It’s Just Stuff!

The little boy is eight-years-old, and loves to visit his grandparents at their family cottage next door to mine.  For him, every day is an adventure, a surprise, a delight, as he wanders the woods, swims in the lake, and fishes the waters in the aluminum skiff.

For his grandparents, these activities hearken to an earlier time with their own fair-haired lad—a son I had watched grow up to become a father who died too soon—and they treasure the bittersweet memories.

A while back, the little boy was in the musty basement of the cottage with his grandpa and me, helping us sort and discard stuff from summers gone by, a job long overdue.  He was amazed by the amount of bric-a-brac cluttering the endless shelves.

“Grampy, what is all this stuff?”

“Oh, it’s just stuff we kept over the years,” his grandpa answered.  “Thought we might use it again someday, but we never did.”

At that point, the little boy made a great discovery.  “Grampy, what’s this?” he cried, pointing to a bright-yellow model boat.

Sitting astride its pedestal atop an old workbench in a dark corner, the craft was almost three feet long—a racing boat, bred for speed, its tall sails still unfurled.  Three small passengers huddled in the cockpit, as if awaiting the starting gun for an impending race.

“Oh, that?” his grandpa replied.  “That’s a boat your daddy built a long time ago.  He used to race her on the lake with his remote control.”  He fetched a dusty metal box from an overhead shelf, two toggle switches protruding from the top, an antenna jiggling slightly as he set it down.  “This is how he made the boat go.”

“Can I make it go, Grampy?”

“Mmm, I don’t think so, l’il guy,” his grandpa said, wiping his eyes.  “I don’t think she works anymore.”  Together they lifted the cowling off the boat, behind the drivers, and peered at the mysteries of the small motor inside.  I watched them silently, my own eyes misting over.

“It smells funny,” the little boy said.

“That’s oil you smell,” his grandpa replied.  “Your daddy always made sure he kept her cleaned and oiled.  He really liked this boat.”

“What’s her name?”

“Your daddy called her The Yellow Flash.  Here’s her name on the stern, just the way he painted it.”

“Can I make her go, Grampy?” the little boy asked again.

The old man shook his head wistfully.  “The batteries are probably dead,” he said, “and look at these wires, corroded at the junction plates.  The sails are pretty ratty, too.”

“Well, can we fix her?” the little boy said, undaunted.

His grandpa stared at him for a few moments, a faraway look in his eye.  “Y’know,” he said huskily, flashing a quick glance at me, “maybe we can.  Shall we try?”

Over the next couple of days, the two of them dismantled the boat in order to clean every part, separating batteries and wires that would need replacing.  They cleaned the remote box, and removed the sails for a gentle washing.  On his next trip to town, the old man took the hull and box to a hobby-shop, where the owner walked him through the steps needed to restore the boat to operation.

On the little boy’s next visit to the cottage, they began the rebuilding process.  I watched them solder new wires in place, and the little boy was fascinated.  His grandpa let him set the new batteries in their proper slots, showed him how to ensure the contacts were touching.  He watched as the little boy lovingly polished the hull, restoring it to its original, gleaming glory.

Together, they remounted the sails, and tested the remote, working the toggles to control the boat’s tiny propeller and rudder while it still sat on its dry-dock pedestal.

“She works, Grampy!  She works!”

“I think she does, l’il guy.  Shall we try her in the water?”

And so they did.  I followed as they carried her gingerly down the slope to the dock, lowered her carefully into the lake.  From a vantage point on the rocks, I watched them—a grandfather and his son’s son, with his son’s boat, launching their labour of love.

 “Which one’s the driver?” the little boy asked, pointing to the three small figures in the cockpit.

“Well, this is you,” his grandpa said, pointing to the one in the middle.  “You’re the skipper.”

“Okay,” said the little boy.  “Then this one on the right will be you, and this can be my daddy over here.”

The old man had to look away for a moment to collect himself, as did I.

“What if the waves tip her over?” the little boy asked, suddenly apprehensive.

“Well, it’s pretty calm right now, l’il guy.  I think she’ll be okay.”

“But what if she goes way out there and we can’t bring her back?”

“She’ll come back,” the old man said, sighing deeply.  “She’s already come back.”

As his grandpa gave the boat a final push away from shore, the little boy, crouched on the dock, the remote box between his knees, began to steer her.  Hesitantly at first, with fitful starts and stops, over-correcting erratically.  But in moments he was sure, and the boat skimmed atop the surface, speeding and dipping gracefully, immediately responsive to his commands.

I watched it for awhile, then turned my attention to the old man and the boy.  Their faces were split with grins, happily alight, as they raced The Yellow Flash to and fro along the shoreline. 

“Your turn, Grampy,” the little boy yelled, handing the remote to his grandpa.  And he squealed with delight when the old man almost capsized her, righting her just in time.

“Grampy?” the little boy said after a while.

“Mmm?” his grandpa replied, lost in reverie. 

“I love my daddy’s boat!”

“I love her, too,” the old man said, reaching to hug his grandson.  “And I love you, l’il guy, very much.”

I left them there on the dock, locked in silent communion.  And it may have been only my imagination, but when I stole a glance back, I could swear I saw a third person with them, ephemeral but real, lovingly embracing them both—a fair-haired young man, apart from, yet a part of, the old man and the boy. 

“Just stuff, indeed!” I whispered, and I marveled at the reach of a father’s love.

_{© J. Bradley Burt 2022}