Listening To Their Voices
He called from that hot, humid, far-away place to say that his beard is growing in. This is important news to call home about when you’ve waited so long. Waited your whole life, really. Standing at the bathroom mirror way back when, in his little boy body, looking for long minutes at his reflection in the mirror, he wondered. He imagined. He may have even tried some whiskers on for size. But, man, he had to wait. First, came the deep voice, then the muscles, then the mustache, and finally, finally, now the beard.
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His deep voice came through the phone, saying, “Mom! Guess what!” (Goodness, those are three of my favorite words!) But how could I possibly ever guess? “I got to speak Spanish with native Spanish speakers!” Four years he’d poured into learning the language, with fluency as his ultimate goal, and just like that, when the time came, he had the words for a whole conversation. He also proudly reported that they’re eating a lot of chicken and rice. I thrilled with him - good job! - and secretly wondered about vegetables. Are you eating any vegetables?
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He sounded both tired and happy, and for good reason. He was calling to say he’d just come in from his last trail crew hitch, in the Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness, this time. Sixty miles in eight days, backpacking their tools, gear, food. The crew of nine cutting 200 trees in a single day with cross-cut saws, clearing trail with pulaskis, pitching tents in alpine meadows, cooking group dinners. Trailing elk with his camera in hand one morning, just as dawn was breaking. He’d take a few days to rest up, and be “down” do it all over again.
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I sit at the end of the sofa with the speaker phone on, listening as the fan whirrs and summer filters through the linen window shades. Listening to their voices.
