Anne Lamott begins this post, Heres a piece In Real Simple magazine that I wrote about my son. It is about home, presents, presence. And fathers. THE GIFT OF A SECOND HOME (in the December issue of Real Simple) By Anne Lamott I’d always promised my son, Sam, that when he was ready to meet his dad, I’d help him. In the meantime, the two of us lived in a small home that my best friend referred to as a charming rat trap. I didn’t have to share Sam with John, the man whom I’d had a short and tumultuous relationship, who had subsequently disappeared for reasons we don’t need to go into here. I had created a beautiful, writerly home, full of paper and books, and danced as fast as I could to be both parents. Sam also had fabulous, devoted men in his life, who helped to fill the hole. But, still, this situation was bound to cause a child heartache from time to time. Then one day I saw the obituary for John’s aged father. John had been living with him, two towns away. I told Sam, who was then seven. He wrote John a beautiful letter. And, long story short, a few days later at a pre-appointed time, a tall man with Sam’s gigantic eyes appeared in the doorway of Sam’s classroom, holding a soccer ball. A few kids asked, “Who’s that guy?” and Sam said casually, “Oh, that’s my dad.” After that, they got together every couple of weeks—from seven years of radio silence to frequent outings in which a young boy got to say the word Dad out loud a lot. Some of us might call this amazing grace. That year, when the holidays grew near, Sam received an invitation to John’s Christmas party, a black-tie event. (Luckily, I had not been invited, as all of my evening gowns were, well, imaginary.) I rented Sam a tuxedo. The night of the party, Sam was mildly anxious, but I, a woman of prayer and devout faith, was a wreck. John’s friends were going to be meeting Sam for the first time. Were they even aware that John and I had had a child? People say you can’t have faith and fear at the same time. But you can. I’m exhibit A. I prefer to think, Courage is fear that has said its prayers. So I said my prayers: Help, help, help. In the car, Sam managed somehow to look grim and ecstatic. When we got to John’s house, it looked like the outside of Bloomingdale’s in December, a huge wrapped gift. Sam looked into my eyes, his both scared and joyous. We walked to the front door and glanced at each other bravely. Then he knocked. The door began to open, and in the background we could see tiny white lights and candles, people in evening wear milling prettily about, waiters passing flutes of Champagne. Cool jazz played. This Gatsby scene was from the home where his father lived—now one of Sam’s homes. And John loomed above us in his tux, beaming at our child. “Hi, Sam. Hi, Annie. Come on in.” But he didn’t really mean me, and that was OK. Sam stood beside me, immobilized, until John reached down and scooped him up into his arms. He said to his friends standing nearby, “This is my son, Sam!” Everyone introduced themselves to Sam, who admirably feigned jive nonchalance. John put him down and took his hand. Sam looked at me happily over his shoulder and turned to go into his father’s tinkly, silver-bright home. Not long after, John moved away to a more modest home, where Sam always visited during the holidays, a place filled with warmth and welcome and the ordinary light of family. _______________ ANNE LAMOTT’s most recent work of nonfiction is Stitches: A Handbook on Meaning, Hope, and Repair. She is also the author of Bird by Bird, Operating Instructions, and Traveling Mercies. She lives in San Francisco.
Posted on: Sat, 14 Jun 2014 07:53:58 +0000
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