THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, September 15, 1995 TAG: 9509140156
SECTION: VIRGINIA BEACH BEACON PAGE: 07 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: Over Easy
SOURCE: Jo-Ann Clegg
LENGTH: Medium: 80 lines
We went, 11 strong, to the Outer Banks for our annual end of summer get-together last week. For eight years now that has been the time and the place where our family celebrates birthdays, anniversaries and other milestones, talks of the past and shares dreams of the future.
This year four generations of the family were on hand, along with several house guests.
And then there was Alex. Ten months old with black hair and sparkling eyes, he burst forth from his parents' room each morning on all fours - a grinning, giggling, non-stop Energizer Bunny ready to greet the world with the joy and enthusiasm that comes from knowing for sure that there's no hurt out there that Dad can't protect you from, Mom can't kiss away.
For five days he was tossed into the air by his uncles, cuddled by a duet of great-grandmoms, played with by the houseguests, carried everywhere by his granddad and observed in awe by this grandmom who wondered where the years had gone since she last held a baby of her own - Alex's father - as he dropped off to sleep with cookie crumbs under his chin and a smile on his face.
So often during that week a phrase from an old greeting card - ``the wonder of a small child at Christmas'' - went through my mind. I recall the picture that went with the words, that of a tot looking up in amazement at the glistening star atop a Christmas tree.
But Alex didn't need a Christmas tree. His wonder knew no bounds as he explored both the familiar and the fresh.
A squirrel running across the deck railing brought squeals of delight. A toad sitting oh-so-still in the driveway, then hopping off to safer environs brought first a puzzled look, then the urge to follow.
The roar of the ocean brought awe, as well it should, and the scurrying of the little birds who spend their days darting into the surf, then running back ahead of the next breaker, brought grins of recognition from the little human who understands those who never stand still.
Grains of sand were for examining; salt water for tasting and sea shells for picking up.
Inside the cottage his eyes and hands jumped from one shiny object to another - the metal marker in the book I never did get around to reading, his granddad's watch left briefly on the coffee table, a pen near the telephone.
``Just like a little crow,'' my mother laughed. Her words startled me. It had been years since I had heard the expression. My grandfather, dead nearly 50 years now, used them often when there were little ones around.
``Just like a crow,'' he'd say, shaking his head, as a toddling offspring would dart to the shiniest object in the room. ``Crow's going to get that,'' he teased me one morning as I fixed a shiny silver barrette in my hair.
He was, as usual, right. On my way to school a large black bird came out of nowhere and tugged at my hair decoration. I'll have to tell Alex about that some day. Generations of wisdom. Generations of family stories. All to be passed on and added to as time goes by.
Our annual trips to the Outer Banks are part of that. ``We were evacuated one year,'' we'll tell Alex when he's old enough to understand hurricanes, ``that was before you were born.''
We'll tell him of the days when Corolla had more horses than houses, and the afternoon we watched whales playing just off the beach.
We'll tell him about the rainy night his uncles made an extra 40-mile round-trip because the restaurant got the order garbled and put anchovies and pineapple on the same pizza. We'll tell him about the rainy day when the Monopoly game lasted for 14 hours and spawned at least as many verbal battles.
And we'll tell him about the day, last week, when I slipped off to introduce him to one of the greatest wonders of the world - soap bubbles. His eyes got heavy, then finally closed as he sat nestled in my arms in the porch swing, watching as dozens of rainbow covered globes floated above the chairs and tables.
One of the last landed in the softness of hair, so very like his father's, and stayed there for a long minute.
Had it really been more than 30 years since I last rocked a dark-haired baby to sleep? How fast it all goes. How many stories there are yet to tell.
How lucky Alex is that in this family of story tellers there will always be someone to tell them. by CNB