John Greenwood

One afternoon

WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED BY JOHN R. GREENWOOD

While putting tools back in my shed, three forty-year-old artifacts nestled on a dusty shelf caught my attention. There, parked neatly in a row, were three 1980 reminders of dirty-faced boys with untied sneakers and grubby knees, polite little boys in their Dukes of Hazard t-shirts. Suddenly I could hear them charging in the back door, the screen slamming like a gunshot. Two giggling brothers, PB&J hungry and chocolate milk thirsty. Those two action-packed boys enriched their parents' lives and carried on the family name for another round. Where have the last forty years gone? Somehow, they vanished into thin air. Along with them went two little boys. The boys who battered my garage doors with hockey pucks and stray basketball shots, active boys who left me with dented aluminum siding and fond memories. Corners of my attic remained filled with boxes of Dr. Seuss and Star Wars leftovers. It's a constant reminder that they're now grown men with five sons of their own. The time-lapse stops me in my tracks. I long for the days when they would push me to the brink. I would growl and threaten their precious little lives. Now, I miss the mischievous adventures and misadventures. The memory of the relentless backseat arm-poking and antagonizing, keeps that period of my life vivid and dear. Fidgety boys with endless energy and no regard for a parent's mental well-being. Yes, my heart aches for it. They were a joy and a journey. I would repeat it first thing in the morning if given a magic lamp. Forty years of photographs passed before my eyes. Pictures of babies on picnic tables in state parks and blanket-wrapped toddlers sound asleep in Montgomery Ward strollers. Photos from Storytown, ballgames, and nursery school graduations. There were visions of boys on red bikes, green plastic tractors, and my old white milk truck parked in the shade. I am swarmed by the priceless recollections of two warmhearted boys. If I had one last wish, I would take them back to the county fair and walk them down the midway for one more round of circling helicopters and bell-ringing boats. I'm not sad; I'm blessed. I am grateful for the privilege of children and the joy of fatherhood. I'm confident that my two sons/ fathers will soon be looking into the rearview with the same rose-colored glasses. SS

SONS

By Dad

who knew the joy my heart, young son, you'd bring with glimmering eye and tiny pulse my own heart sang with pride the secret to happiness swaddled and sweet-smelling cooing in loving reciprocation changed my vision of happiness turning it inward to my own blood as it flowed through me to them