Raised Wild.

It rained all day, so the momentary break in the storm was a lovely after-dinner gift. 

“A nice, quiet walk” was what my father wanted. “A nice, quiet walk down to the beaver pond.” 

My father and I sauntered down the road while my six year-old son ran circles around us, whooping, hollering, and singing. “It’s a good thing we have a peaceful valley here,” my father mused. “The kids can fill it to the brim with noise.” 

Deer eating in the meadow perked and scampered away from the oncoming cacophony. The bushes shuddered and released a bevyl of quail as my son loudly brandished his trusty stick. He wailed in delight as he ran up a dirt hill and slid down again.  

“This is where we raise wild children,” I rationalized. 

My father smiled at me. “Wild children end up turning out all right.” 

I was raised wild. 

“You were fearless when you were a child,” my father reminisced. “You’d just go and not worry about anything. You’d come home dirty and dinged up, but you were happy.”  

My son bellowed at the beaver pond, sending idle ducks packing. I told him to run down to a tree about a hundred yards off--a challenge that had him racing down the road in a warrior’s charge. 

“I used to have you run down to the tree, too,” my father noted. “But I always had you run  right back.” 

We looked to my noisy storm of a son who was attempting to thwart his leafy foe with his twig sword. 

“I've learned you can get a few more moments of softer din if you leave that last part out for a while," I said. 

The break in the clouds let the sun breathe down on the valley. My son’s noise was a near-off rumble. 

“I’m at a point in my life where it’s not about quiet,” I shrugged. “It’s about quieter.” 

My father smiled at me. “He is wild, but wild is a good thing. And it takes a lot of courage to raise wild kids.” 

I smiled back and called my son as we headed home. My father put his arm around my shoulders. “Still fearless.”