Jamaica

I was driving down the road with Four and Five the other day and started a story by saying, “When your dad was about your age...” 

It was a long story, involving driving cross country through the Blue Mountains of Jamaica with a van load of teenagers, me pulling their aunt off the top of a brick wall she climbed up in order to watch a gang fight, and a few other details. They were suitably impressed, or at least pretended to be, which as far as I'm concerned is good enough. It was fun giving them a snippet of insight into where the man who became their father came from.  

It's hard to know people. We often only know people through a tiny lens, the moment of time when our paths cross. There’s so much more that goes into the making of a person.  

I don't think my grandchildren think about me very often – I'm just this guy who hangs around their beloved Grammy. I cheer them on at their school events and am perfectly willing to take ownership of any and all Smarties thrown their way at parades. They would be amused by the chubby blonde twelve-year-old with the limp crew cut riding a stubborn Welsh pony and pretending he was Shane. They will never know the eighteen-year-old desperately trying the impress the pretty, blue-eyed girl on the back of his motorcycle or the twenty-five year old who'd paid a fortune for two quarters of farmland only to see its value drop by 50% in three years, which made it a lot harder to take care of that pretty, blue-eyed girl and the family they were creating. A lot of the best and worst parts of my personality come from those days. My patience with people who are up against it come from those times, as does my fervent desire to have the frying pans lined up in descending order and the spices alphabetized. Walt Whitman said, “I contain multitudes...” and he was right. We all do.  

Research indicates that most of us can know, really know, only about 150 people in our lives and of those we would find the deaths of only about a dozen devastating. That seems about right to me, so what are we to do with the mass of people we cross paths with who we don't, can’t, will never know? How do we know if the rude clerk is a mean and bitter old lady, or just someone who is worried about her daughter needing a kidney transplant?  

There is actually a pretty simple answer to that question. “Do not do to others that which is hateful to you.” It's an attitude which has been phrased a little differently by a dozen religions and philosophies. Easy to understand, often a little hard to do. 

But not impossible. 

Not even my grandchildren have the desire or patience to listen to my life story where I explain and justify every little quirk of my character. Plus, my already lengthy exchanges with convenience store clerks and servers in restaurants might become unmanageably long if I wanted to know if they were bullied in third grade or the name of their first pet, when in fact all they want to do is bring the check or show me where to find the beef jerky. But I can be pleasant, patient, and perhaps perceptive enough to know when a question or a story might be welcome or not. 

Of course, that's just with strangers. My grandchildren are just gonna have to put up with me. 

Copyright 2024 Brent Olson