Civilized Fathers and Feral Sons
Liminal Spaces, Issue 1, Volume 1
Welcome to the launch of a new Future Thief section, called Liminal Spaces, where I will share personal observations about my life and its many transitional states. Liminal Spaces is Dear Reader on steroids, or coffee and donuts, whichever gives you more strength to power through meetings that should have been emails. Dear Reader posts will remain in the archive and new issues will no longer be sent. If you only want fiction short stories, you can hit unsubscribe, uncheck Liminal Spaces and save your preferences.
This is my first opportunity to persuade you otherwise, to regale you with interesting and reflective observations about an otherwise conventional existence. I dare not say wisdom, since I’ll share plenty of my own mistakes. While we can learn a lot from business titans, celebrities and politicians, I find it most helpful and relatable to hear from common folk about how they manage to overcome trials and tribulations, or at least survive on this glorious giant spinning rock. If that’s your preference, too, then you’ll enjoy Liminal Spaces.
Depending on where you live in America, two significant transitions occur every year in September, when children return to school, and we enter a recognizable Fall season. In our state, Michigan, the two are intertwined in a blend of anxiety and beauty. Children grow nervous about teachers, classes and renewed friendships, sparking late night conversations and sleepless nights. In contrast, the leaves start to change color, a gorgeous chromatic mix of yellows, oranges, reds and purples, and cider mills open to expectant Michiganders who want to enjoy annual indulgences like candy apples, corn mazes and hayrides.
These old routines are welcome, even while collectively bringing a sense of new beginnings. Odd that both also mark an end to the long, lazy days of summer and freedom from homework and responsibility. This is where liminality overtakes us as we live in limbo, waiting expectantly for the future, simultaneously appreciating the present leisurely activities and last-minute vacations. In Michigan that involves unplanned trips “Up North” before it gets too cold, a colloquial reference to any location at least two hours North of your current position.
The father/son canoe trip was a final act of liberation for my son and me. We were released from the chains of society’s expectations and got to live like rabid animals. The previous year we were unable to attend due to an unfortunate parkour incident. The boy and his friends experimented with poorly executed shoulder rolls, resulting in a broken collar bone. He recently lamented, referencing the combination of a terrible sunburn and late-night shooting shoulder pains, “Those were dark days. Dark days indeed.”
Fully intact, all of our members healed, we drove Up North with friends to join a large group of fathers and sons for a weekend, where we would camp and canoe down the Muskegon River. In the past we pitched a tent, a decision I don’t regret, however, my lower back protested. This year we upgraded to a small cabin. Had I suggested a tent again, it would have resulted in minimal protest. Teenage boys are more resilient than we give them credit for, perfectly capable of adapting to the squalors of a wooded tent encampment.
It’s an observation I made frequently, that they quickly adjusted and embraced the weekend as feral, smelly and unkempt beings, a preference they didn’t know they had until they’re away from girls and mothers. A number of them congregated by the fire, shoeless, and tried not to set themselves ablaze. Fathers were attendant, aware that it’s in these rare circumstances a pocketknife is just a carving tool for whittling and not a weapon. Phones were allowed; however, they lost their luster when we gathered for games and activities together. Technology becomes a taskmaster and in the expanse of nature the enslavement is unmistakable.
The campground had paid showers, used by a few of us dads — rejected by nearly everyone else. Some didn’t shave, embracing their inner Grizzly Adams. And yet, the men remained put together, preferring a few conveniences over the total rejection of a civil appearance. The boys, on the other hand, if left to their own devices, would reenact Lord of the Flies, choosing leaders, forming groups, and then eating the weak. Fathers are meant to be shepherds on this trip, ensuring sons don’t resort to cannibalism until they can make more suitable judgment calls.
While I don’t wish for any of us to replicate the experiences of The Donner Party, there is a sadness regarding the loss of adventure that occurs in the transition between boyhood and manhood. My son is getting older, ready to step further over the threshold than I prefer. I have trouble communicating how important it is to maintain his current spirit of fearless youth in order to tackle the challenges of independence and one day starting a family. He must remain dangerous and vigilant, to protect and provide, but simultaneously demonstrate childlike love and mercy.
Camping trips with other men of high moral character, like the one we enjoyed, are meant to help. Video games, YouTube influencers, the educational system and government are no substitute. As I continue to come to terms with my own manhood, it’s nearly impossible to summarize the complex lessons learned from personal boyhood experiences. It’s a difficult transition, fraught with perils that mark us all with unique scars. The best I can do is provide a set of guidelines, let my son make mistakes and then help him course correct.
On our Saturday trip down the river, the envoy stopped at a steep, sandy dune for lunch, a congregation of canoes and kayaks signaling our beachfront invasion. We ate copious amounts of unhealthy foods, and the fathers watched the sons storm up the hill, run and jump off the ledge, and then roll down, careening into the boats below. I trudged up as well, an overweight general slogging through deep sand to the front lines to pat the infantry on the back for a job well done.
The event marks a rite of passage for the littlest ones, as young as age 6, who trepidatiously peered over the drop-off and followed brothers and friends into the great beyond. One of the fathers was there with his autistic son, who greeted me earlier not with a handshake, but by non-verbally rubbing my nearly bald head. I laughed and later enjoyed watching him follow his dad’s lead, carefully hopping over the grassy edge into the sand, both of them taking their own risks in distinct ways.
As for my son, I wonder how long it will be before he stops jumping. In the future he’ll move from one liminal state to the next, unwilling to catapult himself, fearful of how he’ll be judged or because he doesn’t want to be embarrassed. He’s in between, taking notice of the condition of his hair and clothes, worried about a six-pack and if he’ll grow taller than his mother, but perfectly capable of chilling in pajama pants with unbrushed teeth when we have to run an errand together.
The canoe trip won’t always be there. Someday I’ll graduate from fatherhood to grand-fatherhood, ready for a new adventure and he’ll be a husband and father. The significance of those two events isn’t so much about the arrival, as the journey along the way and what we learn about ourselves. I know neither of us likes broken collar bones, but we’re willing to tolerate sand in our bathing suits and mosquito bites. For now, in this current liminal state, that’s enough.
Excellent read Brian. Bittersweet to see your children grow from a child to one day a man. We should all live in the moment as tomorrow is not promised.
You've captured well how fraught is the transition from child to man. Take a moment to appreciate how much is held, however, by this intact family. So many of us grew up without fathers, frontloading that transition with unseen pitfalls. We reach out not to a dad but to other role models, hopefully well-chosen. Ben Cartwright. Lou Grant. Barney Miller. Fictional characters all, not so different from the story we made up about our actual dads. Shredded social fabric.