Wishing for the keys to freedom and independence
Even though he has not driven in two years, my father-in-law carries car keys in his pocket every day.
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Some small part of my heart snapped when he slowly, carefully, emptied his pockets on the counter and I heard the clink of keys hitting wood. They were, as always, placed almost ritualistically along with checks to be deposited, empty prescription bottles and his wallet on a counter below a bookshelf loaded with tomes to ideas.
A few years ago, the counter would have also been littered with notes to himself, scribbled reminders of concerts, writers group meetings, ideas for plays he was writing. Those notes are the only thing missing from this ritual now.
Moments later, I saw my daughter pocket a set of keys as well. Since she is four, she is not driving either, thankfully. She stashed the bright plastic keys in her pink fleece coat, upper pocket, an unnecessary burden for her as well.
So I have to wonder, why two people who do not drive, who so completely rely on others to provide the bones of their daily lives, want the comfort of keys in a pocket? Is it the weight of the keys dragging on the thin fabric of a pocket? Is it the pressure of the keys against the thighs as they sit, a slight digging serving as a reminder of freedom? Is it the metallic rub and hollow tapping of metal on metal that is a comfort?
My daughter and her grandfather share other similarities now, ones we would not have guessed a few years ago. An abiding disdain for dietary convention would be one example. Their nutritional tastes have coincided somewhere between Burger King and the candy aisle.
More than once my daughter, with a voice full of accusation, proclaimed, "I should not have let my peaches out. Granddad is eating them."
They also both embrace a friendly rejection of wasting too much time on grooming in general, hair in particular, but also of what articles of clothing are most suitable for any occasion.
But what intrigues me most is the keys. Maybe the keys represent the same thing to them, something beyond the ritual of finding and owning them. Is it the independence which keys represent?
The notion of being allowed (and able to) direct our own comings and goings, and in the broader sense, our own destinies? Maybe my daughter and father-in-law both embrace their keys as something that defines them, makes them separate, distinct, real. Something that makes them themselves.
We have a picture of my husband and his parents taken in the '50s. My husband is young, maybe 3 years old. My mother-in-law is beautiful in a black party dress, pumps and white gloves. Her skirt is full, brushing up against her son and husband. My father-in-law, newly minted with his doctorate, stands with his small family in the evening Colorado sun.
What they do not know about their futures that evening is astonishing. The three children to come, the books published, the plays produced in small theaters around the country, the beautiful home overlooking the mountains, the travel, the grandchildren.
We also have a picture of our own small family, the three of us windblown and smiling. We are both hanging on to our daughter, who clings to her baseball cap, trying to wrench it back from the wind. We had just hiked the West Glacier Trail with an acquaintance I'm sure we will eventually forget, and the glacier looms behind us - an unlikely backdrop for a family photo.
When I see this picture in 10, 20, 30 years, what will shock me? What will be essential to me that I do not yet know? What will I eventually forget, lost to the whim of time?
• Marie Ryan McMillan is a parent and teacher in Juneau.