JANUARY 13, 2021 – (Cont.) After dusk had yielded to darkness, my wife called. She had everything under control. I’d later learn the full extent to which that was the case, including a restatement of the exact expletives she’d directed irately at Byron in full earshot of the police officer on hand. (The most serious infraction: in breach of our stipulation, Byron had picked up two friends on the way to his permitted destination.) After the cop had performed his perfunctory role, my wife asked him whether there was anything else to be done. The officer replied, “Uh . . . no, ma’am . . . I think you’ve got everything under control.”
Meanwhile, before ending the call, my wife informed me that the comatose Pony would be towed to the dealer. Byron would be towed (by the ear) straight home, where he’d have to face the music from me.
Back at the house, I pondered the situation. As an impressionable teenager, Byron would remember every detail of my reaction—every expletive, every bulging vein in my forehead, every eyebrow hair standing on end from fright of my anger; OR . . . I thought . . . he’d remember my calm, firm, weighty words, if I chose such a route. Given that he was a really good kid, despite underdeveloped driving skills and occasional lapses in judgment, the calm route seemed best.
I quickly shut off all the lights, slipped into bed (by this time, it was 10:30 p.m.), and . . . waited. A short while later, I heard the garage door open, followed by the opening and closing of the house door, the snap of the upstairs hall-light switch, and heavy footsteps up the staircase. I counted . . . one, two, three . . . thirteen. The bedroom door opened, and there, silhouetted against the hallway, was the temporarily wayward son.
I climbed out of bed and said, “Siddown.” He did so penitently on the edge of the bed, and I sat down solemnly next to him. I could feel his contrition and surrender to his anticipated fate—surely a verbal whack across the ears.
Instead, what he heard was this:
“Three things. First, no one got hurt. That’s by far and away the most important thing. Second, until we get an assessment of the damage [as we’d learn the next day, it was major—nearly a month in the “auto hospital” on account of a busted wheel assembly and interminable wait for parts] and file the insurance claim, we can’t fret about what to do about the car. Third . . . third . .
“Do you know what the third thing is?” I asked. Byron shook his head as if it weighed as much as the Pony.
“The third thing is . . . we shouldn’t get too attached to our material possessions.”
For years afterward Byron explicitly referenced that “third thing” in his praise lines penned inside his birthday and Father’s Day cards to me. More important, Byron lives the lesson—in his modest life-style, his generosity, and what he values most and cultivates best: his relationships with people.
(Cont.)
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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
