Sometimes it feels like a low-grade grief—not the overwhelming kind
you get when you lose someone for good—but the kind you get when it’s
obvious that certain things are changing and they’ll never again be like
they were. That’s what I was feeling as I watched Cody swing the sledgehammer.
It only took him a couple dozen well-placed shots to leave a dozen years of memories
in a heap in our back yard. The faded cedar slats and redwood 4X4s were all that
was left of 'Fort Cody.'
My son was barely four years old when he and I had originally hatched the
idea. We had been playing in the back yard when it dawned on me that he could
have a lot more fun if he had some place to call his own. That’s when we
came up with the concept of Fort Cody. It took a few drawings, several weekends,
and a lot more money than I ever imagined to turn several trips to the lumber
yard into a bonefide fort. But it ultimately took shape. There were two towers,
a secret compartment, a catwalk, a couple of flags, and a board hanging between
the towers with 'Fort Cody' painted in bold white letters. When the wood was
new and the paint fresh, it was a sight to behold.
But a dozen years had come and gone. The little boy, who had played in it
so much when it was new, was now an inch and a half taller than its builder.
The sun, the wind, and the scorching Arizona heat had taken its toll. Fort Cody
had fallen into a sad state of disrepair. It had been years since it had served
its namesake. It either needed a serious facelift, or it was time to tear it
down. Colt had long since out-grown it too, so the best option was obvious. But
the process still made me sad.
Not only had I built Fort Cody, but I had managed to drive a nail deep into
the ball of my hand in the process. I remember the afternoon well. I was working
alone when a 16 penny nail, I was trying to toe nail into one of the 4X4s, missed
its mark and slammed into my hand. After the initial shock, I had spent about
a half hour sitting in the glider at the other side of the house holding a paper
towel on the wound, trying to get it to stop bleeding. I remember the thought
that had overwhelmed me before the ordeal was over, "That was just a 16
penny nail that didn’t even go all the way through my hand. It hurts so
badly! Lord, how did you ever endure those spikes!" It was one of those
moments in time that God used to pull me a little closer to Him.
And then, there was the night I had brought the little TV out to the fort,
and Cody and I had watched "King Kong," and then camped out all night
inside the "secret compartment." I’ll bet it’s but a faint
memory in his mind, but it’s one of those nights I’ll never forget.
The Fort represented some of the best years of my life, because it had served
Cody well through his childhood. But he was moving on. This was the year he’d
turn sixteen, get his driver’s license, and be able to start dating. He
had his own razor and email address. He was already formulating specific goals
for his future. It was a future that wouldn’t need forts or dads nearby.
It was a future that would put into motion all the things he was groomed for.
And he was ready. But I couldn’t help but think that it had all gone by
just a little too quickly. And the sudden demise of Fort Cody was a reminder
to me how quickly the new becomes old, and the old moves on. It had only taken
a few moments to dismantle what had taken me weeks to build and Cody years to
enjoy. But that’s how childhood is. It’s this 'screaming audio' chapter
of a life that is left behind before it’s had a chance to be savored.
After some discussion as to the best way to dispose of all the lumber, Cody
came up with the novel idea. "Let’s burn it." At first I was
taken aback by the thought, and then I figured, "Why not? It should make
a tremendous fire!"
And so it was that the pile of lumber that was once Fort Cody was rebuilt
into a bonfire. Cody invited about 30 of his friends, and the other siblings
added about 20 of theirs. Darcy supplied plenty of hotdogs and the vital ingredients
for smores. Everyone agreed that it was the biggest fire the neighborhood had
ever seen.
The last kids left about 12:30 am, but Cody and I sat in lawn chairs up close
to the embers for another hour. It was a crystal clear night with the kind of
chill that makes you lean toward the heat and stare deeply into the glow. For
the most part, neither of us spoke. We just sat next to each other in the dark
watching the past smolder into a pile of dust. That’s how childhood works.
It serves its purpose, you tuck its best memories away for safe keeping, and
then you move on.
" . . . this one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind,
and reaching forth unto those things which are before, I press toward the mark
for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus." Philippians 3:13-14
On the Home Front with Darcy Kimmel
Little brothers have to be an invention of God’s sense of humor. If
you have one, you know what I’m talking about. I have three little brothers,
and we have two in own our household. But at the present time, it is the littlest
brother Colt, age 10, who keeps things hopping around here.
Mealtimes are never dull with Colt around. Off the wall comments about the
content of his plate, the latest 4th grade humor, and random, strange noises
abundantly originate from the occupant of the chair to my right. It always amazes
me how some things can be so-o-o funny in one setting and so totally inappropriate
in another. (A beautifully appointed Thanksgiving table, replete with exotic
dishes and unsuspecting strangers.) Just the position held by the youngest male
member of the clan seems to encourage frivolity and entitle provocation. Ask
his brother and sisters for details, they’re keeping a file. Personally,
I try to use these highly developed anti-social behaviors to our advantage with
the older, dating age siblings. If a pursuer survives a family meal at our house
and actually has the stamina to darken our door again, it speaks courage to me.
In reality, I think if we had the nerve to take a vote, we would all choose
to hang on to our littlest brother. After all, he is the one that everyone seeks
out for a good night hug and kiss, if for no other reason to get close enough
to repay in kind with a whisker rub and a well placed zerbert.
No matter how old a little brother is, the memory of his antics can easily
bring a giggle to the surface. Why not pick up the phone and give your little
brother a call? Brace yourself though for some outrageous noise on the other
end of the line and be prepared for, "Did you hear the one about the…." Go
ahead, humor him and laugh one more time. This one might actually be funny.
Here’s to worn out jokes and little brothers who never grow old,
