a grandfather's gift

this morning i was searching through some old photos of rick, trying to find something to post for father's day, when i unexpectedly came across this precious picture.

grandfather and grandson.

fishing.

and it immediately inspired me.

how could it not?

though i'm not sure who snapped it, this picture captures the beginning of a great love.  rick has such fond memories of fishing with his grandfather. the love of fishing was a gift kenneth elliott generously gave to his grandson.  rick's stories range from the sweet remembrance of sitting side by side on a dock to the mischievous teen years when rick would wickedly drive his grandfather's old green pickup truck around the parking lot near their fishing spot.  (prior to having his license, that is).

one of my favorite stories is the time when rick did just that: drove the truck around the lot while his grandfather was occupied down on the dock.  however, by the time rick circled back to the original parking spot, it was no longer available. oops! (probably not the teenaged rick's exact word choice).  but, young (license-less) rick was forced to park his grandpa's old green pickup elsewhere.

when his grandfather came up to the lot later that afternoon, he scratched his head saying, "well, i don't quite remember parking the truck over there...do you rick?" he looked sideways at his sheepish grandson, making it clear he was fully aware of what had transpired.  rick is almost certain his grandfather knew, but he chose to say nothing more on the matter.

because that was rick's grandfather, a man of few words, but great tenderness.  he taught rick not only to fish, but how to be gentle.  he modeled for him the beauty of quiet strength and necessary restraint even in manhood...especially in manhood.

what an incredible gift in a man.

what an incredible gift in a father.

and what a beautiful thing to watch the gifts of one generation pass down to the next... and then on yet again.

if you know our family today, you know how much my husband and kids love to fish.  it is one of their favorite things to do together.  i wish rick's grandfather, who is now gone, could know what a wonderful treasure he has given our family.  this is more than fishing, this is legacy. and as we celebrate father's day this weekend, isn't that what every man blessed with offspring desires to leave: something to be remembered by and something to inspire future generations with.  i would guess rick's grandfather never once analyzed his actions or attempted to manipulate or make up a legacy.  he was just simply spending time with his grandson because he enjoyed it.  the most beautiful legacies are usually that simple.

i have watched my husband and sons standing out in the rain...fishing.  shirtless under the georgia hot sun...fishing. sitting close on the dock...fishing. perched even on ice...fishing. laughing out loud...fishing. teasing and taunting each other...fishing.  having deep discussions...fishing.  saying nothing at all...fishing.

it's what they do.

i don't really fish.  i take the pictures.  when they fish, i photograph.  and though sometimes they duck their heads and whine a bit, i am thankful for the collection of photos i've taken in these many, many years of watching my family fish together.

and it goes without saying, that this gift of fishing which has passed down in our family is really the gift of time.  the gift of a father hanging out with his children, making himself available and teaching them the love of something simple. something which requires stillness, strength and great patience.  not given in a lecture or a lesson, but offered up in the reeling and the untangling and the casting and the catching -- and maybe even more in the not catching--moments shoulder to shoulder on the shoreline.

lately, i have been dropping my own son off at the lake nearby.  he often goes alone.  my quiet son, his kayak and a fishing pole.  this great grandson of kenneth elliot needs little more.  a few days ago i insisted on sending him with a peanut butter sandwich.  he rolled his eyes, but accepted my meager saran wrapped offering.  when his dad can't go out with him, ty snaps photos of the fish and texts them to rick.  they discuss the fishing day over dinner, analyzing the success or failure.  i tease them, saying the fish must have been hungry when the catch is good or too full to eat when the catch is lacking. because it's really all about the cooperation of the fish, isn't it? "stick to photography mom, not fishing," tyler will say to me.

they ignore my teasing and talk on about technique. my boy spends a lot of time out on the water.  he's a pretty social kid, but his pole is company enough when he's out on the dock or in his boat.  he's quiet.  he's content. he's a kid truly at peace. even at 15, he already has the gift of rick's grandfather in him. tyler's middle name, just likes his dad's, is elliott.  both my husband and my oldest son are named after rick's grandfather, kenneth elliott.  a man who loved to sit quietly on the dock and fish. a man who never said much but had much impact on his grandson and great grandchildren in a way he probably never even knew.

perhaps even tonight you are preparing a little gift for that special dad or grandfather or husband in your life.  i know these kind of occasions always get me kind of worked up thinking about the gift i'm going to give. but tonight i write not as a gift-giver, but as a gift-receiver. many years ago, rick's grandfather gave him a gift, and in doing so, he gave me one as well.  thank you grandpa elliott!

i wish he could see them now.  i think he'd like nothing more than to sit right there on the dock with them...and perhaps from his place up in heaven, that's exactly what he's doing.

"for the LORD is good and his love endures forever; 

his faithfulness continues through all generations." ~ psalm 100:5

happy father's day to the dads, to the grandfathers, 

and to the generations of men 

who continue to cast countless blessings on us all!

 

this year we've even added in some ice fishing -- a first!

this would be the famous "duck and avoid" i was referring to in my post.  

it is usually followed by a "mooooooom stoooop."

a street with no name

i grew up on a street with no name. this bothered my poetic sense as a child. i had friends living pleasantly on mulberry lane and ivy hill road, but i grew up on east 171st street in a dark brown duplex. even that number seemed too large. perhaps had it been 3rd avenue or 2nd street it may have felt slightly more acceptable in my silly-girl dreams. a tad more poetic at least.  perhaps.  

i love names, not numbers. this was clear by middle school math. numbers and i had little in common. since those years in my brown duplex i have lived on streets with more picturesque names such as lakeview lane and sunset drive.  currently, we reside on buttercup trace.  buttercup was almost a deal breaker for my husband though. rick is a big man with a big voice. hearing him audibly lay claim to 815 buttercup trace has brought a touch of amusement to just a few individuals, not least of all, his wife.

my parents in front of the house -
yes! we had a paper route.

but back to the duplex on our number-named street. my grandparents lived downstairs and my family of six lived in close quarters upstairs.  eight of us sharing one roof, one driveway, one back door.  i found this arrangement of too many kids and too few bathrooms failing a bit in my often imagined perfect-family-fairytale.   most of my friends visited their grandmothers for sunday pot roast and potatoes and then promptly returned to their single family dwellings. but this wasn’t our case. i grew up with what felt at times a second 

on the back steps of east 171st street 

set of parents breathing beneath my floor boards. as a young teen one set seemed plenty. there were moments of frustration. i remember my grandfather waiting up for me. i can still see him standing under the bug-zapping bulb of our front porch watching me cross the street from kathy tramte’s house. it was okay when I was 7 and afraid of the menacing shrubs shadowing our front path. but at 14, when my first boyfriend walked me home from his ballgame, i can assure you i felt entirely different about grandpa’s observant perch on the front porch.

growing up, it was grandpa who walked out of the house and into the rowdy street’s kick-the-can game or hide-and-go-seek fun. he came to check on us. always. i could count on it. all of the neighborhood kids could. he knew their names and he knew their parents and there was something in this knowing. when front porch sleepover parties formed it was grandpa’s flashlight which swept over our ghost stories and our girl-giggles and our bags of doritos. it was his strong voice through the dark asking if we were okay and reminding us to be careful. as a child i heard only the overprotective and ever-watching worry in his words . i didn’t understand it and i didn’t always appreciate it. i wished often to be less protected. less watched. less known.

that was long ago. the house on a nameless street bears the most vivid memories of my childhood but it seems a different life as i now raise my own brood on buttercup. one warm evening recently i sat on my back deck and felt the taste of summer’s coming. i sat in filtered twilight gazing out at the acre of woods behind my brick home on its cul-de-sac-ed street. and the summer memories of childhood’s season seeped out of my mother veins. i was startled at my nostalgia for that brown duplex and the barefooted gang of reckless kids running rampant on 171st.  i found myself missing the grandparents living only a floor below … longing for a grandfather who knew every kid on the block. i was sad for how close they were and yet how far i had kept them in my most childish years.  how could i so carelessly take for granted a grandfather who loved me enough to come out for a thousand street crossings and a hundred neighborhood games? he was there watching. he was there listening. he was there loving.

my grandparents 50th wedding anniversary

my grandfather died the year i went off to college. but to this day, almost 25 years later, it is easy for me to see his tall frame bent over a pot of hardy marigolds on our small square of patio. he tended these plants with careful passion. summer nights this big boned man stood in the yard watering our tiny patch of city grass. i wondered why as a child. i just assumed he was once again planting himself near our teen-girl whisperings. watching. listening. spying. but now i know.  i, too, stand in my yard. i stand in my sprawling sprinkler-privileged yard and water thirsty spots on our georgia lawn. the steady streams of water in summer night-dusk ease the day’s tension and try-ings out of my mother-heavy shoulders. i breathe. i sigh with the day’s quiet closing.  i replenish my own brittle soul in the pulsing flow. and i watch and i listen and i spy. sometimes children happen across my evening quenching. and sometimes it is the white starflowers in their smoky glow. and sometimes it is the birds settling into their evening perch. but i feel close to my grandfather at this time. i only wish for the chance to tell him.

my street may have been lacking in poetry, but i should have listened more to the music of my grandparents. my, church organist, grandmother would practice each evening a floor below and my grandfather a lover of hymns would sing in his great big baritone. what a picture they created for that little-big girl. a beautiful picture i couldn’t name and i most certainly took for granted. but today in my mid-life when i am most in need of music’s comfort it is my grandfather’s voice i hear…singing, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus there’s just something about that name. Master, Savior, Jesus…like the fragrance after a rain. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, let the heavens and earth proclaim…kings and kingdoms will all pass away, but there’s something about that name.”

my high school graduation

and i know. i know that growing up on a street with no name and in a house with, what seemed, too many adults was somehow good.  how often God gives us things we resent and rebuke and even rebel against…but how often these are the very things which protect us and shape us and the very things to which we return. effortlessly. eagerly. quietly. these might be the things which sweep over us in our independence and the things which check on us in our self-proclaimed freedom…but they are the very things which are able to comfort and quiet us in our later felt restlessness. and whether they happen on perfectly named streets or not, they are ours.  my gratitude comes a little late. gone are those summer-porch evenings in ohio. but even in its tardiness, i feel the quench of something remembered. the glimpse of something beautiful. the whisper of something well named.