Holy Fool

Some nights as I am putting my three year old son to bed and we have said our prayers he gently asks me, "tell me a story about you a little boy."  To be honest it's hard to think of stories sometime that I think he will find entertaining, or interesting.

Maybe the first time I rode a bike solo, or the time me and my mom went innertubing on a snowy hill on the backside of Pike's Peak.  The time my dad, cousin and I climbed to crater lake.  Once I told him about trying to steady myself against a fall during a hike in the backwoods of the Rocky Mountains only to plant my hand squarely on a cactus.  The time I lifted the front handle bars of my bike off of the ground to jump a curb and the front wheel fell clean off.  There was the time me and the neighbor boy down the alley walked the 5 blocks to 7-Eleven across main street and played Altered Beast forever, which was against the rules due to the distance and the 5 lane main street crossing.

There are stories I would rather not share too.  The time I got punched in the gut so hard all the wind was drove out of me and I fell backwards over myself.  The time in elementary school I threw a rock in anger at the third grade girl that wouldn't leave me alone and it cut her eye.

My son loves all of the stories.  He loves knowing that I was once like him.  He loves the connection to some place in our family history; that even before he was there was a story giving his life meaning and context.

I remember standing outside of the Nazarene Church in Longmont, Colorado at the age of ten.  I was looking into the blue sky and playing with my friends Andy, Andrew and Jason.  The thought crossed my mind, "only six more years until I can drive a car."  I was in a hurry to grow up, to taste the freedom that age brings.  But as I grow older it's hard not to envy my son and his childhood.  To tell him to remain a little boy for as long as he possibly can.  To play with hotwheels and legos, and eat too many donuts when mommy and daddy aren't watching closely.

Just like the clear as day memory from when I was ten, a memory over 20 years old, my son will have his own memories and his own stories.  When he has a son or a daughter I have no doubt that some night he will recount, 'Stories about he was a little boy."  The legacy and story, the narrative will carry on.  It will continue to provide context and meaning to my grandchildren, their children, and the ones after that.

What are the stories we remember?  What are the stories we would rather forget?  What is the legacy we leave and how will the stories of our childhood be remembered by future generations?