Time Marches On
Six years — six little years — six drops of time!
... Matthew Arnold, Mycerinus
Old Time the clock-setter, that bald sexton time.
... Shakespeare, King John
His golden locks time hath to silver turned;
O time too swift! O swiftness never ceasing!
His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurned,
But spurned in vain, youth waneth by encreasing.
... George Poole, Sonnet
I have always looked with awe and envy at mothers who had the foresight to write down the cute things their children said. In spite of my fanatical thoroughness in other areas of the upbringing of mine, I have been sadly remiss in this respect. I have never remembered first teeth either, or first words, or first steps. They were of earth-shaking importance at the time, but once accomplished, the idea of preserving the memory for posterity never occurred to me. There is no box of baby shoes and locks of hair in my attic either. When Gary had his first haircut, his baby locks landed on the barbershop floor and were swept away, never to be seen again. The same thing happened with Steve's first haircut — and the locks on the barbershop floor that time were golden ringlets. Now any mother who doesn't think to pick up a golden ringlet is singularly lacking in sentiment.
I was equally delinquent in remembering measles, vaccinations, whooping cough and all the rest. My only thought of them at all was to be glad that they were behind us. When they got behind us was of great import, which I discovered later when I had to fill out various blanks for schools, camps, and doctors. I appalled teachers and office personnel alike when I had to stop and — right on the margin of the blank — figure out their birthdates.
Lest I seem too heartless, my neglect of such
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matters was equally true in my own affairs. To fill out a vital statistics blank was always an agonizing process. Taking Regents' exams and even state boards was easier. Remembering the years and dates of personal events was a talent I just did not have — a trait I undoubtedly inherited from my mother. When asked what month she was married, she said, "I really couldn't say without looking it up. But it must have been a winter month. I remember it was snowing." And until I had to get my birth certificate for something at seventeen and saw Ethel Marian Mac Namee, I thought my middle name was Lillian.
Our family just took things as they came, and when they came didn't matter after they went. There were too many other things constantly coming to bother about the things that went.
Over a span of a few short years, children blurt out a veritable gold mine of gems — some of them are just plain hilarious and some of them contain the wisdom of sages. If we could come out now with half the gems that we uttered while children, all of us would be philosophers, experts in logic, and "funny men." It is a pity that such a vast wealth of material goes down the drain, lost to humanity forever.
Although I hardly ever wrote anything down to save, I did manage spasmodically to save things that were already written. Most of them got lost in too-frequent moving, but a few popped up in
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an old file a few months ago!
Dere mother,
Try to com on parints day.
Dont com before the becas
your not aloud to come untill
we get agusted
Gary and Steve
Dere mother,
Camp is O K eksep I hav got
poysin ive and we have to
march al the tim.
Lov
Steve
(A composition)
Last nit we went to a bankuet, and
it was prity good. Doktor Green spok
and he spok good but he spok to long.
Steve toked to laud and mother had to
tak him out. We had ice creem and cack
and boy it was good.
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(Notes pinned to my door)
Dere mom,
We lik you but somtims your
meen.
Your loving sons.
PS: Your meen a lot.
Dere mom,
You are the best storey teler
in the hole wurld.
Your boys.
The reason why most of us don't keep records of our children's verbosity and high jinks is that we are sure we are going to remember them. But events crowd in and they get relegated to the deepfreeze of our unconscious and are often lost forever. If we get old enough to get real senile, they are apt to get spewed up again, for a characteristic of senility is no memory at all for recent events, and an uncanny recollection of things long past. But this is a risky thing to plan on, for by that time it is too late to do anything about them, and folks wouldn't listen to us if we did; they are too busy living through events of their own lives they won't record.
Time marches on. One moment you are tugging at your mother's sleeve while she is talking to another old lady whom she afterwards explains is
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a "girl she knows in church," and the next moment your children are tugging at your sleeve while you chat with a girl you know in church, whom they afterwards snort is "an old lady." And you don't know where the time went.
In all my life I wrote down only a dozen or so things my children said. Most of them appeared, sooner or later, in stories. Some of them moulded for years in my files because, cute as they were, it isn't often you can write an entire story around a conversation or a cute remark. Sometimes you can though. One remark will trigger off a spurt of creativity, and an entire story will dangle there in the mind, the pieces falling together in joyous anticipation like old friends rushing to a party — until the whole emerges almost at once and more quickly than you can get it down on paper.
These, of course, are rare moments that every writer wishes would happen more often. The fact that they do not is what makes writing such a slow and painful business.
The script in this chapter is a result of one of those rare moments. Steve came in one day from school and with a great flourish handed me a school Christmas play in which he had a few words of great moment and weighty import. He showed me the place in the book, cleared his throat, and said the lines:
Ha ha. Ho ho. I am Jolly Jump-up.
I am very jolly.
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He read the lines like a first grade student reading "Oh see the apple in the tree" and sounded about as jolly as Hamlet while he was deciding whether or not to end it all.
The conversation that ensued — my trying to get a spark of life into the dialogue while he stolidly stuck to his unimaginative guns — ended in a draw. Neither of us would budge and he went off to play, muttering his lines under his breath — his way. As stubborn as he'd been, I had to chuckle. I was still chuckling an hour later when I decided that if it was that funny I'd better write it down. And as I was doing so I remembered another Christmas when Gary had indignantly refused to sing in the Sunday school program with a "bunch of dumb girls." I had pled, threatened and cajoled. I had reminded him that Steve had been in a school festival play with a bunch of dumb girls.
"Yeah — but he just stood there in a Spanish costume in all his splendor and watched the girls dance like matadors," Gary said.
"Yeah — I just stood there in all my splendor and helped carry off the dead matadors." Steve was no help.
In the end I had persuaded Gary with a quiet little private talk that appealed to his higher senses.
As I thought of these two Christmasses, the story emerged almost at once. The rest of it was fiction,
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all there in my mind, ready to capture on paper. And I called it
* * * * *
THE WEEK BEFORE CHRISTMAS
Dear Mother,
I'm writing this by candlelight, and I don't know when it'll get on its way — we don't know much about what's happening around here — haven't even had our clothes off in days — but anyhow, I'm hoping it'll reach you before Christmas. It's sleeting here, but other than that it doesn't have the remotest resemblance to Christmas. The package you wrote about hasn't caught up with me yet — it wouldn't reach me out here anyhow — but I'll be looking forward to it when we get back. I can't help missing you all something awful right now. I keep thinking about crazy things like clean sheets — and licking frosting bowls.
Mom, is the Christmas tree up yet? Can you smell it all over the house? I always used to know when you'd put it up. The minute I came in the back door I could smell it. I guess you might say I've sorta lost my bear-
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ings — thinking about things like that. Guess I need a good talking to! I keep thinking about how Christmas would be at home, with you and Dad and white snow and the fireplace — guess I'm feeling sorry for myself. I have to go now. Boy, I had only a few minutes to dash this off and I've spent most of them complaining. Sorry. Give Dad my love. I've never appreciated you both so much.
Love,
David
Dear David:
I've read your letter over for the hundredth time, it seems. I know it by heart. I could start in the middle and say it toward both ends. All anybody has to do is say, "How's David?" — and I'm off for thirty minutes!
Dad has gone to bed, and I'm up, in his chair by the fireplace. Same old chair I've threatened to throw out for fifteen years. He knows I won't. It's too comfortable — just like a bucket.
It's only a week till Christmas, my dear, and memories are fairly leaping up at me from the fire. Tonight it seems as if my whole life were wrapped up in Christmasses... it was on Christmas that I met Dad — and it was on a quiet, white Christmas morning that
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they laid you in my arms for the first time. I looked up at a starched nurse and blinked at her blurry face until it settled into nice comfortable contours. She was holding a bundle. It was you.
"Mrs. Gray — Mrs. Gray — are you asleep?"
"Uh. I — I must have been. I'm drooling."
"Well close your mouth and open your eyes. And Mrs. Gray — meet your new son!"
"Ohhhhh. Is he — did I —?"
"He is and you did. He's yours and he's all here, safe and sound. Good looking, too. Two feet — two hands — two nose — no, one nose. Look at him! Here. Squiggle over in bed a bit. I'll put him in alongside you."
"D'you think he'll be all right here alongside —"
"I don't know who he'd be alrighter with. You had him. He's yours. Here!"
She laid you in my arms then. I looked at you with wonder, as most women look at their first-born. I touched your hand.
"Ohhhh. His hands — they're so little. I didn't think he'd be so little. I can't believe he's mine. I can't believe he's real."
"He's real, all right," she said. "When you hear him cry you'll know he's real." She started for the door. And stopped. "D'you hear it?" she said. It was caroling, off somewhere — faint but unmistakable. With it came the bitter-
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sweet joy of Christmas. My eyes stung and my throat tasted salty. "It's the nurses caroling. They're over in the other wing." For a minute she lost her starchiness. "They'll be over here in a few minutes. Nice welcome." And then, "You can hold him closer than that. He won't bite. He doesn't have any teeth. I looked." She opened the door and started through, then turned back a minute. "Merry Christmas, dear," she said. Then the door hissed shut and we were alone, you and I. I told you it was Christmas and that your name was David and I felt of your little hands and feet and then I cried all over your little fuzzy head... your little fuzzy head...
It was a few moments of such pure joy that it still has the power to awe me, David. I guess I felt like Hannah. You don't put thoughts like I had into words — but that morning I dedicated you to God.
Oh, darling, you were the cutest, the brightest — well, you were a little stinker too. We had our moments. But the Christmasses seem to be the milestones.
Remember the time you came barging in with a part in the school play?
"Mommie!" you said. "I got a part in the Christmas play at school! You have to come and see it. It's Friday night and I'm — I'm —" you fumbled with the script. "Here's my part.
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It's important. You can help me learn it. Here."
"Hmmmm. Which one are you?"
"The part that's got the red marks on it. That's me."
"That's I."
"That's what I said. That's me. I'm — well I'll say my part for you — then you'll get the hang of it." You cleared your throat, struck a pose and began: "Ha ha. Ho ho. I am Jolly jump-up. Oh, I am very jolly."
You were so wooden, so incredibly bad I couldn't believe it. "Mmmmmm," I said lamely. "Then what? Do you have any more?"
"Sure. Flip the page. On top. Right there where it's marked with red. That's me."
"That's — well, never mind. Go ahead."
"Ha ha. Ho — do I have two ho's or three ho's on the second one?"
This was ridiculous. "Does it matter?"
"Oh sure. Once I have two and once I have three and I don't know which is which. I gotta do it right."
"Well you can laugh your head off the second time," I said dryly. "You have four."
"Oh." You cleared your throat again and squared off. "Ha ha. Ho ho ho ho —"
"What on earth are you supposed to be?" I knew I wasn't being diplomatic. But I couldn't help it.
"Oh. I'm a jack-in-the-box. A jolly jack-in
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the-box. The kids are all toys, see? Under the tree on the stage. And this girl comes in and sees us and stops and exclaims. You know how girls exclaim." You drew in your breath in a quick little gasp to show me." And she comes over to us and I'm the first one she touches. She presses my button and flips my lid and I come springing out of my box. And that's when I say — 'Ha ha—' "
"Look — David." I was tactful and serious. You're a happy jolly jack-in-the-box. Why don't you just come up holding your sides and laughing. Just laugh. You know —" and gave off with a department store-Santa Claus laugh: "Ho - ho - ho - ho - I am —"
"Mother, don't louse it all up. It has to be the way it is in the book, H - a, exclamation point, h - a, exclamation point, h - o, exclamation point, h - o, exclama — hey, d'you know what Alice is going to be?"
"Who Alice? Alice who — whom? David, you have me throwing the king's English all over the kitchen. Who is Alice?"
"Alice — my girl. I told you. She plays first base on our team. Best man we ever had on first base. She can ride a bike with no hands —"
"Is she the one who knocked her brother's front teeth out?"
"Yup. D'you know he can whistle through the gap? Every thing he says with an "s"
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comes out in a whistle if he wants it to. It's great stuff. He can —"
"I'm afraid to ask. What's dear little Alice going to be?"
"She's going to be an angel. With wings and everything. Gauze ones."
"Oh brother."
"Yup. She's going to have gauze wings. Want to hear me again? Ha ha. Ho ho ho — oops, I gotta go. Alice is waiting for me."
"Is this all you — is this your whole part?"
"Yeah. But don't worry. I can learn it. I got all week to practice. Ha ha —"
You were still muttering "ho ho" as you went out the door.
Oh, David — you practiced that thing all week — I almost lost my mind. And when Friday night came, she pressed your button and flipped your lid and you came springing up — took one look at the PTA and went "Daaaaaaaah." That was the Christmas we realized you weren't going to be a thespian.
Remember the Christmas you came home with the Sunday school play in your pocket? "It's a play," you said. "I'm supposed to be in it. But let's get one thing straight. I'm not going to stand up there and sing with all those dumb girls."
"But other boys are singing too," I tried,
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reasonably. "There aren't just dumb — just girls. You're being silly about it. And it's a lovely song."
"It's a baby song."
"It is not. It's a timeless, ageless —"
"It's a baby song."
"It's a timeless, ageless classic —"
"It's a baby song."
"It's a timeless, ageless, classic lullaby —"
"IT'S A BABY SONG. AND I'M NOT GOING TO SING IT. IT'S MY BIRTHDAY. IF A FELLOW CAN'T DO WHAT HE WANTS TO ON HIS BIRTHDAY I DON'T KNOW WHEN ELSE A FELLOW CAN DO WHAT HE WANTS TO DO. IF A FELLOW CAN'T DO WHAT HE WANTS ON HIS BIRTH —"
"Oh, hush." We stared at each other for a moment. "Happy birthday, David, come Christmas," I said at last. "Of course Christmas is your birthday. But it's something more important than that." I struggled for the right words. "David — everything God ever said hinges on that day when Jesus was born. It's — it's like the hub of a big wheel. All the other things God said are like spokes coming out from the hub. It's the day the Lord Jesus Christ was born — God's promise of a Saviour was kept on Christmas. Jesus was God. Nothing else God ever said in the Bible makes sense
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if it weren't for Christmas. Except for Easter when He rose again — Christmas is — is it." I stopped suddenly. I felt I'd said enough for the moment. I didn't want to go past the ending. I turned back to the music.
"And it's a lovely song. It's a timeless, ageless lullaby. Not a baby song at all. Try it.
"Ahhhhhhh," I sang.
"Ahhhhhhhhh." Was that you? "Oh brother," I said softly, under my breath.
And again, "Ahhhhhhhhh."
"Ahhhhhh," you struggled valiantly. "Ahhhhhhhhhhhh —!"
"You've got it" — I sang. "Hang on it —!"
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"A-way in a man-ger.
"Come-on-David-sing!"
"The little — My-voice-won't-stay-in-one-place!" You howled, in great pain.
"It doesn't have to" — I sang — "You come right back here! The stars in the sky — It's his-birth-day-first."
"David," I said quietly.
You screwed your face up for an all-out effort. "The lit-tle Lord Je-sus a-sleep on the haaaaay."
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You were a dreadful singer, David. Your mouth went up sideways when you hit a high note. But that was a special Christmas. That was the Christmas we began saying: "It's His birthday first —"
Remember the Christmas you were almost grown up — but not quite?
"Hi, mom. I'm all set for young people's. We're going to decorate the church for Christmas. How do I look? I've got one of those ties on an elastic — can pull it out and snap it back. See?" You demonstrated and brought it back with a gunnnnnng.
"Don't do that," I said. "It comes back crooked. Let me straighten it up." And then — "David?"
"Hm?"
"Is that all you? Or are you padded?"
"That's all me, Ma'am — all muscle. Wanna see?"
"No — don't take your coat off. You're late. I — just hadn't realized you'd grown so, David —" I looked at you with new eyes, the truth dawning. I was cautious. "Who is she?"
"Who's who? Whom? Who?"
"This woman who has wrought this miraculous change in you. Come now, leave us not quibble. Your neck is clean. And your hair is
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slicked. And you — hey that's my Tabu you have on! I thought you smelled familiar!"
"Awww. Just a little. I just got kinda cleaned up. Mom. I'm glad you brought it up. I wanted to talk to you about her. She's sorta — well she's — maybe you know her." You started to describe her with gestures. "She's about this tall — and she's — well she's kinda — she's a little bit like — she's just about this — um — wide, and —" But it was too much. You dissolved sheepishly. "She's a girl." You stopped, spent. I gaped at you foolishly, trying to look interested but not too concerned, as if this happened every day.
"So I gathered," I said dryly, ever ready with the quick answer. I was immediately sorry. Your eyes were begging me not to laugh.
"I got her something for Christmas," you said, glad to change the subject. "I've wanted to talk to you about that too. I don't know whether or not it's okay. I mean if it's not okay — I don't want to get her something that's not okay — you know, if it's not okay — I wouldn't want to give her — if it's not okay — I'll give it to you."
"What is it?" I said, resigned to my lot.
"Perfume. It's good stuff, all right. A whole dollar. Plus tax. Good stuff."
I considered that critically. "Well, it's a lot
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better than the plastic dump truck you gave me last year."
Touche for me. You blushed. "Ahhhhh, Mom. I was just a kid last year. This year — hey can I — d'you suppose — I was wondering if after we decorate tonight, maybe some of the kids could come over here — and we could maybe sing carols or something or hang around and have some popcorn balls — could we have some popcorn balls? — and I could bring her over too and you could kinda meet her — could we have some popcorn balls?"
"We can have some popcorn balls," I said, very serious. You were so defenseless, I couldn't smile. It just wouldn't be cricket. "You'd better go on, I said. "You're late."
You started for the door, came back. "Mom — this is going to be the best Christmas I ever had."
"Yes. Go on. You're late."
"Mom — you'll like her." You laughed foolishly.
"Go on!"
You went then, slamming the door, and I was alone and free to laugh. But somehow it was suddenly more poignant than funny.
I did like her. She was all clean and shining. She was your first girl. And you brought her home. Oh, David, that was a good Christmas.
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Remember the Christmas you came home with something on your mind to tell Dad and me and something to tell your best girl? I met you at the station. You were so tall I saw you right away. I was so short I had a dreadful time getting through the crowd.
"David — David! Oh I BEG your pardon — I'm all elbows. I'm meeting my son. David! He's over there — the tall one. Merry Christmas! Oh David!" You gathered me in.
"Merry Christmas, baby."
"Oh, David. Honestly!"
"You look wonderful — where's Dad?"
"Oh, I don't. I threw a coat over my house dress. Dad's doing some last minute things that came up. We're going to trim the tree tonight. Come on over this way — I'm parked in a limited zone. David, I wasn't going to cry, but I'm so glad you're home. Come on."
"Mom, I've got a lot of things to talk over with you and Dad. I — I changed my course at school. Mom, I — I'm going into Christian service — might want to go on to seminary. I'm not sure. D'you think Dad'll mind? My changing my course? Hey, what's the matter?"
"David I — that's wonderful. This is an awful place to break news like that. Let's get out of here. Over this way."
I took your hand and we both talked all the way to the car. David, I wanted to get right
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down on my knees and thank God for you, right there in the station. But instead I talked about the most ordinary things. It's strange how you dream of the great moments, and then you talk about ordinary things when the great moments come.
Oh, David, that was a Christmas. If all the rest of my life nothing wonderful ever happens to me again, I'll still always thank God for that Christmas. You were home — we were all together. And we all said, "Happy birthday, David." And we all thought, "It's His birthday first." It was in us by then, a part of us. We said it every year. But this year was somehow different. This year, when you went back to college —
But you never did go back to college. And now, incredibly, another year has rolled around and it's a week before Christmas again — and you are somewhere overseas and I'm not sure where you are. And I don't know what to write.
David — people change and the world changes and the bottom drops out of your life — but God does not change. Jesus Christ is the same — yesterday, today and forever. Remember what we learned in Romans? That nothing can separate us from the love of God? Neither height nor depth nor famine nor peril — nor war.
David. I'm going to remind you of some-
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thing and from where you are, it may seem hard. I'm going to remind you again that it's still His birthday first. And I'm going to commit you to Him Who loved you and gave Himself for you and knows where you are. He put you there. If ever I needed to believe these things, I need to believe them now.
So I'm going to wish you a blessed Christmas. For His sake.
Good nite, my beloved —
Mother
* * * * *
Yes, time marches inexorably on, and the pity of it is, we do not know it until so much of it has gone. When I wrote the end of that story it was pure fiction, and such stark reality was so far away — beyond the pale of my experience. And we wasted years taking each other for granted, getting enmeshed in the humdrum sameness of things — until quickly — too quickly — the bathos of propinquity turned into the pathos of separation — and the fictitious end of the story was all too real. Before I knew where the years had gone, or even that they were going, Gary was waiting in the car while Steve and I said good-by in the living room
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because he was adamant about not wanting me to go to the station. "It's rough enough doing it here," he'd said. "Let's not make it worse."
In his army uniform he did not seem at all like Steve, and yet more endearingly like Steve than ever. I prayed aloud for him then, and it was brief, for I did not want to cry. Then, "You know me," he said. "I can't stand good-bys. So let's have it just like I was coming home tonight." His eyes were suspiciously moist, and he turned quickly and ran to the car.
After a moment Gary got out of the car and came back to the living room, his arms out. "I knew you two idiots wouldn't cry in front of each other," he said. "I came back so you could cry on me."
I did.
I told him not to tell Steve I was crying and he said Steve had told him not to tell me how sunk he felt and we chuckled through our tears in loving conspiracy. A moment later they disappeared in the traffic. And I wept, not only because he was gone, but for every moment I had not appreciated him while he was here.
There are many illusions in life that trip us up, but one of the most deadly ones is that time is going to stand still while we get straightened out or drop that habit or write that note or do that job or change that attitude or mend that friendship or
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appreciate that blessing or that person or pay that vow to God.
"Redeem the time," urged Paul. It means literally, "buy up the time" — buy up every moment as investors buy up assets that are going to yield rich dividends in the future. For every moment you buy up and use profitably, you will reap reward. For every moment you use unprofitably, you will reap regret.
Life is only half-filled by untold millions who meant to do something and never got around to it. The lament of them all would fill the world with one great sigh.
There was the man who had a great talent and he dipped into alcohol and first it gave a pleasure and then it had a grip of iron and he kept meaning to do something about it but time went on and after awhile his wife was gone and his children were gone and his job was gone and the great talent was gone and there was nothing left at all but despair — and the tragedy is that all his life he meant to get straightened out.
And the one who wanted to make money but soon money became an obsession and before he knew it his life had gone and though he had always meant to spend time with his wife and children, when he finally got around to it they were strangers who didn't have time for him.
And the woman who always meant to spend more time with her widowed mother but when she
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finally had time her mother was gone.
And the man who vowed a portion of his wealth to God and God had prospered him in business and he always meant to tithe but before he knew it death had caught up with him and he'd even forgotten to take care of it in his will.
And the man who was called into full time service and vowed he'd go after he got his affairs straightened out but he never had time — and death caught up with him too before he got around to it.
I read a story once of a hard-working farm woman who lived her life in quiet, uncomplaining stoicism — unappreciated and unsung. She died at the end, as quietly and uncomplaining as she had lived. And when her husband looked down at her gnarled hands and work-worn face, all the sadness and regret of the ages was in his eyes. "I never told her I loved her," he said.
Each of our lives is ordered in a different fashion and it doesn't matter much what God gave us to do. It may be something great and it may be something quite ordinary. The point is, He gave us just so much time in which to do it and time won't wait. Opportunities are snatched by other people, and love dies of neglect and people wither from lack of appreciation and talents peter out from lack of use and children grow up and go away and at the end of our lives we say, "I don't know where the time went."
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We'll say it anyway, whether or not we used it well. But how much better to say it knowing that, to the best of our ability, we have "bought it up." Even apparent failure loses its sting in the face of this.
