July 20: "The Lanyard," Camp, Beautiful Young People

Billy Collins goes to summer camp as a kid . . .

The Lanyard

by: Billy Collins

The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

This is a poem about a kid learning to make a lanyard at summer camp.  It's a poem about all the sacrifices a mother makes for her child.  It's about a grown child trying to honor the memory of his mother.  Most of all, this is a poem about love.

My wife, kids, niece, puppy, and I went to camp this afternoon.  It was a bon voyage celebration for another one of my nieces who is moving to Germany soon to start a new job.  So, we stuffed the back of our Subaru Impreza with bathing suits, a fruit tray, cookies, a hammock, fishing rods and tacklebox, and we headed out to Lake Arfelin (about a 40 minute drive from our house).

It was a wonderful gathering of in-laws, nephews, nieces, great nephews, great nieces--full of laughter and food and swimming and saunas.  We arrived around 1:30 in the afternoon and got back home around 9:30 at night.  It was a perfect day.  Relaxing.  Full of affection and love.  I am truly going to miss Aubri, my niece who is heading to Deutschland.  She's funny, genuine, and, truly, one of the best people I know.  

Just before we left, my nieces Abby and Brianna (another one of my favorite people), decided to go frog and tadpole hunting.  Armed with a fishing net and buckets, they managed to find several frogs in various stages of development, from tadpole onward.  One particular specimen looked like a fully-grown frog with a salamander tail.  To me, it resembled a mutant alien.  Abby loved it, holding it in her hands, taking pictures.

Tomorrow, Abby leaves for home.  In a few weeks, Aubri boards her airplane.  I hope they both know how much joy they bring me just by being a part of my life.  Like Collins giving his mother that insignificant lanyard, all I can offer nieces are these words.  They don't seem an adequate way to express my love for them, but they're all I have.

Saint Marty is so grateful for these two beautiful young people in his life.