Willie the happy wanderer arrived during the holidays.
Like the unexpected spring breeze during a particularly brutish February of the unexpected letter from one’s children, Willie always arrives in time to save us from ourselves.
He is the neighborhood Viking, the Columbus of our block, the adventurer who sits in the kitchen watching appreciatively while the applesauce boils merrily on the stove.
“That’s really interesting,” observes Willie, twirling his handlebar mustache.
“What’s interesting?”
“Making applesauce. I never saw it actually made before.”
I blush appreciatively. I admire his mustache. He blushes appreciatively.
Willie is “en route” so to speak. He has just returned from three opulent (in terms of visual appreciation, not monetary considerations) months in the Hawaiian Islands and will shortly for Denver.
Willie has a particularly soothing, slow way of talking, perhaps stemming back to his southern background. His motions are deliberate, his appreciation of life is maximal.
The first evening he helps our son wrap Christmas gifts, a job usually set aside as a chore. They giggle uproariously over their own wit in executing the gift cards. One particularly charming and beautiful friend receives a bottle of perfume from Woodrow Wilson. She is trying to figure out any implications, if there are any.
Later, in the early hours of morning, they assemble the Christmas toys to be left Willi’s two-year old brother by a benevolent Santa.
Another evening Willie discusses dulcimers and papayas. He has a friend in a commune who makes dulcimers, an instrument gaining appreciation among the younger generation. When Willie speaks of the dulcimer, one can picture the group around the fireplace, the sturdy hands gliding across the gentle instrument coaxing forth quiet melodies.. We listen spellbound.
“Tell me more about Hawaii,” coaxes our 15-year-old who views the world only through the National Geographic.
“The main thing about Hawaii is that the people aren’t uptight about things. They don’t make judgments, at least they don’t make judgments from a fixed point. Only the tourists are uptight.
"I can't conceive of Willie really needing to improve his spirit. Pretty good for a 19-year-old. Pretty darn good, Willie."
I pause by the refrigerator, unabashedly eavesdropping on the conversation in the other room. I know only that “uptight” is a word we use as commonly as salt in our conversation now. I no longer remember when there was no “uptightness” -- if not the kids’ teeth, there always is ecology to worry with!
Willie confesses so innocently to his lacks: The yacht he failed to take to Sweden, the big wave he never surfed, his beginner’s status on the ski slopes. It tends to make us all less defensive.
Willie worries about his parents, a luxury granted to those who travel great distances. He would like to take them with him on his wandering but they are bound to a house, a routine a set of conventions.
He speaks in calbrations of people. He doesn’t know how many miles he’s gone, counting the months as “wiper” in the engine room of a tanker in the pacific Northwest. But he can remember “Norman the sentimental traveler” from Oregon or the beautiful smiles in Hawaii or the music in Appalachia.
Willie fades in and out of the background of his environment with ease. Even the handlebar mustache is no longer faddish. With his sturdy Alpine hiking boots, his surplus Army coat, and his three excellent sleeping bags he is equipped for travel. He can be ready to leave for San Francisco or Milwaukee in a few hours. Tangiers may take a little planning.
The last night home Willie discovered Kahlil Gibran’s “The Prophet” lying on a table in our son’s room. He was entranced and we promised to mail him a copy in Colorada, when he finally has an address. That night the boys bartered. A guitar for a sleeping bag, each grinning delightedly with his new possession. Somehow it was nice to know a guitar that had been in the family for so long was going to be crossing the plains with Willie. Our 15-year-old coaxed him to stay just one more hour, to talk some more.
But Willie promised he would be back next time around. He had to get ready for Denver, for college this semester. He had to call Norman in Portland. And he thought he should fast for a few days, for the good of his spirit.
I can't conceive of Willie really needing to improve his spirit. Pretty good for a 19-year-old. Pretty darn good, Willie.
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