Maebius Musing

Firstly, this is more rhetorical, but comments are greatly appreciated, as there are big shreds of truth behind the example. It’s been too busy to have a proper New Moon Musing, so pretend this is one, if you’d like….
Edit: pesky uploading-at-work filling the second part of this with ASCII garbage. I’ll re-upload when I get time this weekend…if I get free time online.

There comes a time as a parent, when one’s thoughts turn to the proper upbringing, and relationship of friend-but-THE-authority that evolves as a child ages. At first, during the stages of pregnancy, we planned all sorts of rules and regulations, the types of games we’d play, and the values we want to teach to our offspring.

In terms of socialization, it was discussed in great length the types of talks we would have as our only child went to school and inevitably encountered those “other kids” who might not have the same type of personality. You probably know what I mean here. The bullies who help give us opportunity to discuss social-anger redirection. The selfish kids who help teach that sharing is preferrable to hoarding the school’s toys. The teachers who help re-enforce an authority-figure status among adults. The list goes on.

And yet, in addition to the more immediate life-lessons presented in preschool, there is the fowarded parental gaze, which thinks of things to come. Girls, homework, college, girls (or guys, no pressure there), and the teenage angst-filled years to prepare for. Without dwelling on such topics, it is still something all parental types probably think about from time to time. (I hope that ALL parents do, but sadly, I know this is not a perfect world).

My musing this week, however is related to those types of questions when they involve someone other than one’s immediate offspring. Specifically in relation to the angst-filled teenage years. For example, the elder-child of a friend who stays over at our house. This other parent may have mentioned that they appreciate having us available as a safe place to visit, and enjoy our lifestyle and ethical acceptance of many less ‘mainstream’ ideals and philosophies. I do not judge easily, those who are welcomed into our home. Yet this means I become ultimately responsible for the care and teaching example-setting that happens around such guests.

Those who know me well probably know that I am not one to push my own values on others. I live as I live, and figure if folks appreciate my way of doing things, they are more than welcome to try them out too. Not all my friends would be as accepting of raising beef only to eat our ‘pets’ later. But I don’t hide the fact that the burgers for dinner were once named Norman if folks ask.

But what happens when I am asked specifically to impart some specific parental authority and wisdom towards those who may be a guest in our house? What if, one of our visitors displays some behavior that may not sit as safely within my comfortable acceptance zone? As an adult, and responsible party at our household, it is my moral obligation to address this topic. Yet as a chosen friend of the guest, my own nature does not wish to make waves and force a confrontation that could result in less happy feelings towards visiting us. Nothing actually happened during our visits, but our guest has told stories about events which cast a doubt in my mind about this person’s choice of friends. It’s the proxy-parent syndrome at it’s finest.

Mentioning, without going into details, this topic to the parental authority of our guest tends to result in an over-protective reaction, where my hesitant and minor complaints are overblown into “well, he better straighten up if he knows what’s good for him” style replies. This is also against my better judgement and not the nature of how I would deal with the topic at hand.

This whole situation involves nothing overly serious or illegal at the surface. It’s more a choice similar to “inviting the less popular kid to play Capture the Flag in the woods, and leaving them there to go do something else” rather than “vandalize the less popular kid’s locker or stink-bomb their house”.

Thus far, I have not addressed the situation with the younger guest myself, but feel some vague concern that I really should. On one hand, I think back to my own past and teenage years. At 16, I did a few things I wouldn’t encourage others to do, and yet I still think I turned out alright. One of my ‘favorite’ memories from Boy Scouts was replacing the drink mix with orange-flavoured laxative and watching the poor low-ranking kids play leapfrog with the outhouses all morning. Us teens could be downright mean, and I’d NEVER encourage this prank with my own son…yet I know something like it will happen.

We all live and learn lessons in life as we get out in the wilder world. I also had the luck of a decent set of parents, and stable home environment, which is a good bit different from the guest at our house. I have no personal reference point to make exact comparisons with.

So, to avoid rambling on for about eight more pages of hyperbole and vague comments (due to refusing to name specifics here), I’ll wrap things up for now.

To summarize my musings lately, what role does a surrogate parental figure have in relation to another teen who enjoys visiting us? Do I err on the side of authority and have a serious sit-down-talk, which I KNOW from experience (with other topics and another friend of ours regarding this person) will result in casting me out of the “safe place to hang out” and into “overbearing Parental figure” territory? Or do I err on the side of “being the cool safe place to hang out” and merely remind the real parent of my thoughts regarding the issues?

I don’t need answers from you, kind readers, for that is not why I muse here. Comments are welcome, but I plan to look back on this posting and see how things turn out in a few month, and wanted to put down in words what my brain’s been pondering this week.

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It’s deep into the last dregs of Tax season here at Everthorn Farm, which means we are either cloistered away from the computer so Mrs Maebius can work, or traveling to various relatives, friends, and clients scattered across the northeastern region of these United States.

Thus, no time for pesky New Moon Musings.

Instead, I bring you a bunny.

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(warning: A Looooong glimpse!)

Last weekend (April 12-13th) my son and I went on a trip to the 4-hour-away-now hunting cabin I used to frequent when I was younger. My dad, brother-in-law and his son, and some of the old “hunter gang” were there, plus a few kids I had not seen before. We had a fun time! *** -No Girls Allowed- ***

In talking with everyone, we realized I was last at this cabin around the age of 15 or 16, which is around half a life ago! The other man there, my age, had two kids with him, and while we were never really that close (being simply sons of our father’s friends) it was nice to reconnect on a mutually understood ‘weekend campfriend’ level and discuss random life events and swap parenting stories.

There were 6 younger boys there, ranging in age from 3-14 with all but the teen being under 9 yrs old. They had fun catching salamanders, having adventures in/on/around the broken down pickup in the side yard, and a few impromptu ball-and-bat games that bore no resemblance to anything World Series. The older men, in addition to the three of us 30-somethings, were the three “grandpas” and the group rounded out with “Uncle Bud” who was father to one of the older grandparents there. Bud was fully blind, and had the timeless manner of a different way of life. He was spry in his steps, slow and warmth in his wisdom, and quick with the wit of a practiced cynic.

We joked to him, after catching enough salamanders to feed a third world country, that his rocks on the trails were all overturned, so he should be careful, yet a quick hike to the nearby spring still saw him shuffle with remarkable spryness that defied his years and lack of eyesight. He KNEW that cabin and the woods around it. He may not have viewed it clearly for years, but it was his land, not by property deeds, but in spirit. (Having visited the property for more years than even my own father was alive, this could, I suppose, be expected)

The weather was perfect, with a bit of cool drizzle the evening we arrived, yet cleared up and sunny for Saturday. While I am not really into the hunter-mindset, it was with a fond nostalgia that I watched most of the others go through shell after shell of ammunition. No soda can or plastic water-laden bottle was safe from the .22 rifles. A box of orange clay-disks soared and shattered above the field in a flurry of shotgun pellets. Even yours truly, who has not fired-off anything remotely boom-sticky, took 20-gauge to shoulder and blasted 3 out of 4 clay skeets.

And those flying targets felt good. The shotgun rested tight; the bead steady as I swung towards the sailing clay; and a gentle tug on the trigger. #BOOM# missed the first, then three more broke apart like I had been doing this for years. Pull…aim…Boom. Reload. Pull…aim…Boom. Pottery fragments flew apart. It felt magical.

There was the not-quite-as-fun moments, like breaking up the inevitable child-argument (anyone with young kids knows that playtime sometimes requires adult intervention). There was the late night, sleeping in the room full of military barrack-bunks surrounded by either snoring old men, or wrigging dream-held kids and listening for the ‘THUD’ of gravity finding one outside the cots. There was the alternately cool and over-hot of the woodstove that made dressing a delicate dance of t-shirts and wool undergarments (often within hours of each other). And yes, there was the diet of crackers, soda, and grilled meat for meals (with the standard meat and eggs for breakfast). By sunday night, I wanted something green and leafy. *grin*

Still, even with the ‘challenges’ of camping, it is part and parcel of the experience. Such weekend outings need the minor bumps to make the entirety of the days a wonderful blessing to have attended. It felt deeply -fun- to be with the guys and just do whatever. They shot their guns. I tried a few shots myself. We hiked through the woods, drank directly from the spring, and cooked marshmallows over the coals. We slept in the next morning, and feasted on hearty sustaining camp-food. It felt magical.

And thinking back, as I did my daily meditations today, I realized it was magical.

Perhaps it was reconnecting to the primal hunter mindset. Yet, in some sense, the same thing happens when I visit the old Zen-porch crowd. In that group, no guns are blasted against cans, yet the bond is the same. It goes beyond words and eases into a comfortable silence watching some movie or game. And even in that group, I am blessed that the women are liberal-minded enough that any wise-cracks about their gender, or other male-centric topics (such as gastric processes) are accepted and retort-worthy in their own right.

This past weekend was, to glance quickly at it, a bunch of guys just hanging out at the woodland cabin. To glance closer, it perhaps was a bunch of guys attempting to connect with some primal hunter mentality. As I think a bit deeper on the weekend, it was more powerful, and yet more simple. We bunch of guys hung out at the woodland cabin.

It was something I had not done for a long time, and is sadly missing in a lot of mundane life in today’s culture. I begin to see a hint of why the AODA’s current leader frequently talks about fraternal organizations. There was a sense of deep connection between everyone there. Something unspoken, and brushed off as “girly-talk” if even dared to be mentioned by one of the kids. Yet it was there.

Thirteen men and boys, together in one place for two days. Four generations from varied backgrounds, and two states, sleeping within feet of one-another, sharing the same table, and vowing-without-saying to leave politics, religion, and our outside lives behind for a day. To just enjoy the weekend and Be.

I loved it.

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