Two (very) short stories

I’ve been a parent for over half my life, now. While that is not very remarkable, it does serve as an introduction. I like the job. It has a lot of aspects to it and I don’t do all of them well but it is the most rewarding job I’ve ever had. Like most parents, I’ve grown into the job with time and know I am a better parent now than when the first child was born. One of the things I’ve learned is to be active IN the lives of my kids. Today’s post is 2 (very) short stories on that theme of participating IN the life of your child.


Wexler

       Wexler studied the terrain through the cracks between the boulders

behind which he sat, propped against a flat slab of granite. His tan

polo shirt was plastered with sweat; a stray oak leaf stuck in his

short gray hair.

      The late afternoon sun dappled the scene in a deceptively peaceful

pattern.  Somewhere out there was the shooter who had barely missed a

few short minutes ago. Wexler saw nothing out of the ordinary.

      Undergrowth disturbed only by the slight movement of the wind, trees

likewise gently and naturally moving.  A sparrow landed in a bush 50

feet away and noisily burst into conversation.

      Wexler carefully levered himself up and through a slightly larger gap

between the rock and moved quickly another 30 feet behind a clump of

chokecherries. Just that short burst brought more sweat and hastened

his breathing – damn, he was more out of shape than he thought.

      Peering through the chokecherries he saw a cardinal’s brilliant red

plumage suddenly burst out of hiding in a stately elm and two smaller,

more nondescript birds at the same time from the same tree. Tracing

the line of the trunk to the ground he saw what he hoped: a human

figure clad head-to-toe in a camouflage jumper.

      Wexler crawled to a clump of new maples and drew up onto his knees in

a small depression behind them, bringing his gun up to his shoulder.

Just one mistake, he breathed to himself. The figure in camo was on

the move, cautiously edging from one tree to the next, a few long

strides at a time, forty feet away, thirty.

      The figure suddenly halted and swung its gun up. Wexler fired, center,

left, right, and rolled to his left, came up to a crouch, and raced 15

feet to another clump of maple saplings. Shots spattered his hiding

place and peppered the undergrowth in his trail. He fired another pair

of shots blindly and went to ground, counting slow five before raising

his head ever so slightly.

      His antagonist was barely visible behind a full-grown maple not ten

feet from Wexler’s previous position. Wexler dropped his head and

counted another five before peeking once more above the leaf litter

and grass.

      The figure in camo was inching along Wexler’s back trail, gun at the

ready in a deep crouch, carefully placing one foot forward making sure

to make no sound. Wexler eased his gun to a firing position just as

the other figure loosed three shots.  Wexler dropped the gun and

raised both hands over his head as he stood up slowly, then dropped

his right hand to clean the paint from his visor.

      The figure in camo reached one hand to pull the helmet off, revealing

a pretty, strawberry blonde of probably half Wexler’s 35 years. She

smiled. “Too slow, Dad!”

      Wexler laughed and took his daughter’s hand as they walked together

back to the staging area to go home.

Dichotomy

He just made a spectacular play

Determination and skill on display

From deep inside the pride swells over

But the impact! He’s hurt his shoulder.

The striker’s still down, his knee

The keeper waves off assistance, see.

He won the battle and despite the bruise

There’s a lot of game left so he’ll refuse

To show even a smidgen of weakness

It’s that macho, leadership toughness.

Now they’re carrying off the striker

While the keeper stretches out his shoulder

And what of me, what to do?

The pride of the play but concern too.

How hurt is he really, behind the motion?

Is it a drop or the whole ocean?

Play resumes and I watch closely

Fortunately it seems to be mostly

A discomfort not an agony

Not like the striker’s knee.

Oh, the dichotomy of a dad

Loving the good but dreading the bad.

So proud he’s growing up.

So sad he’s growing up.