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Through Fresh Eyes

A Journey Through Middle Life

By Jay RobbinsPublished 2 years ago 8 min read
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Through Fresh Eyes
Photo by Jose A.Thompson on Unsplash

The moment when a parent becomes unmistakably fallible marks the end of childhood. For the girl I taught with scars on her face it ended quite young. She would break into the school gym for a safe place to sleep. She was tired, always tired. Always worried about getting poked by the used needles. A two-liter bottle held most of them. But she found strays. The strays kept her up at night. I would guess her childhood ended about the time she got those scars.

Clay

Clay Lilley. My Father at Twenty.

I was luckier. My father was my hero through my teen years. When I was young, he was the thing cherished above all other virtues in country circles: hard working. He was gone for weeks at a time. A large animal veterinarian. Traveled across five states and more to spay heifers, preg check cows. It wasn’t until I went on a trip with him at eighteen that I saw how much partying was had on those trips. Carousing with women, bottomless pockets for food and spirits. It’s a wonder he brought home any money at all. And we were poor. Always moving to another place because we couldn’t cover the mortgage or rent. But damn did he work hard. Once he spayed heifers for 26 hours straight and I was the only one left to help him. It was later we discovered he had bipolar 1 disorder. Too late.

What I discovered on those trips was that Dr. Lilley was his truest self on the road. The real job was trying to fill the role of father and husband, something entirely unnatural to him.

But I am grateful for the life he gave me. If he had money, he gave it freely. He coached my basketball team. He kept me safe, fed, and sheltered. I was a proud son. Proud but disillusioned by the greatness I once saw in him. And so my childhood ended.

Clay Lilley D.V.M. with his Grandkids

If childhood ends with the death of our super parents, then we begin to feel middle aged when we see the sins of the parent in ourselves. I’m not handsome like my dad was. But I got his nose and his eyes that are two different colors. And his intelligence. His humor. You act just like your dad, they’d say. And I’d smile. But then I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. And they’d say, you’re just like your Dad.

Ben

I first saw Ben walking down the street carrying a boom box and blasting hip hop. He had a mohawk and glasses that looked like they came out of a time warp from 1985. On each finger a ring, or two. On each wrist a watch and many bracelets besides. He wore a leather jacket. He was the coolest kid I ever saw. Almost never spoke. Would lash out in anger over his inability to express his many pains. I looked out for him. Worked with his family. Gave him outlets. Opened my home to him. When I left I gave him a dragon bracelet. He said, I will never forget you, homey. And I believe him.

A sketch by Ben of me, Mr. Lilley (my legal last name)

He gave me this. I’m the cowboy amongst Indians. We are both different in different ways. We are individuals who spurn what the group expects us to be. And we suffer accordingly. Good teachers all hope that a life trajectory is positively altered by our interference. I like to believe it’s true for a few. Maybe Ben, even.

Althea

My hero

At nine months she didn’t walk right. Bilateral Hip Dysplasia. Every time they rolled her to the OR at Shriners we didn’t know if we would see her again alive. Had Four operations and a body cast that she learned to walk in like a toy soldier with a stand under the feet. After the third operation, she almost stopped breathing in the recovery room in front of my wife and me. I called for help and blew into her mouth. The nurses came and revived her. Then I almost died a few years later. In a hospital bed. Just like her. It bonded us. There is no greater courage than that shown by the resiliency of a hurt child. She got me through my trials.

A better version of Dad

When she drew me, I looked for the blemishes she must now understand I have. The belly, crow’s feet, the pained dwelling expression that I can’t always hide. She knows my struggles. But her childhood, for now, is still vibrant. She has my creative mind. My sense of humor. But she has the burdens of the eldest child of the eldest child. I am not super-human in her mind anymore. But I’m free from blemish. She subtly notes my different colored eyes, my tattoos, my hobbies. I’m thinner than I really am. And friendly. In an image, she sees a better version of me. Not a lie. But a wish.

Cannon

My Little Conscience

I had boys to raise for war. To hunt and to kill. To step on wasps and to eat fire. I gave him high and tights and mohawks when he was too young to have an opinion. But that’s not him. He is sensitive. He has a special way with animals. He cries. I fear what our relationship will be when he is grown.

He struggles to be heard. Speaks in cryptic whispers. The middle child, always seeking for self with the kids below and above enjoying clear roles. A kind boy. An old soul. He is better than me by a mile. But I still hope to prepare him for a violent world. I pray he softens my edges while I sharpen his.

A father bigger than life.

I asked my son to draw me. He said he wanted to do it on Minecraft. My other two kids finished the same day I asked for a drawing. I waited three weeks for his. I thought he didn’t take the task seriously. But it was simply too momentous for him. This is not a picture of an avatar. This is a giant monolith that his tiny avatar views before a rising sun. To him I am something super. Still on a grand scale. Something concrete but too big to grasp.

Tank

My lil dose of wild.

I went AWOL from Ft. Carson because my wife said she was having a hard time with the pregnancy. I emailed my chain of command and told them what I thought of them. Two hours later my wife goes into labor. 7 weeks early. A chopper ride to Denver and my youngest came out with a sneeze. Ten days under the NICU lamps. His name is Tank. He IS a Tank. Nobody embodies a given name better.

I’m not so much worried about preparing him for the world, but for the world to be prepared for him.

Daddy in abstract by Tank Lilley

Tank Antonio Kallimachus would put Jackson Pollock on the bread line, and quick. I find this piece rather avant-garde. I don’t know what that means and neither does Tank. We are artists. We don’t need to know. His first colored-pencil-on-paper had spaghetti on it. So I requested this second piece. Obviously, what you are looking at is me as Mario, because I’m always Mario and he is always Luigi. It was drawn in seconds from the confident hand of a four-year-old with fledgling fine motor skills.

As a writer, I envy his arrogance.

Oscar

Me at 2

With my life halfway done (God willing), I don’t really know who I am.

Is this me? Still a kid inside. Still unsure. Still learning the stove-top is hot by touching it. Still trying to understand the world around him and how he fits in it.

Or the Soldier?

Spc Oscar Lilley, Camp Arifjan, Kuwait, 2005

Ready for battle.

Yearning for a true enemy and the next war and the next. For the days of smoke and blast. Where death is not an abstract thought but real as breakfast and life is lived in every moment because the future doesn’t exist.

The Husband?

Wedding Day with My Bride, Stefanny Gimarino, Cebu, Philipines, 2007

The one who believes an oath is an oath and the ones uttered before God are treasured more than your family name. That it makes you soulmates as if by magic and a happy ever after is a bygone destination. The one that still chases the same woman 'til his legs give out and his lungs burst.

The Father?

Me 'n' Baby Tank

Who keeps rolling a stone off a grassy bottom upward to that higher social plane where the streets are all paved with gold only to be crushed by it and push it up, up, again, hoping that his kids are better, stronger, smarter than he is and will find that land promised to those with teeth and a dream even if he can only gaze on their ascendency from the muck in a beaten broken shell of a self with a grin and a sigh.

I am all these things and none of them. Life is just more complicated than that. It helps to look at myself through fresh eyes. I see myself in all of them. But at this stage of my life, I most like to see myself as squiggly blue lines. Still abstract. Able to be one thing from one viewpoint and entirely another from the next. I’m still developing. My picture isn’t done. And for a soul of a certain age that is a dream to cherish-

the unfinished man

immediate family
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About the Creator

Jay Robbins

Jay Robbins grew up in rural Wyoming and acquired much of his education on the family ranch. After 9/11 he joined and served two deployments during Operation Iraqi Freedom. His proudest achievement is living for those who didn't come home.

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