Little Billy Hayhow
For decades, I have been Bill Hayhow, husband, father, businessman, generally capable adult. For a few years now, I have been venturing towards retirement, and relishing my role as Grandpa Bill.
Last week, my sister and I visited the small town where we grew up, and the now 91-year-old neighborhood mom (Thelda) who shared in our upbringing as our mom’s best friend. We moved away 50 years ago, when I was 12, and I hadn’t seen Thelda in over 30 years, since my sister’s wedding. Thelda still lives in the same house, in a neighborhood untouched by time, in a vintage midwest town.
When I first saw her, 50 years disappeared — she was still the neighborhood mom, still in a house I knew, in a neighborhood I knew, in a town I knew.
And when she first saw me, she saw Little Billy Hayhow, the precocious little boy who lived around the bend, son of her dear friends, and member of a typical 1960s mob of neighborhood kids, including my sister and Thelda’s two similarly aged sons.
But now I am bald and bearded and gray, and I have lived a plentiful life, most of it far from the small town of my youth, both literally and figuratively. One might think that Little Billy Hayhow faded into the fog of time, remembered only via dusty photos and the memories of people like Thelda.
Then again, perhaps Little Billy Hayhow lives on, as one of the collection of personas which combine to form ‘me’. My high school and college friends know a version of me unrecognizable to most people who knew me before or after. Career me is mostly unrecognizable to anyone other than coworkers and clients. My most recent persona, Grandpa Bill, is more like Little Billy Hayhow than the others. Both of us play and laugh and find joy with the people around us — with less ambition, more fun, more love.
Perhaps I should don my cowboy hat, and strap on my trusty cap guns, and steal the cash register from the babysitter. Or sneak into the nearby junk yard with my buddy Jeff, and pretend to race the junkers around the field. Or venture into the woods with pal David (Thelda’s son), to forage for frogs and berries and live off the land.
Or, in deference to my age and abilities, perhaps instead I should tell these stories to my grandchildren and encourage them to make such stories of their own.
Sincerely yours,
Grandpa Bill aka Little Billy Hayhow
P.S. Thelda is truly an amazing woman, the most vital 91-year-old I’ve ever encountered, and recently published children’s book author. Many thanks for guiding our fabulous trip down memory lane and for a tasty lunch!
