I remember eight

My son is turning eight this year. He is starting to stretch his long arms and legs away from us, his parents, in preparation for full-fledged preteen independence. He’s not quite ready to fly though. Every so often he climbs into our arms, wrapping himself around us, knotting his body to ours as if afraid to be separated. He wants to be a little boy again just as he’s growing out of his little boy ways.

I remember eight. Our family was planning to move again. I remember my mom gave me a map with the intention of showing me where we were moving, to provide me with a sense of place. Instead, the map was a source of confusion and fear.

“That is Kentucky, where we are.” Her long fingers lingered on the western edge of the state, her birthplace and home of her ancestors. “Now see if you can find Nevada, Missouri.” I only heard the first word, Nevada, and my eyes flew across the map to land upon a strange shape bordering California with a square top and pointed bottom. That place seemed far, too far. “No, that’s the state. Nevada, Missouri is south of Kansas City. See?” Only one full state away, not the width of the country to traverse. Still a strangled sense of anticipation flooded my eight-year-old self. Why did we have to leave everything behind to start again? I didn’t want to go.

My son enjoyed his summer, it seemed. We had few activities planned. Initially, I tried to keep him working on math and handwriting, reading and problem-solving – critical tasks for his upcoming second grade year. However those plans dissolved after the second week of June. Home is not school, especially during the summer. A haze descends from the outside heat to drown our bodies and minds with lethargy. I didn’t want to teach; he didn’t want to learn.

As we rounded the corner of August, approaching the start of school, I started to despair our lack of focus. Did I fail to prepare him? What if he couldn’t keep up with his schoolwork? My anxiety spilled over onto him. He started waking up each night & crawling in bed with us, a behavior he didn’t attempt when younger. This provoked new worry.

When I was eight, my brother was four. It would be another two years before my sister would join our family. I was the big girl going off to school leaving my brother behind in mom’s care. Dad travelled a lot in those days. Mom stayed home with us. We were secure in the knowledge that wherever she was, we were content.

Storms rolled across the plains that summer to welcome us to our small Missouri town. No natural or man-made barriers existed to protect us from their wrath. We were defenseless and vulnerable. My manageable small-town world became vast, chaotic and frightening. I couldn’t admit to being scared, though. When I was awakened by storms or nightmares, I would sneak into my parents’ room and curl up on the end of their bed like a house cat, careful not to wake them.

I remember eight – Reagan was shot in the spring of that year. Mom was anxiously pacing in front of the TV when I got home from school. Replayed again and again for those of us just joining the broadcast was the pop-pop of gunfire and ensuing turmoil ending with the wildly accelerating black presidential limo. Only later did I realize that my parents and other adults were reliving in that moment another situation involving gunfire and a large black car that occurred before I was born, one that did not conclude with a smiling president waving from the hospital window.

I remember eight. Hope prevailed in precarious circumstances. We still had a smiling president and he would lead us to better days. We would forget for a time the problems that swam around us just below the surface. Those were our first attempts to soar.