It has been 23-years, to the day, since the birth of my first child. Never one to be late, he arrived exactly on his due date. But not without a ridiculous 26-hours of pointless labor and, ultimately, an emergency c-section. He had a flair for the dramatic right from the beginning.
I’m pretty sure I might have watched six or seven minutes of the World Series while I awaited his birth. I assume that I stopped watching because I didn’t want to die of boredom before the kid was actually born. I am not a fan of baseball. In fact, I have a theory that in Hell there is a perpetual baseball game we are forced to watch for all eternity. My other theory is that there are only public restrooms in Hell. I’m hoping to avoid Hell. Nevertheless, when I hear or see something about the World Series every autumn, it transports me back to those days of anticipating Charles’s birth.
Prior to his grand entrance we had planned to name Charles after my paternal grandfather. While there are a lot of nutty characters in my lineage, my granddad wasn’t one of them. He was a good, quiet, caring man who always went by the moniker, Charley. When my Charles was born, I assumed he too would go by Charlie. And he did while I had something to say about it. I had no idea that at five-years old he would discover his given name was Charles and insist on being called that. But then I also I had no idea he would refuse to walk on his own until he was 18-months old or spontaneously start to read when he was three. Or, by three-and-a-half would be giving me driving directions. I’ve spent my whole life perpetually directionless and here was a 30-pound kid with a compass emblazoned into his brain, strapped into a carseat and telling me how to get downtown.
Weird.
By age four, Charles was a pint-sized compendium of automobile knowledge. Babysitters were confounded when I told them his bedtime story of choice was automotive marketing brochures. Seriously. His favorite part wasn’t the photos as much as the specifications. And you can imagine the strange looks I got when Charles would converse with adult men about drive shafts, towing capacity, or chassis systems. It was surreal to listen to him explain power ratios and final drive ratios while I was zipping up his footie pajamas.
At age five he got up every morning and read the newspaper, cover-to-cover. Thank God we didn’t have any cigarettes in the house and he hadn’t developed a taste for coffee yet or I’m pretty sure he’d have looked like a miniature adult following his morning routine, mindlessly flicking ashes into the ashtray, slurping hot coffee, and pondering the future implications of NAFTA.
By the time he was in public kindergarten his teacher didn’t know what to do with him. While the other kids were learning letter sounds, Charles was reading the Encyclopedia. When it was time to draw, Charles had the same crude drawing skills as his peers, except he conceptualized the fire truck in 3D. But he could not, for the life of him, figure out how to play 'Simon Says.' Or why. When he was in the 9th grade he lost interest in school. At 17, he dropped out.
Charles is an enigma. Charming, melodramatic, caring, belligerent, loving, and argumentative all at the same time. As with a lot of brilliant people he can, at times, be the most delightful person to spend time with and at others, positively exhausting. Small children adore him and as my brother aptly pointed out, children are often excellent judges of character.
Last summer my brother, sister, and I were looking at old family photos. We came across a picture of our grandfather, Charley, when he was in his mid-20s. It hadn’t really occurred to any of us how much Charles’s physical resemblance matched his great-grandfather’s. Uncanny, really. Charley died when he was 90. Charlie was 3. I have one cherished photo of the two of them together.
It is interesting to note how much, beyond appearance, the two are alike as well. Fans of country music, generous, exceedingly loyal, and terrified of heights. A slightly gruff exterior and a deeply sensitive interior. I don’t know if my grandfather made bad decisions and was given to histrionics when he was younger. Doubtless he made bad decisions. It is a little hard to imagine him being dramatic, but who knows.
He was a good man. One of those ‘salt of the earth’ types. A barber, land surveyor, and a friend to his entire community, he cared for others generously and graciously. He was honest and hard working. He gave without expecting anything in return. He had a dry wit, a charming smile, and a tender, loving manner. He was a man worthy of being named after.
It is odd to think that 23-years later Charles could be like my grandfather in so many ways. I am watching him grow into a man his great-grandfather would be proud of. And, I know he will use the innate qualities he has been given to offer the world his best. I have no idea what someone does with all that intelligence but I have every confidence Charles will use it to do something amazing.
And I know my precious granddad would be happy to share his name with the man Charles is becoming.
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