Beautiful

I grew up in a home where girls outnumbered boys. I have two sisters and a mom who encouraged me to wear eyeliner in grade six and regularly told me my earrings weren’t big enough. My husband and I have two sons. On top of that, I find myself outnumbered by boys who revel in fishing, hunting, and demolition derbies — activities I was unacquainted with before I met my husband. (I still don’t understand why a bucket filled with water and minnows must be kept in our hallway during ice-fishing season. Fact: minnows love to jump out of buckets. Fact: minnows can travel surprisingly long distances out of water. Fact: trying to catch a minnow that has escaped onto the floor is as ridiculous and slimy as it sounds.) I did not receive the right training. To be blunt, most of the problems that occur in our household cannot be fixed with bigger earrings. 

Amidst this strange new world, not only am I the lone family member without camouflage clothing, I am the mom. Despite this, I am not supposed to worry when my resident teenage mechanic (son #2) walks into the house with a burn hole in his coveralls and his hand raised to stop me from asking, “What exploded this time?” I am not supposed to complain when the Y-chromosomers choose Die Hard as our Christmas movie selection. And clearly, I am being ridiculous when I insist that my youngest comb his hair, an outstanding exhibit of bedhead fuzz and Medusa curls, before he leaves for school. This early morning dispute ends with him karate chopping my hands away from his hair before escaping out the front door. After he leaves, I sometimes stare at our mother and son photo on the fridge. It was taken at a wedding reception when he was two years old. His blond curls are neatly combed, and there’s a plastic toy gripped in his hands. Only it’s not a toy. It’s a section of PVC pipe he brought with him to the wedding. 

Since becoming a mom, my life goals have simplified in many respects. When it comes to my boys, keeping them alive is top priority. I’ve often suspected that my mechanic son is not helping me with that goal. This is the son, who as a much younger boy, took a battery out of a toy and wrapped it in a piece of tinfoil. Surprised by the suddenly hot battery, he ran out of the house and tossed it in the driveway. Only afterwards did he approach me and casually ask about tinfoil and batteries. A few years later, he took apart a cellphone because, as he later explained, he needed the lens to make infrared, night-vision goggles. The key to childproofing a house is anticipation, but with him there’s never been scenarios I would have anticipated — or child locks he couldn’t figure out. 

The other day I came into our kitchen for a cup of tea and saw my youngest man-child sitting on a chair, dabbing at his bare feet with a cloth. His toenails looked very shiny.

“What are you doing, buddy?” I asked, filling the kettle at the sink and taking another look at his feet.

“Putting oil on my toenails,” he replied. “They’re just so dry.”

“Olive oil?” I questioned, or rather, assumed. I was impressed by his self-care initiative.

“No.” He finally looked up from his work. “Motor oil.” He wasn’t joking.

My youngest, the mechanic, also delights in teasing me. “How come you never run?” he frequently pesters. This needling began years ago. “Dad said you liked jogging.” 

“Well, that was before I had toddlers and running, everywhere, all the time, became mandatory and therefore no longer fun.” There’s no shame in brisk walking. I love walking. Besides, I run when needed. “Remember last spring? Remember the large fox / coyote pup we saw while hiking? I ran a serious, arm-pumping, 50-metre dash back to the main road.” (Having watched Cujo at a young age, I decided long ago that all wild animals inclined to approach people have rabies.) “Or the scary forest incident?” On that excursion, my youngest and I had been walking through a wonderfully gothic forest of ancient cedars when the unexpected racket of coyote yips and barks incurred a repeat performance of my Mission Impossible sprint. The coyotes were actually ravens (wonderful mimics), but that is beside the point. “I run — when necessary. I just prefer walking,” I argue. At this, he usually relents.

Walking is the one argument I always win. Walking is a chance to clear our heads, enjoy the fresh air, and get some exercise. Whether in a rare show of good judgment or guilt for making me watch Die Hard on Christmas Eve, both my sons walk with me. They take turns. If I invite my youngest son, he will come in his grease-stained coveralls, taking a break from the motorcycle he’s rebuilding, a wrench or screwdriver still in his pocket.

A month or so ago, my mechanic son and I tramped through heavy snow on a bright, cold afternoon. I enjoy winter hikes. The air is crisp. There are no bugs. Also, the sound of a river sipping an icy shoreline, the sharp azure of a winter sky, and the contrast of snow on verdant conifers are among my favourite things. As usual, I was wearing my red, made-for-Canadian-winters coat and he his insulated winter mechanic’s coveralls. His duct-taped boots and camouflage trapper hat, with its ear-flaps and scraggly faux-fur trim, made him look like a post-apocalyptic forest ranger. As we walked, small birds flitted in and out of the sunlight, observing us from tangled bushes and cedar fence rails. The wind was a living thing, bounding around the fields and occasionally leaping onto our sheltered path like a dog returning to its master.

We paused at the entrance to the “echo field.” “Echo!” I called out, as was tradition. My voice called back to us over and over again, and we stood watching, as though we could see my echo skipping like a stone across a lake to the hillsides beyond. I noticed how the stalks of fall grass poked through the snow in tufts around the meadow. In spring, this field would flood, and I thought of all the homemade boats my boys had sailed on this springtime pond.

“It’s so beautiful here,” I commented. 

“Yup,” he answered.

I turned toward the trail. 

Then, my mechanic son said, “It makes me think of Norse mythology.”

“Oh,” I replied. “The northern feel, you mean?”

He motioned back toward the meadow before he spoke. “Well, yes, but I was thinking about how yellow the grass looks coming up through the snow. It reminds me of Thor’s wife, Sif. They say her hair was as golden as a field of barley ready for harvest.”

Oh. I looked again — at the field, and then at him. His mouth curved in a quiet contemplative smile, and I saw how the cold air had ruddied his nose and cheeks. The wind passed by, lifting the curls that had escaped his cap. His blue eyes searched the landscape for my echo. Beautiful.