma would only be among us for a finite amount of time.
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It was somewhere in my tween or early teen years that I realized the fragility of life—and that of my grandmother herself—during a half-day road trip from Clayton into the panhandle of Texas. It was only a few hours’ drive, point to point, and my mom, who was driving my grandma and I, stopped somewhere along the way to get a late breakfast. We’d stopped at a Hardee’s and ordered breakfast sandwiches and those mini-disc tater tots you never see anymore. There was nothing extraordinary about having lunch at a fast food restaurant, yet I had a strong revelation that this wouldn’t last forever. Grandma would only be among us for a finite amount of time. I must have been watching the way she was eating, or how she and my mom were talking, and talking to me, and through me, and it must have all just clicked.
I too am in that line, that my fate is that of everyone before me.
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Now, as a grown man with a wife and children of my own, I see that reality again. My mom comes to stay with us from time to time for a few weeks at a time. It’s great to have some extra hands to help with my boys, especially when I have to travel for work, or if my wife and I need a little time. The other day, that Hardee’s revelation hit me when I saw my mom, getting closer in age to my Grandma as I last remember her. My mom was in my son’s bedroom, changing his clothes, and I saw it—the not-so-distant future. What followed that thought was the understanding that I too am in that line, that my fate is that of everyone before me. It reminded me to enjoy the minutes as they fly by—even if they’re simply spent eating tater tots with your family.
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Photo credit: Robert Couse-Baker.