Forest adventure with grandson teaches value of caution

Opinion

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 05/10/2022 (1097 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

My granddaughter has a fairly new brother just approaching two. A most agreeable little person, he seemed at first to adapt quite easily to the adult-run world he was coming to know.

Aha. His ideas about how things should go resound if his desires are blocked: when he is asked to accept that there are only so many grapes he can have at one time; only so many times he can be taken to the park in a single day; only so much screen time he might have on a cellphone, where he looks with profound satisfaction at videos and pictures of himself becoming himself. He has his own tremendous range when “only so much/so many” encounters his sense of enoughness.

Most recently, I shared a week with him at a family cottage. As I wake, I can hear him quicken; he moves in the instant from contentment to wail.

I can provide some respite, for as his Baba, this is my privilege and pleasure. I might take him into the forest if I can first entice (trick) him into thinking this is a wonderful idea.

I am buoyed by the fact that a forest adventure has considerable appeal. He is quite fond of the “blues,” as he calls them — blueberries — his little hands picking, singing a tune that blends Twinkle Twinkle with Frère Jacques. A sturdy figure, direct in his approach, unwavering in his devotion to what might come as meal or snack, he is often referenced as a “good eater.” The forest’s blues coincide with the way he feels the world might work best.

There is an inspection that must precede our descent onto the path toward the berry patches, for he is quite the commander in chief (at home he operates as chief butler and host, greeting me with my inside shoes, directing me to empty from my backpack items he finds of particular interest). In the cottage side porch, he conducts his assessment — fingering bottles of bug spray and sunscreen, manipulating any and everything that might not be nailed down: a dead moth, a breakfast tidbit lying on the floor (his), white cushions on wicker chairs, a throw, which he throws.

Only when he is satisfied that all is in good order might I try to put on his cap (which he will consistently remove and drop throughout our wandering) and ease him onto the deck, down the stairs.

He runs ahead while I advise him to slow down, for how fast does he think a Baba can run? (Very fast seems to be his answer.) I race to catch his hand; he struggles to withdraw it. We barter up the hill. Sometimes I can hold his hand; sometimes I can’t. I try to keep pace. I laugh. (Sometimes I don’t laugh.) We pretend we are navigating the journey together, but really I am just pitching and re-pitching various forms of advice, trying to keep him safe. He is after all a little one with every moment new, borderless.

We find the blues. I have brought a small plastic container for which there is no need, because he will devour everything in sight. I am so pleased to see his enthusiasm, avid to discover the best and boldest berries for his delectation.

I see a rather large patch, robust, thrilling, just beyond snaking fallen tree limbs and roots. There is a flick of an instant where I figure I could fall, but before that figuring secures solid ground, I am stepping over the obstacle course with one foot, my hand holding his to guide him.

I fall down. I have written about not wanting to fall down, about how difficult that can become for late-life humans, but in my enthusiasm for his pleasure, I have broken the rule I have tried to keep. I know the instant I have fallen I’ve hurt some things I need: my hand, my shoulder, my elbow, my ribs.

The thump is loud. There he is on his own hands and knees, tugged downward by my fall, and he’s crying. Frightened. My inventory is quick: frightened but not hurt. I undertake a ragged crawl, rearranging my body parts as best I can so that I might rise with him in my arms and assure him that this Oomph has not overwhelmed his Baba (of course it has, even as I pretend “we” are just fine).

Every step I take to return us to the road tells me that I have not broken anything, but I have aggravated my left side, tormented the rotator cuff injury that has been my companion over the last several years, twisted my elbow and reconfigured my pelvis.

My grandson is no longer crying. His best word for what has happened is “down” which actually grows into a sentence: “baba down.” I am so proud of this achievement (I like to think it’s his first complete sentence) that I defer a further inventory of what might have gone wrong. Together, we make our way back to the cottage. He is singing his version of Twinkle Twinkle Frère Jacques; I am bending judiciously if I spot a blue, for how can I not continue to delight him?

We make it home. I have one empty plastic container, one ballcap that he will not tolerate for more than a moment or two, one pretty satisfied two-year-old who has composed an entire sentence and filled his belly with blues, and a body banged about but able to hold, soothe and marshal him back to his parents.

I tell them “we” fell. Their first concern is for their son, now bubbling forth, blue-stained and poised for any next adventure. I am welcomed with the proviso that I carry my phone on all future outings so that if I fall down, I can call for help.

I wonder to myself, as a blueberry picker of more than 60 years, could I ever take a cellphone into the forest? The pairing seems bizarre. “Into the forest” is cellphone-free. Such is the silence of the forest floor, occasionally interrupted by bird song and buzz, rich in meditative promise.

Of course, I am reminded as I try to sit down to take off my runners, parts of my body disconcertingly recalibrated, my ability to lead this little one home is a miracle that probably doesn’t bear repeating. So I think again: next time, Baba with her backpack, her just-in-case cell.

In taking stock of the morning’s adventure, I accept that while my grandson will have the mystery of the forest, I will have the less mystifying (perhaps) contents of a backpack that is the material embodiment of ongoing experience. It addresses the what-ifs that can happen, not just to old ones but to all, though I would never have thought to pack this way in my youth or middle age.

A third act’s insider knowledge: in the moment, any kind of fall might occur. It’s knowledge I desired to bypass in the forest because I wanted to believe the ground more solid, my reality less immune to misadventure. Foraging with my grandson teaches the difference between that desire and the truth of a tumble.

The backpack with the cell will come with us — third-act capacity and comprehension require it. I might empty some of the other remedies I’ve stored to lighten its load. This backpack holds a series of adaptations responsive to changing needs. It is not lightweight. In this journey towards the end that I am taking, neither am I.

debbieschnitzer@mymts.net