Deep Roots

We spent time with our oldest son along the Occoquan this morning. He's the coach of his college rowing club, and like the young silver beech that fill the woods there, he stretches long and lean toward the sky. He is also firmly rooted on this earth--not just "grounded" as some might describe sensible folk--his source of energy runs deep and beyond visibility, beyond what his father and I can comprehend. He is twenty-years-old, and we are in that stage of parenting that asks, "How did this happen so quickly? How did our baby boy become a man?"

Our family hiked the trail, up and down the dirt path along the winding river to be with him. This is our seventh year as spectators to weekend regattas; most of those years had us running along the shore with borrowed binoculars and tentative cheers. Judging which eight seater comes in first is almost impossible when the race is close, creating a frequent state of uncertainty. Today, we rallied for rowers, but we saw a different side of the sport. We saw our son lead his crew from firm land with outstretched arms and a depth of spirit. Once again, we watched races that were too close to call from the grandstand. As for our unabashed parental pride, we couldn't be more sure.