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Reflection for Father's Day June 15th

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Of Bicycles and Swings

As I think about Father's Day, two experiences come to mind that sum it up for me. The first has to do with my eldest son Adam. I have this pleasant flashback to those afternoons when I introduced him to the rope swing suspended from an oak tree in our backyard in Baltimore. He was a frisky two and a half years old and enjoyed the swing immensely, judging by the squeals he emitted as he went sailing off into the sun-spangled foliage and then came sweeping back down - over and over again.

Of course, I was pushing him and what an ineffable pleasure that was. I would place him in the swing's saddle and then slowly draw him back to the height of my chest and then give him a good shove and off he'd go, to return again to the height of my chest and then to my brow as I applied enough pressure to get him as high as the physics of a swing would allow. After that it only took the gentlest of touches to keep him arcing ever so gracefully while I sang to the rhythm of it all: "The swing goes up; the swing comes down; your toes touch the sky; your bottom the ground."

There was something about the experience that entranced me. It seemed to embody the very essence of fathering. For what does a father do but launch his child into life as if upon a swing - introducing him to a world that's a blend of danger yet delight? Nor do you want to spare him the danger lest he never know the delight. And all the while you back him up with a music set to the rhythm not so much of a swing but of your heart. And there you are again, whenever he returns, not to abort his flight but only to send him gently off again until one day, like a bird out of its nest, he sails off to become the beautiful person you already knew he was. For they do take off eventually as Seamus Heaney testifies in his poem "The Swing": Sooner or later, / We all learned one by one to go sky high, / Toeing and rowing and jack-knifing through air. . . / In spite of all we sailed / Beyond ourselves and over and above / The rafters aching in our shoulderblades, / The give and take of branches in our arms.

With my now deceased younger son Philip my memorable experience was different. I recall the day I helped him first ride a bicycle. Phil was always a bit behind his brother and peers in mastering the skills of play. And so, when I and his brother escorted him to the big Mall in Washington, D.C. I did not expect him to mount the contraption and sail off blissfully competent the way Adam did. That's why I picked a level, grassy field, figuring there would be fewer abrasions to treat. And sure enough, every time he climbed aboard and I gradually let go of the seat to leave him to the mercy of gravity, he wobbled and wobbled and down he went with a clatter and a moan and a gripe. Only upon the fifteenth try did he zigzag away until he reached his cheering brother a good fifty yards off - and grew smaller in my vision, leaving me with a memory that has made my life worth living.

It's as simple as that. Two metaphors of fatherhood! Launching children into a world where falls are probable but where their victory over gravity (in every negative sense of the word) is also probable as long as you are there with supportive fingertips, which are nothing less than an extension of your heart.

But, again, they do sail far beyond our reach, as in the case of Adam who (much to my admiration and muted concern) now climbs high ladders as a member of the San Francisco Fire Department. As for Philip, (figuratively speaking) the last I saw him he was - like the boys in the movie E. T. - riding a bicycle silhouetted against the moon. But - unlike them - E.T.'s spaceship took him away.

-- Geoff Wood