Marshall Ramsey

The nervous young man looked at his stainless steel diver’s watch repeatedly.

3:06.

3:07.

3:08.

“When is this baby going to come out?” he thought.  Of course, his wife was asking the same question, too.  Monitors beeped, nurses scurried and soon, a baby cried.

The new father looked at his watch.

3:09 p.m.

“Welcome to the world son. Welcome to the world.”

The father worked hard, but always made sure he was home in time to see his son before he went to sleep. On this particular night, his son pulled up on the ottoman and began to take a step.  The toddler stuck out one foot, wobbled and then repeated with his other foot. His first official steps.  As the mom cheered, the dad looked at his watch.

6:35 p.m.

Five years later, the father sat in the emergency room.  His  little boy held an icepack where the baseball had hit him in the face.  The father repeatedly looked at his watch.  When would they be seen?

7:58 p.m.

8:58 p.m.

He shrugged. Time goes so much slower when a loved one is in pain.   The dad looked at the watch again. “Thanks for being here, dad.” the little boy bravely said as he held the icepack to his face.

The boy was now 16 and driving. His curfew was 11 p.m. and the father sat in his recliner looking at his watch.  It was his ritual — to wait up until the boy got home.

10:58 p.m

10: 59 p.m.

The garage door opened and the boy walked through, throwing the keys on the coffee table.  “Night, dad.  Thanks for letting me borrow the car.”

The dad smiled at his son’s punctuality.

Five years later, the dad once again looked again at his watch.

11:59 a.m.

The music in the hall began and there on the stage, his son, his classes valedictorian,  stepped up to the stage to address his classmates.  “I want to thank everyone who made this moment possible, especially my parents.  The dad looked again at his watch and smiled.  The boy knew the value of a short speech.

Four years later, the father looked at his watch.

5:30 p.m.

He sat on the front row of the packed church as the organ began to play “Here comes the bride.” He looked at the beautiful woman walking down the aisle and then shot a glance to his now-grown son.  He looked at his watch again.  “Where has the time gone?” he whispered to his wife. “Where has the time gone?

Three years later, the father stood in the same hospital where he had so many years ago.  Once again, he looked at his watch repeatedly.

3:06.

3:07.

3:08.

And then at 3:09, his grandson came into the world.

Later that evening, both men were staring at the tiny baby in the nursery.  The dad smiled, unfastened his stainless steel diver’s watch from his wrist and handed it to his son.  “Here you go son, Happy Father’s Day. You need this now more than I do.”

The son stared at the old watch and realized he had been given the most valuable gift of all from his father.

“Thanks, dad. Thanks for the gift of time.”

The old Chevrolet Impala was as long as a battleship and contained as much steel.  The little boy climbed into the backseat and plopped down. He wore a suit and his face wore a grin.

Today was the big day. Today was the day he was going to the airport.

His grandfather opened the door for his grandmother. She climbed into the passenger seat, turned around and asked her grandson, “You excited?” The smell of her perfume tickled his nose.  The little boy nodded rapidly. In his joy, he had forgotten how to speak.

The little boy loved airplanes. He knew everything about them including their names, their histories and how they looked.  On that hot summer day in 1974, his grandparents were going to take him to city’s airport to watch commercial flights take off and land. Like the planes that soared into the sky, the little boy was as close to Heaven as you can get on this earth.

The Impala crunched over the gravel driveway and his grandfather turned right onto the street.  They headed toward the big city and before you could say, “Orville and Wilbur Wright,” the big Chevrolet was parked in the airport’s hourly lot.  His grandfather opened his door and said, “C’mon. We have some jets to see.”

“Can I get a Coke, too?” the boy asked hopefully.

“Don’t push your luck.” his grandfather teased.

The boy held each of his grandparents’ hands.  They walked into the brand-new terminal, passed through security and went up to the observation area.  There was a Delta Boeing 727 taking off!  And one of the cargo airlines had a Douglas DC-3 starting to taxi out to the runway.  A Douglas DC-9 approached from the far end of the field. Across the runway, he could see the Air National Guard base.  There was something magical about this airport. People boarded planes and traveled the globe.  Every flight represented adventure. Every flight took the passengers to a new life.

Another DC-9 pulled up to the gate.

The little boy couldn’t be happier.

Thirty-seven years later, a little boy had grown up into a weary traveler. Back in town on business, he walked into the same airport and looked around.  Memories flooded his soul. His beloved grandparents had died long ago. He took a breath.  He swore he smelled his grandmother’s perfume. He closed his eyes and dropped his carry-on bag. And then, he felt his grandparents holding his hands. He looked to his right and then to his left and saw them smiling back at him.  For a brief moment, they had come back alive.

All the hassle of flying faded away. He had become the little boy who saw airports as places of adventure. And as he headed toward his gate, he let go of  his grandparents’ hands and waved goodbye. They smiled and waved back. Then they faded into the crowd of weary passengers.

He boarded his flight back home and felt his heart soar like the planes climbing into the sky.