The Point of the Whole Thing: Intimations of a Seer

The Point of the Whole Thing

Intimations of a Seer

One weekend when Nathan was in Connecticut Adam was over and we were blessed with a light snow dusting. Why or how in the world I would ever forget that my son's favorite season is Winter is beyond me, although it may be attributable to Chronological Advancement Syndrome.

But perhaps it's simply that any time I spend with Adam is the best time of my life and that if I am always having the best time of my life at any moment I am with the most important person in my life, I fail to consider fully his perspective. I fail to view the world through the eyes of a child. This is understandable, but hardly impeccable.

I think it's more than just that he doesn't have allergies in Winter, but he loves the season and everything about it. Outside in the back yard, he decided on a new activity. He would jump off the back porch steps onto the snow blow, clearing, at his first attempt, the small rock garden by about twelve inches and then rolling down the hill in the snow dusting.

Of course, once was not enough, and he returned to repeat what was about to become a ritual, EXCEPT that this time he cleared the rock garden by about six inches. Then like Sisyphus, he returned again, at which point I felt obliged to comment: “I see (said I non-judgementally). The object of the exercise is to jump as clase as possible to the rocks without hitting them.

He turned to me, crunched up his face, producing a look neither angelic nor cherubic; a look of a gargoyle-like quality. I was taken aback. “Yes,” he said, and jumped again, clearing the rocks by three inches.

Having evoked a paternal comment, he moved on down to the creek in the Northwest corner of the yard which was covered with a thin layer of ice. He found a stick and poked. I remarked idly, “I wonder why there isn't any ice over there?”

“Too hot,” he succinctly replied. Had I not been paying attention, I would have assumed that he was not paing attention, that he was merely mumbling incoherently as his paternal grandparents are so wont to do. Then he added a prediction: “Three weeks from now this will all be ice and there will be snow everywhere.”

I reminded him of a previous weather pronouncement he had made. “I did?” he asked.

“Yes you did,” I answered. “You said. 'It won't be Spring for 17 more days.'”

“And was it?” he asked.

“Of course!” I answered.

Twelve days later the temperature was over fifty degrees. There were 150 golfers at Thunderbird by 11:30 a.m. I took note, and would be very interested to se what the gournd would look like nine days hence on December 18. If it's all covered with snow and the back creek is all covered with ice, I may have to begin speaking with Adam about things metaphysical, or at least mythic.