Little Michael was coming home, this hazy day of his fourth summer, after rummage "sailing" with his older sister, a rummage sale veteran. He had taken his hard earned dollar like a badge of honor and they had gone looking for treasures around the neighborhood. He discovered a golden prize; an old manual typewriter selling for just one dollar at a house two blocks away. He quickly handed over his money to the middle-aged lady seated on a folding lawn chair with a money box on her lap, and started his arduous journey home, discovering that the typewriter weighed almost as much as he did. His sister walked with him long enough to help him cross the streets and then skipped ahead. She wanted to get home quickly to look over her own unique finds.
Michael slowly made his way down the sidewalk dragging the old, heavy, dark green typewriter case. Both skinny hands clutching the plastic handle, using all the strength his little body could muster, he hoisted it straining his arms and arching his back, lifting it only an inch above the walk. Then he took a step or two before the case came down with a scraping crunch on the cement. Hoist, step, step, crunch, whoosh of breath, suck it in, hoist, strain, step, step, crunch. Michael labored on down the sidewalk like an ant carrying a load back to the hill. Finally reaching our front porch, he was nearly bursting with excitement when he saw me.
"Look what I got! It was only a dollar and it doesn't need batteries or a plug to work! It works all by itself!" He was incredulous that something this wonderful was all his. As I carried it upstairs for him, I laughed to myself. Manual typewriters are awful compared to the wonders of an electric one. You barely have to touch an electric key to have it snap the letter on the page. Manual typewriters are slow, requiring finger power and a patience for tangled levers.
As soon as he got upstairs, he plopped down in the middle of the living room floor to show me how this magical machine worked. I showed him how to roll in a piece of paper and then he started to tap at random keys, beaming, "See it works!" He spent the rest of the afternoon hunched over his prize, tap tap tapping away, hoping he was spelling actual words.
I look at my son now, at age eleven, and see someone totally immersed in the Computer and Electronics Age. The only fun he'll have with a manual typewriter now is taking it apart and seeing how it works on the inside. He is completely hooked up and wired in to computers and video games. If it doesn't beep, flash, shoot, or explode, he's not interested. It saddens me to think that we may have forgotten the wonder of the simple things in our never ending quest to improve technology and plunge ahead into the 21st Century.
But looking deeper, I realize that he has not lost his child-like wonder of the simple things in life as adolescence rears it's impatient head. He still prefers the old-fashioned board games, as do I. We have Monopoly, Scrabble, and Solitaire on the computer and he'll play them from time to time, but he would give it up in a second to sit in the living room with me and play a game. He told me he likes the cracking sound a new board makes when you first open it up. He likes the clacking rattle of the dice and the skittering spill across the board. The feel of each metal Monopoly token is special, each shape so unique, and their familiar flat tapping sound as they make their way from Go to Boardwalk. He loves the rustle of the paper money, getting change for a $10,000 bill, treating $100's like $1's.
It isn't just the tactile attraction of the board games, it's the interaction between players. The computer doesn't crack jokes, giggle, or congratulate you. It doesn't groan and make faces or smile. We enjoy each other's company, each having the other's full attention unbroken for an hour or two. Playing with each other is quality time for both of us. It's as if we're hungry for it, craving the human contact between a mother and her son.
This was brought home to me in a very poignant way early one morning. I had just been rudely jarred out of bed by the alarm at the tender hour of 5:00am. I stumbled sleepily downstairs, grumpy that I was the only one who had to get up. I could see Michael in his bed as I passed his doorway. He turned and looked at me.
"Mom?" he wavered. "I just had a bad dream." I sighed, this was going to throw me off schedule. Nevertheless, I went in and sat on the edge of his bed, slowly tipping over and laying my head on his stomach as he talked.
"I dreamed that I was dead." Now he had my attention. "I could see you but you couldn't see me or hear me. You were sitting in the living room with a game. You were crying because I was gone and I wouldn't be able to play games with you anymore. I tried to tell you that I was there but you couldn't hear me." By now his tears were flowing and I had a quiet tear running down my cheek and my throat closed up. How awful it would be to lose him, and how touching and real that scene seemed. I realized then just how much he loves me and how much it means to him to spend time with me.
Michael embodies everything that I cherish of the simple, natural things in life. He loves to play in the rain and the mud, splashing through puddles, coming home chilled and exhilarated. He loves the smell of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, and eating them while they're still hot and the chocolate is gooey. He'll dig in the garden with me, turning warm chunks of earth and exposing the cool underbelly. He likes to sit, cuddling under a quilt, watching a movie and sipping hot cocoa. And most of all, he's not afraid to express his affection for the people who are close to him. Hugs come easy for him.
Michael also holds all that I see of the future. His excitement for computers and other electronics is contagious. He's not afraid to explore the unknown, to find out an answer to a question, to take a risk and try something he's never experienced before. He loves to build, create, and use his imagination. He likes new gadgets and tools, new ways of doing things. He plunges ahead with a courage I don't always feel.
I believe that somehow my son has been able to find a harmonious balance between the simple pleasures in life and the excitement of the future. He is able to embrace the simple down to earth values of home, family, and community, and at the same time, he is able to embrace the excitement of exploring the unknown and taking risks. Happy are those of us who can find and hold on to this beautiful balance of the past, present, and future.
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