Young Master Forbes
There comes a day, say the Cherokee, where a person would trade the rest of life to live again the summer of their 17th year. I recall this Native American wisdom one glorious summer day ten winters past. In those days I would wistfully watch young Andrew Forbes romp through a sweet young life.
He’s seventeen then, and making his summer count. I see him come and go from my front porch. I shake my head pensively and say, “Young Master Forbes with a Boogie Board and a blue pickup truck.” Andrew has the air of an aristocrat, and lives like a prince, so I refer to him as Young Master.
I conger cautious words to warn a young buck. I want to tell him that the California sun is bright, but he already knows. I want to tell him to look around and see his joy, but he knows his joy. I still want to caution him not stray too far, or play too fast in the light. What a foolish thing to tell the young.
I instead yell, “Young Master Forbes, let’s trade lives today!” He smiles with a Prince Charming face, and flashes blue privileged eyes to the old man on the porch. He continues tying down his board, as if he hasn't a moment to waste. "You can teach my probation class in Long Beach, and I’ll play in the waves today.” I offer. “Maybe next time Bill,” he says shaking his head. "There's a big swell from Mexico." Andrew roars off to a life story that ended sadly this spring.
Last Friday, I throw a rose in the Pacific off Newport Beach as his mother cries. “Here’s to the summer of your seventeenth year Young Master Forbes,” I say as we circle off shore. I flash to thoughts of Analissa, Dan, Billy and Jim. I pray they avoid Andrew’s circle of roses in the swell.
The words still don’t come. Andrew will never grow old and envious of youth. Still, he did have that beautiful 17th summer. We might find something to ease the pain in this recollection. We might travel back in time, and kindly remember Young Master Forbes.
Read MoreHe’s seventeen then, and making his summer count. I see him come and go from my front porch. I shake my head pensively and say, “Young Master Forbes with a Boogie Board and a blue pickup truck.” Andrew has the air of an aristocrat, and lives like a prince, so I refer to him as Young Master.
I conger cautious words to warn a young buck. I want to tell him that the California sun is bright, but he already knows. I want to tell him to look around and see his joy, but he knows his joy. I still want to caution him not stray too far, or play too fast in the light. What a foolish thing to tell the young.
I instead yell, “Young Master Forbes, let’s trade lives today!” He smiles with a Prince Charming face, and flashes blue privileged eyes to the old man on the porch. He continues tying down his board, as if he hasn't a moment to waste. "You can teach my probation class in Long Beach, and I’ll play in the waves today.” I offer. “Maybe next time Bill,” he says shaking his head. "There's a big swell from Mexico." Andrew roars off to a life story that ended sadly this spring.
Last Friday, I throw a rose in the Pacific off Newport Beach as his mother cries. “Here’s to the summer of your seventeenth year Young Master Forbes,” I say as we circle off shore. I flash to thoughts of Analissa, Dan, Billy and Jim. I pray they avoid Andrew’s circle of roses in the swell.
The words still don’t come. Andrew will never grow old and envious of youth. Still, he did have that beautiful 17th summer. We might find something to ease the pain in this recollection. We might travel back in time, and kindly remember Young Master Forbes.
As if in salute, John Wayne's old mine sweeper passes our funeral craft. The party on board the Duke's storied ship rings out over the water. The skipper in a cowboy hat looks port briefly to our ashes and sad faces, and gives way to starboard. He knows the yacht we sail called "White Light" today, carries our tears to sea.
