Connecting with the past

When we hit the Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge from Charleston into Mount Pleasant the boys stopped watching Harry Potter on our minivan’s built-in DVD player.

From the span over the Cooper River we could see the U.S.S. Yorktown, parked at Patriots Point. It would be our home for a night, and it was lit impressively, beckoning us to come and explore.

“Wow! Is that it, Daddy?” and “I’ve never been on a ship like that before!” came from the back.

That’s when I knew it would be a good weekend.

Boarding the U.S.S. Yorktown at Patriots Point in Charleston Harbor.

The boys and I joined 101 other Cub Scouts and parents from Pack 564 for an overnight visit to the retired aircraft carrier parked in the Charleston Harbor since 1975. The six hour drive was interrupted only by a stop in Sandersville to unload Carla and Carlton, who were spending the weekend with her parents.

What struck me most about the half hour stopover was Poppy’s excitement about the boys’ trip. He had served on the U.S.S. Little Rock in the 1960s, and began telling us about his experiences at sea. I referenced the conversation numerous times while on board the Yorktown, trying to help the boys connect with their grandfather in a new way.

For kids, the sheer size of the ship is a novelty. But throw in 38- and 50-caliber gun mounts to climb on, airplanes to get a closer look at and seemingly miles of passageways to explore, and you’ve got life-long memories.

What stood out to the boys? If you ask them, they will tell you about the galley with a recipe for 10,000 chocolate cookies printed on the wall. Or they’ll describe the brig, the massive engine room and the gigantic hangar containing old aircraft.

Their expressions of wide-eyed wonder as they took the helm and climbed into the captain’s chair spoke volumes about their experience, and the questions came faster than an F-18 catapulted from the deck of a carrier.

I could see the realities of life at sea with 2,600 other sailors begin to sink in with the boys as they stowed their gear in their “berths.” The stacks of bunks, three and four high connected by chains drew immediate calls for “top bunk.”

Barron even affirmed my career choice. After watching me duck through hatches all day, he said, “You wouldn’t be a very good sailor, Daddy. You would always be hitting your head.”

Barron in the captain's chair — Barron tries out the Captain's Chair.

When we got back to Sandersville to pick up Carla and Carlton, I caught a glimpse of a twinkle in Poppy’s eyes as the boys breathlessly fired facts and descriptions at him. They covered the highlights, pausing every now and then to let Poppy insert a story from his service to help provide context for what they saw.

It’s like the time I saw “Saving Private Ryan.” In the intensity of that film, I was able to barely grasp what it must have been like for my grandfather to serve in Normandy. Now my sons were seeing their grandfather in a whole new way as they experienced history.

We’re still processing the questions. The boys spent their President’s Day holiday drawing pictures of the Yorktown and setting up dioramas with their souvenirs, all the while asking more and more questions.

Perhaps even in the New South, there’s an appreciation for the experiences of our elders. I look forward to the conversations my boys will have with all their grandparents as their understanding of history grows and their bonds with them are strengthened.

How have you connected with your grandparents? Did a trip to a historical place or an afternoon of stories on the front porch or time at the dinner table give you a glimpse into their lives? Take a moment to share your experiences by leaving a comment.

Everything I Need to Know I’m Learning on the Farm

Carlton on Poppy's tractor — Before there was playground equipment, kids played on farm equipment. Looks like farm equipment may be more fun.

Everybody needs a farm.

Not to make a living. That’s one of the hardest things anyone can do with his or her life. No, I think people need a farm, even if they don’t own it, to go and learn how to live. The lessons there are simple, profound and unavoidable.

Last Saturday we visited Sandersville to celebrate my mother-in-law’s birthday. While we were there, we rode out to their farm, about 12 miles outside of town. It’s a great place for suburban boys to get dirty, have fun and do things they normally have to pay for back in the city.

For Barron, it’s a place to practice his marksmanship. Having taken to shooting in his scouting activities, Barron begged like Ralphie for a Red Ryder BB gun this Christmas. When all hope was lost, my parents stepped in and bought him the gift, the last one he received the Tuesday after Christmas.

We set up some plastic bottles and a paper plate as targets. Barron quickly drew up a series of not-so-concentric circles with a Sharpie to make a bull’s eye. It took him and his Poppy several minutes to find the best spot, but it wasn’t long before he was “plinking” BBs off the bottles and popping holes in the uneven rings of his target.

He’s a pretty good shot. He has a fairly steady aim. He’s patient. The only problem arose moments before we left. After an hour or more of shooting, he finally had a BB go astray. It went through the paper plate target, hit the plywood behind it and ricocheted back, hitting Carla in the waist. Although it barely left a mark, we all took note. Never shoot with a firm surface immediately behind your target. What you end up hitting will most likely be you.

While Barron worked on becoming the next “Top Shot,” I drove the other two boys around the farm on Poppy’s camouflaged golf cart. Under Carla’s anxious and omnipresent eye, we slowly traversed the bouncy terrain. I had one hand on the steering wheel and one on Carlton, tucking him close to my side.

Goat stuck in fence — The grass is always greener.

It had been a while since I had driven the property, and when we came to a crossroad on one of the trails cutting through the pine trees, we had a decision to make. I chose the one that I thought led back toward the house. Taking the well-worn path proved to be a good decision. At least in this case, the road less traveled led to a ditch.

After safely depositing Carlton on Poppy’s tractor so he could pretend to clear the back 40, Harris got his driving lesson. We found a good wide path with plenty of clearance on each side and let him test his skills. For the next half hour, we veered from one edge of the path to the other as he consistently overcorrected. By the time we finished he was doing pretty good, learning that just a slight turn on the wheel here and there will get you where you want to go a whole lot quicker than jerking from side to side.

As we drove the golf cart back to our van, I noticed one of the smaller goats had his head stuck through the fence, unable to pull back through because of his horns. The boys loaded into the minivan to ride home with Carla and her mother while Poppy and I went to rescue the goat with poor decision making skills.

I asked him if this happens often.

Goat with his brothers — The goat on the left was the culprit. You'll notice the youngest kid in the back. Yep, he was bottle fed.

“Aww, I get one or two out nearly every day,” he said. “Sometimes they can get themselves out, but most of the time, you’ve got to help them.”

We pulled up to the fence, got out and Poppy grabbed the goat’s little horns, gently tilting its head so that the horns could go back through the wire. It only took a few seconds, and the little fella was no worse for wear, jumping about and butting heads with his brothers in no time.

There’s always work to be done on the farm. Raising goats and pine trees has its own reward, but maybe, the best crop that farm is producing is three boys. I just hope they are paying attention.

Bottle fed

A few weeks ago, Carla and I took the boys to see her parents in Sandersville. A welcomed retreat from the suburbs to small town Southern life, these trips are especially meaningful to the boys. In Sandersville, they get to enjoy life in a different way.

On this particular visit, Nanny and Poppy had a couple of new additions to their household: two baby goats, only a couple of weeks old. Poppy raises goats as a hobby rather than an agribusiness, and, as he says, it gives him something to do. Twice a day he drives the dozen or so miles out to his farm and tends to them.

The arrival of these two babies was complicated somewhat by the disappearance of their mothers. So what’s a goat farmer to do with nursing baby goats and no mamas?

Bring them home and feed them from a bottle.

The smaller of the two, the brown one, was near death when they got him home. Nanny described him as looking like “an inner tube when all the air has gone out.” But on that warm February Saturday, he was prancing and hopping and running from our boys with vigor. Seems the bottle-feeding, petting and attentive nurturing he was getting did the trick.

I grew up in the city. I don’t have much experience with raising farm animals. In fact, I am embarrassingly ignorant on such matters and feel like a total city slicker when I go out to help my father-in-law at the farm. But it doesn’t seem to me that goat farmers used to be as nurturing. Maybe goat farmers have gone soft.

Oh, you can argue that Poppy was just protecting his investment. But how do you explain the petting? Or the big smile across his face when he describes how he brought the brown one back from the brink of death?

No, there is a connection here between this farmer and his goats. It’s not so strong that he won’t take them to the auction when it’s time, but it’s more of a relationship than a farmer may have had with his livestock a generation ago.

Soon, the two baby goats will be back at the farm, eating grass, hay and whatever they get in their mouths. Maybe their goat friends will mock them for being too soft. Or maybe, they’ll be welcomed into the extended goat family as two members who nearly didn’t make it.

Here’s to the bottle fed among us. A little nurturing can be the difference between and life and death.