My granddaughter named ‘Little’ stands tall and makes herself known through dance, poetry, music, painting, academics, personality, and stature. When she was born I was amazed that anyone would name their child Little but then recalled the first child in that family had names, Samuel Evan Isaac Grove Hoyle, his moniker a virtual family history. The second child held the unmatched name Kalo Bushy Hoyle, unusual enough to suggest to one grandmother that it could have been chemically induced. So, why not Little Rosamond Hoyle? But Little was a large child. As she grew tall I envisioned hearing the local Mid-Missouri sports broadcaster during a high school basketball game saying, “And down court at six-foot-two comes Little Hoyle for yet another layup.” But she doesn’t play basketball. She’s a ballerina, a lifeguard, and a singer, and she is studying molecular biology. Perhaps she will grow to see how little things really mean a lot, the tiniest building blocks supporting a huge structure or a life.
Before my first child was born, long before there were thoughts of grandkids, large or small, my eldest sister and I began a correspondence. Our writing got underway when she and her husband moved out of the country. We wrote during the seventeen years they lived in South America. Lynn filled her notes with incidents in marketplaces, coffee bars, and jungle sandbars. (Her husband liked fishing in tropical rivers). She entertained with incidents related to having a cleaning woman who wanted to run their lives or meeting interesting folk like the shaman who floated in his canoe to the sandbar having heard of a woman—my sister—who wanted to meet the local holy man. Some of her short letters described side trips to Europe, books read, and projects undertaken. Once she enclosed the score of a samba she composed and another time told of a book she was helping translate into English. She regaled me with language complications, illnesses, and the continuing love affair with her spouse. In turn I told some incidents from my own rather pedestrian life to this always-interested sibling and friend. I was in my mid-twenties when our writing began, but the correspondence continues to this day, forty years of posts, and twenty-some years since she returned to the USA. We still write several times a year asking after one another’s lives and work, and sharing our interests in art and music, our involvement with unusual people, surprising books. Since we both follow the example of our mother who organized life into projects, we briefly detail our endless undertakings. The letters tend to be short and simple and full of love, but the long-enduring habit of sharing our lives in little notes has meant quite a lot to me. Enough of little things certainly means a lot.
A related little thing I appreciate is to open a letter and find enclosed a clipping of a report or pictures related to Native Americans. I first received such gifts when I was a teenager, articles sent by my grandmother Schmedemann. These days, two women still remember me in this way—my oldest sister who often sends me photos and articles of petroglyphs clipped from magazines and a local friend who brings me Indian-theme magazines and the occasional newspaper article. Just three months ago my friend gave me an article from the Littleton newspaper about some Arapahoe folk she knows and my sister sent two more interesting clippings picturing petroglyphs near her home in southern New Mexico. These little remembrances remind me that other people share my interests or simply are interested in me. Such little things mean a lot to me.
One more thing I want to mention. Twice across a crowded bar Michael, a young man who had registered an unusual interest in me, acknowledged my presence with a wave. His little attentions please me, stupidly thrill me. In fact, several younger men have recently asked me if I have a partner. Although I know they are probably asking this question out of their need for support, I still am moved by their choosing me to ask. Sometimes that pleasure seems on the edge of being crazy, but I enjoy it anyway. What keeps it from becoming too crazy is that I tell them I have a partner. The scene has repeated itself several times in my 65th year, and the latest wave across the room came only last week. Young men may need older men in their lives; older men certainly seem to want younger men in their lives. It may be just a little thing, but it means a lot. I prize the attentions of older men as well, so don’t forget to wave to me. It means a lot.
About the Author
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
