Jonathan

It was around 1989 or 1990 when I attended my niece’s high school graduation in Souderton, PA. And afterwards we had a party at my brother Ron’s house. One of their neighbors was invited over and the party didn’t really liven up until they got there. They brought their son Jonathan, an inquisitive, talkative five-year-old who was smartly dressed up in suit and tie. The first comment he made when he walked in the door was, as he looked around the room, “Mom, thewe awe no othew childwen hewe.”

“No,” his mother replied, “this is a graduation party. Just behave yourself.”

Jonathan did have the run of the house and yard, but his mother kept a constant vigil on his whereabouts. “Jonathan, what are you doing?” … “Jonathan, don’t spill it on your clothes.” … “Jonathan, don’t go beyond the fence.” … “Jonathan, didn’t I tell you not to go beyond the fence?” … “Jonathan, come here. Now look into my eyes and promise you won’t go farther than the fence. It’s dark out there.”

Thanks to Jonathan’s nature, he apparently wasn’t too intimidated by his mother—he obediently complied, and promptly forgot. The exuberance of his own curiosity and outlook on life won out. But his mother began to realize the scenes she was creating for the rest of the group. Even her husband had a look of chagrin on his face. She was becoming the center of attraction although we were sitting out on the patio away from the main group. So she explained it to me.

She married late, is over forty, and Jonathan is her only child. And frankly she wasn’t accustomed to how to raise a child. She felt he was so fragile, and didn’t really know his limits, or what limits to set for him.

I then decided to help her with my own perspective. I told her that I remember when I was six years old, and Ron was five. We climbed 50-foot silos, whether empty or full—in the dark, to catch pigeons. As I described it to her (quite descriptively, I admit) she began to be affected by my story. I could see her getting a little pale as she listened transfixed.

She exclaimed at one point, “Weren’t you afraid of falling?” I told her we were conscious of the danger, but we were careful.

“Did you ever fall?”

“Yes,” I replied, “when I was eight years old I climbed the silo to throw silage down for a herd of 40 cows. In the process of checking how much I had thrown down, I slipped on a rung just as I was starting to climb down and fell hind-end-to all the way to the bottom—about 30 feet I’d say. Fortunately, I wasn’t hurt.”

It was too much for her sensibilities and she bolted to another topic of discussion.