“Are those real Gucci sandals?” I was looking down at my son’s feet. We were in Hawaii, because the first Christmas not in our family home was too hard for my children.
“Who’d be crazy enough to spend that kind of money on a pair of slides?” Carson replied.
It was only years later, sorting out his stuff, that I found the Gucci storage bag for them, and realized he hadn’t really answered my question.
He was good at that, not actually lying but phrasing his reply in a way that led you to make assumptions. He avoided arguments, and although sometimes the chickens would come home to roost, how many times did he get away with it?
He was also good at spending money on expensive items, often money he didn’t have. The clothes in his closet, few in number but beautifully curated, were worth as much as his car. He’d eat potatoes and hamburger for a week, then splurge on the ingredients to make fancy cocktails and Tom Yum soup from scratch.
He’d take the birthday money I sent him and spend it on dinner with his sister at the fanciest place in town, to celebrate her birthday. He’d happily live for days on the leftovers from dinner at his aunt’s, but he would always show up with a pricey bottle of bubbly from a local vineyard, sporting a fresh haircut from a trendy salon. He kited his credit cards.
As parents, we were frustrated by what we saw as his irresponsibility with money. His father blamed me for spoiling him, for being too soft. Or was I like that in reaction to his dad’s belief that Carson should be tougher, do it all on his own, like he did? Who was reacting to whom? We bought his sister a car, but years later Carson was still driving the hand-me-down that had been deemed too unreliable and unsafe for his sister. He worked for years, but his money went— where?
Recently, I looked at it with a different perspective.
If you knew you were going to die young, not that he did, but if you knew, how would you live your life?
Would you scrimp and save and do without, or would you enjoy the pleasures of a silk housecoat and meals that made you close your eyes in savouring them? Would you do those tedious chores, put your nose to the grindstone, or would you follow your interests, no matter how obscure and “unprofitable?”
Carson may have been self-indulgent, but he was generous with others, with his money, his time, and his attention. If his aunt needed a hand with her garden or her basement, he would be there. When I was in Barbados during Covid and my condo had to be prepared for short-term renters, he jumped in and did whatever needed to be done, and was surprised when afterwards I paid him for his time.
He had an open heart and a huge love for family. He never held a grudge, and arguments would blow over quickly. In relationships, he didn’t sweat the small stuff. His love was unconditional, and we all loved him back the same way, as much as each of us was able.
I only recently reached that point in my interactions with people generally, although my children have always had my unconditional love. Carson was like that pretty much from the day he was born.
Of course, he had his rough times, with anxiety, depression and aimlessness. He self-medicated, to get through stretches where he was, for example, working at Wal-mart, living at home, with no bright future beckoning. But even then he could find the joy in preparing a fine meal and interacting with the ones he loved.
If you knew you were going to die young…
I’ve found comfort in this thought. I’d been focussing on the future that he will never have, but now I realize he mostly lived as if there was no tomorrow. I’m glad I took him to Hawaii that first Christmas after his dad left, that I paid for him to come visit me in Barbados, that I bought him a new phone and iPad when he went back to school, that I replaced his 20-year-old car with a 10-year-old one. I’m glad for the pleasures and joys he found in his 27 years.
Song lyrics are in my head again, this time from If I Die Young by The Band Perry:
Lord, make me a rainbow, I’ll shine down on my mother
She’ll know I’m safe with you when she stands under my colors
Oh, and life ain’t always what you think it ought to be, no
Ain’t even gray, but she buries her baby
The sharp knife of a short life
I’m looking for the rainbow.
Brave Travels 