It was January. And what a perfect time to be outside in the
sun.
My wife, our 11-year-old boy and I went on a morning hike.
In Southern California, you can do that. Still, my wife had our kid bundled up
for an Indiana blizzard.
He hated that. Even if his lips were blue and his fingers
were icicles, he was “fine.” He insists that he’s “all grown up” and “a man,” though
we have to nag him every night to take a shower like he was still 10. What do
boys have against showering anyway?
On the way back home from the hike, our son proposed a
barbecue for dinner. He knew what was coming, and he was all set to fire back.
“It’s winter,” my wife said on cue.
“It’s burning,” the kid shot back.
“It’s gonna be cold by dinnertime.”
“It’s gonna be fine.”
It was all settled -- no barbecue.
Then Grandpa called. “Wanna barbecue?”
Our son promised he’d tell us if he got cold at any time
during the meal. He loves eating outdoors.
Others on the block had the same idea -- that sweet aroma of
smoking briquettes was floating through the neighborhood the same way I wished
the smell of our trash wasn’t. Who throws out leftovers the day after trash
pickup? (That’s another story.)
“How about a game of bocce ball or some ice cream?” our son
suggested to get into the barbecue mood. “Or how about we go swimming?”
“We can’t do any of that right now,” I told him. “Grandpa
and I have to barbecue.”
“I’ll be helping, too, Dad,” the kid replied. “All three of
us men will be barbecuing.”
We three “men” were living it up, talking about manly things
like the oppression of the modern husband, and cooking up all kinds of meat -- steak,
chicken, hot links (not mild).
“Men don’t ‘cook’,” my son corrected me when I said it. “We
work with slabs of meat and fire.”
The steak was taking too long. We should’ve gotten thinner
meat. The cold was coming in, and we needed at least another hour for even
medium-rare. Winter was definitely amongst us -- I had to put on a sweatshirt
(Welcome to Southern California!).
In no time, my wife was suggesting we eat inside where we
wouldn’t be so cold.
“Who’s this ‘we’ stuff?” our son said.
“You’ll be cold out here,” she told him.
“Maybe you’ll be
cold,” he replied, “but we men will be fine.”
I agreed that we’d be fine. My wife bundled up and brought
out a few hundred layers of clothing for our kid. When it came time to eat, Grandpa
rolled the barbecue close to my wife and his grandson so the flame would keep
them warm. Great idea!
Our son thought it was a bad idea. He saw Grandpa and me in
the cold and was jealous. He wanted to be cold, too.
“I’m burning,” he announced.
“Fine,” my wife and I gave in. “Take off your jacket, freeze
to death if you want.”
He took off his jacket and put on a big smile. He wasn’t
shivering at all.
I could see what was going on in his mind:
The scene took place in Alaska or the North Pole, and we
were all lost in a snowdrift. My wife and I were frozen. Our son gave his only
jacket to his mother. “You’re such a man,” she told her strong boy. Then he cut
a hole in the ice with his bare hands, dove into the icy-cold lake below and
came up with some fish in his teeth for us to eat. He was grinning. He was in
deathly-cold water and he was grinning.
And then I could see a bunch of girls in provocative winter
wear blowing kisses to our son for his manliness. Wives know what we’re
thinking. She kicked me under the table and I lost the telepathic transmission.
We made it through the dinner. Our son did great in the
cold. He was still wearing that smile.
After cleaning up, the boy actually volunteered to take a shower.
He ran into the bathroom and didn’t even take an hour to undress like usual.
And the showering took longer than his normal two minutes.
Three hours later, when he turned off the water, he was
completely thawed out.
-January 2015
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