Honea Express

For every scratch, bite or angry punch thrown there is a sea of tranquility which they drift upon — the parting of it is just so much louder. Also, sweet sorrow.

They work well together, my two boys, and they manage to stay dry just above the waterline (usually). In fact, they spend their time so nicely that I often count on one or the other to keep his brother safe and in check. I’ll work for hours at my desk while the kids are playing up downstairs, or I’ll glance out the window and see them run up the hill bent on rolling down it. They are covered in grass stains and sunshine, the dogs loose upon their heels — two boys glowing golden that blur in the afternoon warmth of a bright California winter.

Yet when they are apart they could not be more different from the other. The oldest is shy and prone to deep thought. The younger is a man of dimples and constant action.

The oldest prefers smaller groups of friends while the younger holds that more is merrier. One tends to lead, one tends to follow, but they are both fond of fun by committee. Alone they are independent, smart and charming, and they are as different as they are alike.

Together they are drawn like magnets.

I was upstairs, typing away like so many monkeys, and I heard them talking in the room below. The youngest asked a question that the oldest couldn’t answer. Silence echoed up the stairway. Were they allowed to play with pins, and had they chosen that very moment to let one drop, I’m sure I would have heard it (we have tile floors).

I could feel the disbelief.

“But,” said the youngest, his voice soft and earnest, “I thought you knew everything.”

“I don’t,” replied his brother.

They raced up the hill like the tide coming in, intent to roll upon the ebb through waves of grass and splendor. I watched from the window, deadlines be damned and the consequences to follow.

The kids are home from school today. I asked them if they knew why.

“Because it’s a holiday,” said the oldest.

“It’s Dr. King’s day,” said the youngest.

I asked them if they knew why we celebrated the life and achievements of Martin Luther King.

“Because it’s a holiday,” said the oldest.

“Because he did great things for civil rights,” said the youngest.

And then he sang a song about the man and what those great things were. The works of Dr. King had been the primary focus of his kindergarten curriculum for the previous week, and he had taken it to heart, for that is where his songs are kept.

I looked at the oldest, “Haven’t they talked about Dr. King at school?”

“No.”

“Do you remember me talking to you about him last year?”

“Kind of.”

And then I sat down and explained to two small children about ignorance and hate and how they manifested themselves in the belly of a nation.

“That’s like that Nina Simone song,” said the oldest, and I smiled softly, because it certainly was. Then he hummed a few bars.

I spoke in gentle detail about harsh realities, and I couldn’t help but regret the need to do so. Their faces were alive with disgust and confusion, and the more we spoke the more another layer of innocence slipped away.

“Were they Nazis?” asked the oldest. That was an evil he understood. Between The Sound of Music, Indiana Jones, and Bedknobs and Broomsticks he was well-versed in the fear such a movement could cause. It caused great fear in him.

“They were people that had been taught to hate,” I said. “Dr. King taught them to dream and love.”

“I wonder why we didn’t talk about it at school,” he said as his voice drifted off in the direction of the open window, and his thoughts seemed to follow.

“People still need to dream,” he said.

His 8-year-old wisdom was deeper than anything I could offer, so we let it hang there in the air around us. The boys both pressed close against me with a tenderness they reserve for moments of quiet and reflection, and the moment became just that.

Then the youngest sang his song in careful whisper and the oldest sat still, his arms around his brother, his head upon my heart, and he listened.

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Photo by Emma Rödjer; drawings by the kindergarten class

“Do you know what a resolution is?” I asked them. Both boys shook their heads from left to right and back again. This indicated that no, they did not.

“In the case of a new year,” I continued, “it is an attempt to do things differently, and hopefully better.”

“Why do you do it at the new year?” asked the youngest.

“A new year, according to the calendar, is a new beginning. It’s a fresh start. Everybody loves a clean slate.”

“So people do things that don’t make them happy all year, and then they try to stop on January first?” asked the oldest.

“Now you’ve got it!” I said.

“What’s your resolution, Daddy?”

“Same as last year,” I answered. “It’s a work in progress.”

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New Year’s Eve found us on the crowded paths of Disneyland. The masses were armed with noisemakers, churros, and matching party hats. As far as mob mentality goes, joyful celebration is probably my favorite — although I do enjoy a good monster chase (when else am I going to use my pitchfork and torch?). It was almost 8 p.m., and we were feeling every hour of it. And then some.

“Family up,” I said above the din of the revelry. It was a new term I was trying out. It had a bit of the Phil Dunphy to it. My wife wasn’t sold.

“Here are our options,” I explained to the boys. “It’s very fun in here, but it’s also kind of crazy. The lines are too long to ride anything. We can walk around the park until midnight, go over to Disney’s California Adventure, or stroll through Downtown Disney on the way back to the hotel.”

“Hotel.” They said in unison. My wife also said it, but I had known her answer going in. Hers was a vote of moral support and confidence. Also, she knew we had wine in the room.

And so it was that we strolled through Downtown Disney as promised. We listened to live music. We bought candy apples. The boys spent their Christmas money at the Lego store.

The Disneyland Hotel was quiet. Not even a mouse stirred. There were Legos, glasses of wine, a good book and a warm bed. There were cartoons on the television, which, to boys that don’t have a TV, is almost as exciting as the park we had left.

My wife was asleep by 9:30.

Around 10:45 I announced that the lights were going off. There was whining, complaints, and futile attempts at logic and reason. I told the boys that if they were still awake at midnight we could turn the TV back on and watch the ball drop. They had no idea what I was talking about, but since it included television they assumed it must be a good deal and they took it.

They were asleep by 10:46. I was right behind them.

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The distance closed with flashes and echoes. It started above a castle and just kept going. Boom! Boom! Boom! Firework after firework filled the sky. It sounded like a battle, and perhaps it was — the fight between a new year entering and one not quite ready to leave. The curtains were too thick to betray our darkness, but along the floor crept the occasional dance of bright lights and brilliance. There was singing from the ground below, so many Whos, and their voices carried into the night on the backs of booms and hopes filled with laughter.

“Do you hear that?” I asked the room. The only reply was steady breath and slight snores. And then, as quickly as they had appeared, the noises ended. It was just us, an empty bottle of wine, a floor full of Legos, and a TV sitting dark and forgotten.

“Happy New Year,” I whispered.

Steady breath. Slight snores. So far the year was perfect.