I just returned from an adventure to the Everglades National Park with one of my high school buddies. He and I go way back. When we were sixteen and first got our driver’s licenses, $1.20 would buy me two gallons of gas, just enough to get to his house and back.
Before I left for Florida, I made sure to give my son Noah a big hug goodbye. This trip was going to be my first real getaway since the birth of my other son, Evan. Evan would have been ten this year. Since I was going to be gone for three days, I wondered if Noah would see my absence as another loss. I know any time he goes away for the night, I feel a loss. I think once you have lost a family member, you realize the unthinkable can come true.
On the flight from Michigan to Florida, Noah continued to be on my mind. He’s such a great kid, but I often worry if surviving the death of his younger brother will one day manifest in a negative way. So far, Noah has turned to positive outlets for coping.
For me, my main survival skill has been what I like to call “scooping up things.” I can make it through each day if I embrace the simple things in life. With every breath I inhale, I scoop up in my mind what I think has value. I do this almost unconsciously as I go about my daily work and routines. And, of course, this trip would be no different—I’d be looking for things to scoop up, examine, and save.
On our first night in the Everglades, my buddy and I camped on an old Seminole mound 50 miles from the isolated boat ramp from which we’d launched. We saw alligators everywhere, floating silently in the meandering waterways or sunning their gnarly black bodies on the muddy banks as we motored past. Soaring black vultures circled overhead and long-legged white herons waded in the brackish water. When we stopped to eat lunch, I sat at the back of the boat. While no-see-ums swarmed around my head, I searched for anything that might be lurking around the boat.
My eyes immediately spotted a family of tiny translucent minnows darting between the roots of the far-reaching arms of the mangroves. With every organ of their thinness exposed, I wondered how long the minnows would live; how long they had been alive.
Onshore, ancient lemon and banana trees were visible among the thick foliage, evidence of indigenous families that used to live there. The smell of those trees was something I had never experienced before. Overwhelmed by the process of “scooping up” these things, I took a deep breath, grabbed my notebook, and started to jot down my thoughts.
Before my trip, I thought that the night sky over the Everglades would be full of brilliant stars, but, in fact, the moon was so bright the stars were dimmed. On our last night in the Everglades, the full moon was king, opening a whole new day in the darkness for me to scoop up my treasures.
As we poled my buddy’s flatboat around the spider’s web of inlets, ripples on the water glistened smoothly as they rose and fell, radiating away from our boat. We couldn’t see any alligators, but we heard their midnight rumbling noises resonating for miles. I felt like my time in the Everglades could provide me with a lifetime of storytelling material.
After paying three dollars for a much-needed shower at the little store by the boat launch, I said goodbye to my friend and headed for the airport.
On my flight home, I opened my notebook and gazed again on the Everglades. The descriptive words and phrases I had written down while on my buddy’s boat took me back in a flash. My short notes and childlike sketches made me smile and reminisce. I was sure to get a dozen poems out of the scribbles.
Even though I took pictures on our adventure, I prefer words on a page when it comes to sharing my trip with my friends and family. Words seem to better capture the simple things I scoop up. The young girls seated next to me must have thought I was nuts as I kept a silent smile on my face during the whole flight.
When I got home at about 11:00 that night, Noah was still up. “Hey Dad, did you miss me?”
“Of course, son! When I get home from the presentation I have to give tomorrow, I’ll tell you all about my trip.” Saying good night, I gave him a hug and we both went up the stairs to bed.
Even though I’m just a carpenter, on occasion I’m also a presenter for state-funded training seminars for parents and caregivers of chronically ill children. Because of Evan, I’m something of an expert there.
Early the next morning, my wife, Penni, came down the stairs and said, “Noah told me Mrs. Weathers from the middle school was going to call.” Immediately I had a bad feeling. Maybe everything Noah had been through over the last few years—losing Evan—had finally taken its toll. Maybe he got angry at another kid. Maybe he pushed one of his buddies. Fears started to race through my head. Penni continued, “She called yesterday.”
“Well? What did she say?”
“She said there’s a needy family in the community that’s looking for a child’s bedroom dresser. Noah told her we have one.”
In less than a second, I knew which dresser Noah had in mind. It was the one in the bedroom I hardly have the courage to walk into. I give myself permission to look through the French doors to the once I.C.U. where Evan and all his medical equipment lived. I can’t go in there. It is still too overwhelming. Evan’s favorite blanket still lies in his crib— the crib where I found him dead and lifeless.
Penni didn’t say it, but her blue eyes spilled out the love she has for both her boys. And as she walked away, I knew she loved me too. I just stood there and held back my tears. I still can’t even talk to my wife about Evan’s death.
Later, at the end of the all-day seminar, I got up to give my presentation. Wiping tears from my eyes, I told the story about Noah and how he is transitioning through his grief and his life as a young boy of thirteen. The whole room was in tears with me. I scooped up each tear-filled smile sent my way. You see, the things I scoop up aren’t all minnows and moonbeams—sometimes they are profoundly painful.
“I could never have given away Evan’s dresser,” I told the group of people sitting in front of me. “It would have been another loss for me. But because Noah was the one who decided it was okay to give away the dresser, I was okay with it. That sorta surprised me.”
On my three-hour drive home, I realized how proud I am of Noah. Like a brilliant, full moon, Noah’s spirit shines brightly. I believe I will gaze with wonder and appreciation at his life again and again and again. I’ll probably never give up my scooping-up habit—but I bet that even years from now, Noah’s gift will stand as one of my best finds ever. Thanks, son.
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