The Teachings of Frederick C. Trump To His Son, Donald, As They Traversed A Meadow On A Spring Morning
After a protracted silence of deep concentration, young Donald hesitantly suggests a judgment on the issue of the bird that falls squarely at the end of his father’s pointed forefinger.
Ruefully, Frederick Trump shakes his head. Despite his evident disappointment, he smiles at his son once more, directing his finger anew at an oak tree, ravaged by time and slowly losing its struggle against the wind and gravity.
Young Donald’s face briefly disappears into itself as he attempts to pluck a correct answer from the depths of his person.
“Loser. The tree is a loser,” he tells his father, self-assured in the failure of the tree to overcome the natural elements.
Again, Frederick shakes his head. The tree is still there, he explains. It refuses to admit defeat. The tree is a winner.
Much of their walk takes this shape. A finger extended. An answer put forth. A slow shake of the head or a smile of approval. The finger describes a dizzying constellation of objects: a moss-covered stone, the picked-at remains of a dead crow, a dandelion, the sun. Each falling neatly into the universe so clearly bisected by Frederick’s philosophical scalpel.
Comfortable with this rhythm, Donald becomes complacent. He begins to believe he understands the world. When he finds himself the target of his father’s finger, he refuses to answer, afraid his father will confirm it.
“It’s a butterfly,” Donald offers, confident in his knowledge of what a butterfly is.
His father shrugs, shakes his head. There are millions of butterflies, he says. What is a single butterfly, he asks.
“It’s a really good butterfly.” Encouraged by a subtle, semi-interested incline of the head he continues. “It’s the best butterfly, there is no butterfly like this anywhere. You need to see this butterfly.”
Frederick Trump smiles, urges him to go on.
“It is the only butterfly in the world.”
Around young Donald, the world begins to shine. He is in the most perfect place ever seen by man. Every rock the mightiest rock, every birdsong the most beautiful song. He is the happiest boy who has ever lived.
Donald is tasked by his gently enquiring father with evaluating a leaf, its veins glowing, backlit by the morning sun.
“I think it’s good. It’s beautiful. It’s the most beautiful leaf I’ve ever seen.”
Frederick Trump looks at him sceptically. Who are you, he asks, to tell me of the quality a leaf? You are just a boy.
Donald is crestfallen, but he sees his father’s manner is warm, not reproachful. If the leaf is beautiful to you, his father says, surely it must be beautiful to others. A glimmer of understanding reaches Donald’s eyes, their previous sadness quickly vanished as he accepts his father’s words.
“This leaf is incredible. Lots of people are saying it’s perfect. I’ve been hearing from lots of very smart people that you will never see a leaf better than this. That’s just what I’ve been told.”
His father smiles. Donald smiles.
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