Dirty sunglasses

I often make the mistake of being an asshole as a precursor to compassion. In my upbringing, empathy was like a side dish best served cold and with a hint of sarcasm. I don’t look back and view that as a negative thing. I’m not a push over and the stubborn ignorance instilled in me serves me well when called upon. My dad raised me to be a “man” just like his dad raised him to be. If it wasn’t for that, my life would be materially different. There are many characteristics that define a man. Often times, the man I was raised to be conflicts with the man I’m working to be.

To get to the house we’ve been hold-up in for the last few weeks takes twenty-five minutes from the highway. The inconspicuous turn off of Highway One leads you down a narrow scarcely paved road. It winds through the hills at a gentle incline and is dotted with cows grazing on either side. Large cattle often wonder into the middle of the road and you have to wait for them to move before continuing your trip. You pass through three separate metal gates where the road is interrupted by cattle grids. Each gate marks a different ranchers land and cattle.

At the end of a short driveway directly off the main road, a rusty tube-steel fence marks the entrance to Stepladder Ranch. You have to exit the vehicle and walk to an old keypad mounted on a three-foot post next to the gate. The mechanical gate slowly creeks open after entering the four-digit code. The roads are all dirt from this point. The mile-long road wraps around an avocado orchard, white boxes where bees are kept for honey, and three houses belonging to the folks who tend the farm. I’ve already been yelled at for driving too fast. I was going fifteen miles per hour. Our house sits at the very top of the ridge overlooking the valley.

The ranch may be remote, but Zappos knows no limits. April ordered the girls new hiking shoes and they arrived the next day. They were delivered to the main entrance. Jill, who handles the day to day operations of the farm, dropped them on our driveway. I can hear her gossiping to the locals, “these city-folk can’t handle one month in the country without ordering something for next day delivery.”

Both girls were excited to get some use out of their new kicks. We’ve been doing evening walks up the trail that begins just outside our gate. It leads to the lookout point where we watch the sun set on the ocean. Hendrix will walk all the way to the top without assistance. Nixon usually makes it past the first steep incline and ends up on somebody’s shoulders. Their sole motivation for completing the trek is the bag full of snacks they force us to pack before leaving. We can relate because our motivation is the bottles of wine we packed.

A switch flipped a few days ago and the temperature has been steadily rising. Hendrix didn’t get them memo, or care. She decided to wear black leggings, a long-sleeve black Patagonia base layer, and a purple thermal hoodie tied around her waist. She also sported the glasses she got for Easter on top of her head. Halfway up the hill she began to complain she was tired. I gave her my hand and motivated her to keep pushing. I also reminded her that this walk was her idea. Although, that didn’t seem to sink in.

We passed a few cows and an immense bull with proportional balls. They were gathered in a low section of terrain, so the hill blocked us from their view after about fifty feet. I told everyone to walk past the bull as quickly as possible, but they didn’t seem to share my anxiety. The bull makes me nervous whenever we get near. He seems harmless, but I’ve been to a bull fight and know how fast they can move.

Hendrix was growing increasingly distraught. The bull was just out of sight, but my heartrate remained elevated. She let out a few moans and groans that she was tired and couldn’t go on any further. I pressed her to dig in and suck it up. I reminded her of the treats we had in-store once we conquer the hill. She was relentless.

I was slightly annoyed that she had been pulling my arm backwards every few seconds, but I was trying to stay calm. She chose to hike the hill, she had done it before, so I knew she could do it this time. I was not going to carry her the rest of the way. She gave me one more firm tug down toward the ground and whined, “I’m tired.” An irritable rush came over me. I quickly countered by yanking her arm back in the direction we were headed, which caused her body to jerk toward me. “You’re not tired!”

A short pause was followed by a rush of tears down both cheeks. She let out a sad, distressed cry. Still annoyed, I let go of her hand and sarcastically asked, “What’s wrong?” Before she could answer I commanded her to stop crying, toughen up, and finish the hike. Grabbing her hand again, I led her a few steps forward as she became more distraught. She yelled back at me, “I will finish the hike, but you made my sun-glasses fall in the dirt”. In a sad, defeated tone she continued, “Those are my favorite glasses and now they’re going to be scratched because they’re on the ground”.

The expression on her face overwhelmed me. Her innocence and concern like a child’s whose scoop of ice-cream just rolled off her cone and dropped in the dirt. My demeanor instantly changed. I rushed to pick up her glasses and brushed them off to make sure they weren’t damaged. I felt like an ass for not being aware of what happened. We both inspected the glasses and there wasn’t any visible damage. She put them back on her head, calmed down and finished the hike with zero complaints.

I wish my natural inclination wasn’t to be a hard driver. It’s easy to reflect and wish you acted differently. It’s much harder to actively change the fabric of your being. I want to be the dad that expresses concern before asserting himself. The dad who assesses the problem and calmly helps overcome obstacles. The dad who motivates to succeed but doesn’t drill it in with fire and brimstone. I’ve known one way my whole life, and de-programming takes some time. For now, I’ll count myself as a work in progress and shoot for more wins than losses.