My sons do not share my Passion for those things Outdoor… neither did my father. I must be the rock-skip from older generations of our clan across the waters of Time. I can still remember my Grandpa Arnold mowing the grass on his little farmette, on the outskirts of Mt. Grove, Missouri. Until his 80th spring, when he went Home, he used a rotary push mower, Key overalls… and bare feet to keep the park-like presence ever fresh for Grandma’s eyes.
He farmed and cooned and hunted the hills and hollers of what became the Mark Twain National Forest nearly all his days. When he retired, he kept the homeplace and 6-8 acres for a summer garden, his beloved (and fairly famous) tobacco, and a firestoke of his own passion’d memories. I loved that old man, his gentle quietness… and the unveering path of manhood he blazed so straight through two world wars (he was born in 1888), two Depressions, pestilence, blight, drought, and a fiesty Irish wife… for whoever came next.
And but for this one thing, I might very well despair over the course my own days have taken. For you see, his children found no thrill in the being there~~no awe in the presence of oaks and willows, stone-bed creeks or rain. And with the exception of one daughter (who died a few month after he, and a few more before my Grandma), they found his character and metel to be of little value and even less use for their purposes (they fought to a blood-foamed frenzy… over 6-8 acres, a 2-bedroom house with grey shingle siding, and a 56′ Buick Special with a bad generator).
And yet, because these things were a part of the bedrock of who he WAS, not just what he hoped to be seen as, he lived his convictions and his Passions for the right they were, as he could see it… and for the pure joy they gave him. And he passed them on to the only one in his presence that found everything about his world… and his presence FASCINATING. The time was short (he moved over across the chasm during my 7th February). But there was no sense of hurry, no rushing of lessons or times, just a full, rich embracing of whatever moment we found ourselves in together.
It took me more years than I’m proud to admit to make that part of his character my own…
I do not own the future. My sons will, of course, have to finally do as they decide in all matters of character AND the Outdoors. But as I look out my office window at a warm August night overtaking what has been a pleasant August evening, I find myself recalling the sons of other men, who, for whatever reason, have over the years found value in the Trail I’m blazing (you see, the tangled vines and undergrowth of the Wild devour even the cleared ground of a giant… if not traversed constantly). And I smile at the joy and richness they have brought to the door of my soul.
Gift for gift.
They were not my “chosen” ones. They are the ones who chose, if even for a time, me. Even as I was not the one my grandfather originally prepared himself to share the richness he had found with. But I am so glad that when I showed… he did.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment