Benched #15: talking about hard things

 

My friend, Mike, has been one of my most enthusiastic readers since the start of this blog.  A couple of times he has texted me shots of benches he has found, which has been delightful.  For some time, Mike has wanted me to come with him to see his dad and hear how a bench connected two generations.

So on Sunday, I found myself sitting with Mike’s dad on his back yard bench in the shade of an overhanging tree.  Mike sat nearby.  As we sipped ice tea, Eli told me his story.

Years ago, he kept a bench on his porch.  It was not much to look at, just a retired theater prop. One day, Eli’s elderly father knocked on the door and gestured to the bench.  “Come out and sit with me,” he said,  “And talk.” 

They sat.  And talked. They chatted about what they believed and what they didn’t.  Real-life stuff.  Practical subjects.  Philosophy. And hard things, like planning the older man’s funeral.  Afterward, a neighbor, who had been mowing his lawn nearby, came over and said, “That was really neat how you could sit and talk with your dad like that.” 

That was the first of many such father-son conversations.

I asked Mike if he was carrying on the tradition.  He said, “It’s not easy to sit.  There are so many responsibilities that keep distracting me.  Dad and I find that we talk more while doing things together.”

I know what he means.  Most men, I think, find it more comfortable talking while doing. Like fishing. Golfing. Hiking. I shared with them something C.S. Lewis wrote in The Four Loves: romantic loves stands face to face; brotherly love stands shoulder to shoulder.  True, benches put us shoulder to shoulder, but there’s a physical proximity issue in play. You’re darn close together.   Too much so for most men’s comfort.  I admire Eli for being willing to get that close to his dad. In both meanings of the word.

The bench in his yard is not the original one.  But when he sees it now sitting empty under the shade tree, he finds the sight bittersweet. He misses those long chats.

A few days later, I sat with one of my sons -- not on a bench (though I tried) but across a table outside of a coffee shop, straining to be heard above the trucks that roared down Market Street.  Along the way, the dialogue turned to hard philosophical things.  As I found myself raising counterpoints to my son’s points, I thought of Eli and I backed down.

It ought to be a sweet thing to talk to one’s dad.