October 2002 Issue - Essay # 1
Change
By David Huffman
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We
are chameleons, and our partialities and prejudices change place
I could have asked
for one of those quarters to plug into the bubble gum machine, twist the
crank and watch the little, hopefully red, ball swirl around the
tornado-shaped globe until it finally plunked into the dumb waiter, but
I didn’t dare. Even the
magical metal machines that would take Grandpa’s penny, flatten and
stretch it into an egg-shape, and stamp a little landscape of a water
tower and some trees couldn’t tempt me enough to break up the band,
kill Grandpa’s song. When
I was eleven or twelve, I washed out a sixty-four ounce glass grape
juice bottle, impatiently peeled off the label, and dropped about twenty
pennies in it before replacing the cap. After a few years of scrounging under every seat cushion and
scouring every inch of ground I walked over, with great satisfaction, I
had so many pennies that I couldn’t completely screw on the cap
anymore. Thrilled to death,
I left it that way for a while; then I started to get bigger ideas. The gallon of apple cider in the fridge was almost empty, so I
took the liberty of pouring the rest into a plastic pitcher and
performing the same ritual I had on the grape juice bottle. In no time, I was transferring the pennies from one bottle to the
other. They filled the
bottom of the jug a little over an inch. I had a long haul ahead of me, and little did I know that twelve
years later, I still wouldn’t have it full of pennies. This probably has something to do with my fizzling enthusiasm for
filling the penny jar. Unfortunately,
it has been bumped so many steps down the totem of priorities that
it’s probably lying in the grass somewhere nearby, staring up to where
it used to sit. Much
has changed since Grandpa’s one-man band and my penny jar
extravaganza, specifically the kind of change I appreciate most. In my grade school years, I despised the change from summer to
fall for one simple reason: back to school. My mother loved school when she was young, so, as soon as the
seasonal aisles were stocked full of crisp folders and unsharpened
pencils, she would grab my reluctant hand, and we were off to the store.
Much time and care was taken to choose the perfect folder, the
one that would crackle upon its first opening.
No matter what condition my present crayons were in, she would
lift a new box, slide the lid open and smell the freshly sharpened wax,
the shavings still clinging to some of the tips, then toss it into the
basket, where the supplies were beginning to pile up, along with my
dread. In a few weeks, I
would have to use all that stuff, and there was nothing I could do about
it. The actual event of
shopping for school supplies was not terrible in itself, especially
because my mom found it so invigorating, but it was the admittance, the
confirmation that school was right around the corner, just like the bus
would be that first morning, and I would have to find that one kid, who
would let me sit next to him and pray he was never absent. Since
I graduated high school, my love for autumn has superceded my
back-to-school blues. Now
that I’m on my own, the school shopping is replaced by gathering pens
and paper already lying about, and buying things here and there, as I
need them. This allows me to
ease into the semester, just as the summer eases into fall--the cool afternoons, the calm breezes that chase the leaves down
the sidewalk and across the yard until it pins them against the fence. The giant tree in my back yard has distributed its brown leaves
over the grass in a crunchy, earthy crust that, when I step into it,
smells of campfires, hayrides, and Halloween. I love to watch the birds congregate on power lines and treetops
for their annual migration meetings, chirping and cawing all at once,
like families at Thanksgiving. This
Thanksgiving was the last at my parent’s house, the house I lived in
for thirteen years. For
reasons between my father and God, he has resigned from our church,
which he has pastored for sixteen years, a church that doesn’t
appreciate change very much. The
preacher my father replaced was there for over two decades and retired
his big shoes, which my father had to fill, and he did.
I
don’t think my mother is in favor of the change either, or she has a
funny way of showing it, but I am excited for them. I believe that change equals growth, and everyone touched by this
move is going to grow, a little or a lot, depending on how each
individual handles it. When
my parents made the big announcement, I asked if I could have my
father’s antique radio; my sister started crying.
I couldn’t tell if I was heartless or optimistic, maybe more
excited than anything. My
mom told me not to get too broken up, which made me feel like a heel,
but my wife and I have been wanting to move for a while now, and I was
happy that someone was pulling their roots in search of fresh soil. Which
reminds me of something the ancient Greek stoic and philosopher, Seneca,
said in his letters about a tree being unable to grow roots if it’s
constantly moved from place to place. He was in favor of a person finding one niche in the world and
staying there his whole life, which makes sense when comparing a person
to a tree, but, when I think about a tree’s vast, complex root system
that continues to grow and search for every possible nutrient and water
source, it makes me feel like I will eventually tap all the resources
around me, and instead of reaching further and further out, why not pick
up and move? Unlike a tree,
my roots don’t die when I break away from them. I can always return and remember. I
will concede that change can be unpleasant, especially when it’s
forced upon by extenuating circumstances, like, in elementary school,
when one boy or girl misbehaves, the whole class loses half their
recess, or one country misbehaves and the whole world has to live with
the consequences. War
inevitably begets change, more than heightened patriotism, longer lines
and tighter security at airports, and falling gas prices. Much of our country lives in altered states of mind, an
involuntary change of perception that the One
would hope, "one" being I, that the present change in our
nation might not only boost economic and technological progress but also
inspire personal interaction, more neighborly "hellos" and
front-porch-at-dusk conversations. The
day before yesterday, a friend of mine asked me, "Whatever happened
to the act of dropping in?" I
had no response, but we continued to discuss the present need to fill
our schedules with everything but leisure time. All events and visits must be penciled in, thought through,
planned out, committees appointed, everyone knows who’s bringing what
and when. No one stops by
unannounced for a glass of iced tea and a chat about the weather
anymore. No one scoots one
or two houses over for a cup of sugar because it’s quicker and easier
to make a trip to the grocery store, where everyone is anonymous and
none expect a conversation that might slow the other down. I
can’t even remember the last time there was a church potluck, and the
whole congregation stayed the whole afternoon, eating and laughing and
telling stories. Now, it
seems, people prefer to grab a bite to eat on the way home, so they have
time to mow the lawn, not even taking a Sunday nap. Maybe a national crisis will slow things down and make people
look each other in the eye again, offer a smile, a nod, or a courteous
"good afternoon." I
am experiencing a personal involuntary change, though the actions that
perpetuated it were quite voluntary. In a couple of months, the spare bedroom will belong to a little
someone whose name has not been decided. A little boy that will be thrusted into my life, changing it
forever. He sneaked up on my
wife and I last May, and since then, we have become homeowners, another
frightening, growing experience. We’re
currently doing what we can to get him here safely and make him feel
welcome, happy, and most of all, healthy, but, when it comes right down
to it, we’re winging it. Frankly,
neither of us have ever been parents before, and, even though we both
have at least two of our own, we’re not sure how good we’re going to
be at it. There’s no doubt
in my mind that, as his first day of school approaches, I’ll plop him
in the car and drag him down the aisles of crayons, pencils, and glue,
excited and nostalgic, living vicariously through his wide innocent
eyes. Yes,
fatherhood will suit me fine because, even though it wasn’t in our
"five-year plan," I am a willing chameleon, and I hope, and
pray, that I will be able to slide on the coat of fatherhood, "with
an easy and blessed facility," to find it is a perfect fit.
My son isn’t here yet, but I am already "wonted to the
change, and happy with it." My
wife and I have some friends who, when they first stood in front of the
parenthood scenario, blended in seamlessly, so we plan on dropping by
their place for a glass of iced tea and a round of tag as often as
possible. |
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Author's Biography David
Huffman is currently working on his MA in English and teaches Freshman/Sophomore Composition at the In his spare time, he loves to harass his wife of four years and son of four months. E-mail David at davidhuffman@hotmail.com
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Essay
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