My son and I are making a scrapbook of our recent trip to Auburn Indiana. He’s taken up a recent interest in stamping, and since I don’t find stamping a more feminine art than oil painting, I’m encouraging his new hobby. Since scrap booking and stamping walk hand in hand, it’s only natural that one would follow the other.
He’s asked that I assemble the scrapbook with his advice and consultation on colors and layouts. He wants the book to be something he’ll cherish for the rest of his life, not an amateur first attempt, so the two of us will create it together.
Before I move on, let me give you a brief synopsis of our trip and the reason we embarked on it. CJ’s given name is Corydon (core-ah-dun), and sometimes he’s also called Cord. The name has a special meaning for me, but as of yet he’s been unable to relate to it. Until recently that is, when he discovered there was a car made many, many years ago called a Cord. The factory that made these cars was located in Auburn Indiana, and you can still visit there and see the antique Cords, Auburns, and Dussenburgs that were made in that very building.
Every year there’s a big festival and auto show on Labor Day weekend, which is also (often) CJ’s birthday. So this year we took a trip and spent a weekend attaching some history and meaning to CJ’s name. He bought a shirt that said “Cord” over the pocket, talked to the owners of countless antique autos, and developed a sense of pride in a name that had never meant anything to him until now. So it was a good and memorable trip, and also one that will probably become a family tradition in the future.
So now back to the scrapbook… As I said before, the name Corydon has a special meaning for me. It’s not the name of a car, but of a person; a man who had a significant impact on my life. I’m hoping that CJ may allow me to hijack a page of his scrapbook to say a few words of my own. I’ve been thinking about what I’d like to say, forming the story in my mind over the last few days, and I’d like to share it here… Just in case it never makes it into the book…
Corydon… There are few names that warm my heart like the sound of that one, and none that fill my soul with the same flood of memories that cannot be channeled, but must be left to overflow the dam like the force of nature they are. The name brings back the sound of a robin singing on a warm summer day, the smell of Lilies of the Valley, the feel of the bark from a crabapple tree under my palms, and the sight of an old weathered face filled with kindness.
He was everything a grandfather should be, for none of the same reasons. He didn’t love me out of some sense of family obligation, or shared DNA. He loved me because I was me, and that was the only reason he needed. I once wistfully voiced the wish that he was my grandpa, and he told me that what we had was better, because we chose to love one another.
He was just the old man across the street, but you already know that. You’ve seen the house I grew up in, as well as the house across the gravelly street that I crossed every day for the first ten years of my life. I crossed in bare feet when it was baking hot in the summer, in snow boots when it was slippery with ice; I crossed it every day to spend my time with an old man who loved me just because I was me.
Never once did he ever turn me away, he was never too busy, too tired, or too important to spend his time with a little girl. He was kind when I was obnoxious and patient when I was slow. He allowed me to be myself when I was with him, and helped me to grow and learn about life, nature, and the world around me.
He never turned a stern word toward me, even when I deserved it. I remember once when I tried to ride my brother’s ten speed bike… It was so large I could barely touch the pedals, and I had to balance against the side of my house to get going. I rode up into Cord’s driveway, a big smile on my face, proud to show him what I had accomplished. He had already anticipated what I had yet to fathom, I couldn’t stop the bike. He positioned himself ready to catch me, a man already in his eighties, but I veered away not wanting to hurt him, and ran into his parked car instead. I left a scratch on the side, and I think I may have cracked a taillight. I turned, ashamed of what I’d done, only to see fear in his eyes. He wasn’t looking at the car, but at a scrape on my hand where I’d peeled the skin off to the muscle underneath.
He wasn’t rich, not by any means, living on a fixed income, but I never heard a word about the damage to his car. He never admonished me for trying something that even I knew was stupid by then. He only cared for my hand, rushing me to my mother’s side, his lips white with tension and fear.
I could tell you stories about this man for years, but I know that you’ll never really understand how dear he was to me. I’d never be able to recapture the relationship I shared with him, and you’ll never really understand why I gave you his antique for a name. Maybe this simple explanation will suffice… You’ll find in your life that unconditional love is a rare and beautiful thing. Once you have it, you’ll do whatever it takes to hold onto the spirit of that love. So I gave all of the love that Cord had for me, to you. Your name sums up everything from my childhood that I hold dear, and I cherish it, as I cherish you.
So be it man, car, or a young man standing on the brink of a new adventure into life… It’s a good name, it’s your name, make your mark on the world, and wear it proudly.
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