My Aunt Joan sent me an e-mail this week that reminded those on
her electronic list to thank our soldiers who are serving their
country so far from home this Thanksgiving season. Her note,
thankfully, interrupted the hustle and bustle of another busy day
at the office and took me back 45 years to the small den with the
burning wood crackling in the corner fireplace at my grandparent’s
house.
My Aunt Joan sent me an e-mail this week that reminded those on her electronic list to thank our soldiers who are serving their country so far from home this Thanksgiving season. Her note, thankfully, interrupted the hustle and bustle of another busy day at the office and took me back 45 years to the small den with the burning wood crackling in the corner fireplace at my grandparent’s house.
Uncle Jimmy was at sea that Christmas season serving in the Navy, and we missed him. He was this kind of uncle: While all the other adults were “busy” he would delight in sneaking in a quick game of
H-O-R-S-E on the bumpy driveway basketball court with me – the kid – before going inside to charm the crowd.
And he was this kind of young man: He could recite the 12 stanzas from Rudyard Kipling’s most famous poem, “Gunga Din” from memory – and do it with bravado tempered by a wry grin.
That thought still brings moisture to my eyes because, as a tribute, one of Jimmy’s good friends, Barney Ford, memorized and recited “Gunga Din” at James Francis Derry’s wake. How Mr. Ford stood on the altar and got through that without breaking down I’ll never know, but the moment is seared into my memory. Jimmy would have liked the effort and the rendition.
That Christmas in the den, my father brought a small tape recorder around so that everyone could wish Jimmy a Happy Christmas “in person” as it were. Small recording devices were kind of a new thing and the idea that you could send a tape and recorder to a ship traversing the Pacific Ocean was rather novel.
Even though my father was in the Army as a tank commander when I was born, this was the first time I connected the dots regarding what it meant to serve your country. It meant sacrifice – like being away from your family at important times – and loneliness. Later, I would learn that it also meant mastering card games like gin rummy and becoming a whiz at dominoes. But at the time it just meant being absent, being missed and being in some sort of potential danger.
I watched in the way only a child’s eyes can while my father went around punching the buttons on the tape recorder. Before he even moved toward my grandfather, I knew it would be a tough few moments for Gramps.
He, like many in his generation, kept a close guard on his emotions in front of others and used his words sparingly when devices – like a telephone – were part of the equation. By contrast, he was a prolific writer, penning letters each week to his children when they were away from home for college or other duty.
Gramps loved Jimmy dearly and I knew he missed his youngest son – the spiffy young officer with the bright eyes and the ability to command a room – very much. Christmastime was just not the same without him.
When Gramps spoke into the tape recorder the room fell absolutely silent except for the occasional popping exclamation point from the ever-present fire. At the outset, his voice hinted at the underlying emotion, but he steadied it. Only those who really knew it – knew it with their eyes closed – could hear the hurt.
His brief words came out with clear purpose. “Work hard, play hard and pray hard,” he told Jimmy. And I think he added a “love you, son” – but to this day I could not swear to the last part.
His first words, so carefully chosen and so distilled from his experiences of building a life, the Derry’s Feed and Fuel business and raising a family, just resonated in a way that sunk in deeply – though I didn’t realize how deeply for a very long time. Years later, in a sort of mystical way, they were resurrected when my children were at an age when they could grasp a few words of wisdom to help make clear the path. I hadn’t really consciously thought too much about the memory for a long time after that tape-recorded session – but there it was when I needed it.
So, I’ve come to understand – and truly appreciate – that a grandfather – or a grandmother – can have a profound influence on one’s life. The wisdom somehow manifests from the mist at different times and in different ways while we’re on this journey.
That’s a really neat (how’s that for a ’60’s expression) thought given that grandfatherdom is a few short months away for me – and there’s a “little man” on the way.
Grandparents are imbued with special powers in a way that parents are not. Maybe it’s a reward for having raised the parent. That seems just. We all could use a little secret power.
My aunts have some special powers, too, apparently. Joan’s e-mail came just at the right time to save me from the unnerving travails of this week’s Gilroy headlines.
It’s good to take a step back now and again, and since Thanksgiving and Christmas are just around the corner, the time is right.
So, thank someone serving in the military. Write a note to them at First Street Coffee or drop off “civilian rations” – quart-sized baggies with a note, corn nuts, gum, peanuts and jerky at 8201 Carmel St. Hug your grandfather, or grandchild and don’t forget, “Work hard, play hard and pray hard.” We have quite a lot to be thankful for.
