I don’t remember exactly where we were, but my memory reconstructs it in a way that my granddad and I are in the car. Maybe we were going to get mawmaw some blank cassette tapes from Kmart at the Southside Mall so she could record her gospel radio shows. The sun was coming in trough the windshield at a similar angle as in the picture above. “Rog, remember that you have two ears and one mouth. That means you should listen twice as much as you talk,” he said.
At the time, I doubt either of us thought about the impression his words would have on me. Some 40 years later, as I think about him I wonder if I’ve become the kind of man he’d be proud of. He was my father figure and, as we often do, I probably elevated him to sainthood status without giving him or his memory room to fail or let me down.
He was kind and tender, and generally soft spoken. When he was angry, he went off somewhere (often the woods) to deal with it. I don’t ever remember him raising voice, except from the pulpit, though I’m sure he did. He loved God, his family, and his hands bore the evidence of hard work and service to his fellow man. He was a practical joker, instinctively pointed to things with his middle finger, and had quite a set of ears on him. He was everything I hoped to be and was the only real example of a man I’d ever known.
He was not loud or boastful. He was not a braggart. He tended the garden that was his family and his community. While working with him laying brick one summer, he was approached by the homeowner who’d just been laid off from the mines. He explained he couldn’t pay for any future work and that he was a little short on cash to pay for what had already been done. He tried to pay granddad with the money he had, but granddad refused instead telling him he’d pray for him to get work and that they’d settle up another time. Finally, the man convinced granddad to take a side-by-side double barrel shotgun as partial payment.
When we got back to the house, he told me I could have it, but that I’d have to keep it there rather than at our apartment, because he wasn’t sure if mom would let me have it there. I remember it being ornate, with scooped engravings and scrolled design work. Sometime later, a family acquaintance would borrow it to go “squirrel hunting” then promptly take it home, saw off the barrel, and rob a local drugstore. True story. I never got to even shoot the gun and never saw it again.
Fast forward a few years later. I was standing in a phone booth at Fort Irwin, California, when I heard my mom’s voice on the line telling me granddad had died. It was March 1995 and I was alone in the Mojave desert and more than 2,000 miles from home. My daughter was due to be born within days in West Virginia (her mother was too pregnant to fly) and I didn’t have the money or accrued leave to fly home for his funeral and then turn around and fly home again for her birth. As I surveyed the tan, rocky hills that surrounded me, I knew what granddad would tell me. He’d tell me to not miss her birth for the world.
Less than two weeks later, I got the call that I needed to head home for the birth. I caught a plane in Ontario, California then to Chicago, Detroit, and finally Cincinnati, where my then-brother-in-law picked me up and drove me (like a bat out of hell) straight to the hospital (the same hospital where I was born) in Pike County, Kentucky. He got me there 19 minutes before my daughter was born.
Last week, I had an encounter on the phone with the guy who owns the property next to ours. Without going into detail about what led to the call, I blew up on him while walking down a sidewalk in Huntington. I must’ve looked and sounded like a madman to any and all who could see or hear me - and buddy, you could hear me. My wife tried to calm me down and I messed that up, too. I was not at my best. Later, she and I would work it out, but not before she’d seen (and heard) a side of me I was less than proud of.
The following day, through a series of texts, I apologized to my neighbor, owning that I was out of line in how I spoke to him. To my surprise, he also apologized (and was likely equally surprised by my apology). I felt the weight of regret lift from my chest and my conscience. It was worth not being right.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be a man and how often the model of masculinity the world offers us is so broken. We’re taught that it’s OK to punch first and use words later, if at all. We’re taught that being feared is more important than those around us feeling safe. We’re taught that kindness is weakness and that tears are for girls. Only now, in the last few years, have I been able to reflect on all that’s been lost to me in the name of masculinity.
My granddad was an incredible man and teacher, but he was one man swimming upstream in a current determined to drown tenderness and vulnerability. I’m grateful he was able - and willing - to impart to me more than just words, but dedicated time to show me a better way. Even if he didn’t have the language for “toxic masculinity” he knew and modeled something different.
Granddad, I’m still trying to listen.
Lynn Lewis is the winner of the extra copy of Anne Lawrence’s book I mentioned in last week’s post. Congratulations, Lynn! Message me your address and I’ll get it in the mail to you.
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Shine your light,
- Roger
There's just so much wisdom in these words.
I know the Good Book says "slow to anger..." and all that. But sometimes a heated call is needed. Now and then. :-). It's funny...that photo you posted here....I was walking on my local trails this week and came across a big woven basket on a small hill next to a creek. My first thought was "Moses??" Still not sure where it came from but I have an idea.