You Hear Him Even When You Thought You Weren't Listening

“By the time a man realizes that maybe his father was right, he usually has a son who thinks he’s wrong” -- Charles Wadsworth

People need a teacher, to study ourselves, for it is impossible to learn about ourselves. But what is a teacher? Is it always a noun or can it be a verb? Is it a person? Is it an event, tragic or enlightening? A higher being or a great ordeal? I am going to start with what I believe to be the first great teacher. On the occasion of my son’s 26^th birthday, here is some wisdom I would like to share with him and anyone else. These are things that I learned from my foremost teacher, my Dad, which I did not even realize at the time deeply were soaking and embedding into my psyche.

·      Sometimes things are just shitty and you have to deal with it. I probably would have learned this without my Dad, but it sure helped me to prepare for those times. Also, you don’t have to spread that crap to other people to make yourself feel better. Again, deal with it.

·      You can find peace and quiet in nature if you run to it with that purpose.

·      It doesn’t have to be brand new to make you happy, like the commercials try to convince you of. New can be relative. In fact, if you play hard and break things like Dad and I did, it felt less painful when it happened. Which leads to my next point.

·      Learn to fix things. Fix them to save money, get out of jam, use as an opportunity to obtain more tools, impress the lady in your life with your skills or just to learn how things work. After all if it is broke and you can't fix it what have you lost?

·      Have fun with people and tell little flavorful lies to spice up a fishing story or any other tale that needs a little “color” to make it more interesting. It is best to not have pictures or videos of these stories as photographic evidence just ruins them. As you once said to me, you were “very suspicious” of my stories. The wisdom of an eight year old.

·      Admit you are wrong when you are wrong and if it helps to be a bit wrong even when you are right, be wrong. Consider the situation carefully, like one with your spouse. It makes a huge difference long-term.

·      Don’t only have friends your own age. Learn from older men what they have to offer you in terms of history. Have younger friends so you can be reminded of the fact that you were once younger as well. It is incredible how differences in just a few years and a few life changes can make in perspective.

I know you really tried hard to not listen to “Your Old Man” and that was perfectly fine by me. I tried not to listen to my Dad as well. I knew you heard despite you best efforts to not listen. But you will remember my words down the road when you least expect it, like I do now. And Daily. I hope mine will ring a tune that you will remember with fondness.

Dad

“My father considered a walk among the mountains as the equivalent of churchgoing.” --Aldous Huxley

My dad was not one you would find sitting still very often. In fact, the first time I remember him truly motionless for any length of time was when his back gave out, a victim of his strength not meeting the demands of the task. It must have been a huge task that did him in, as I remember the lean, tremendous physical strength that he possessed.

That strength--at least in part--came from his love of the outdoors and all that it involved. And working a day job pushed him to find things to do that were evening or nighttime activities.

When he hunted raccoons with dogs, it was a physical act. You waded through swamps. He traveled through pitch-black woods guided only by the sounds of the dogs. He lugged 30-pound animals out of the woods back through those same swamps and dark woods dragging a couple hounds as well. Then at the end of the night with dawn approaching, he skinned, stretched hides and maybe grabbed a couple hours sleep before it was time to get up and work the auto mechanic job that was his profession.

Or he spent his evenings floating rivers, spearing or pole-fishing for catfish, carp or gar. Hauling the flat-bottom boat and equipment from beds of pick-up trucks or off the roof of a family’s car to launch and reversing the process at the end of the float fishing excursion.

Trapping was another sport he squeezed into his evenings and mornings scheduled around work. Traps would be set and checked and the harvested animals prepared for the fur market. He hauled a basket of steel traps and the trapped animals, down edges of creeks, around lakes in his waders and edges of forests and field, breathing in the life of the active outdoorsman.

Most of the time when I woke in the morning, the only proof of my Dad’s existence was what he had harvested during the time he was away. Animals and fish mysteriously deposited for processing or the families consumption.

I remember my first pheasant hunting trip with my Dad. I was 12. We went all day and we went at his pace. I knew that was expected and it was also what I expected of myself. At the end of that day, I could barely finish walking out of the fields. My gun felt like I was carrying a military field piece of huge caliber. I honestly had never been more exhausted in my entire life. I also knew that what I had experienced was a beautiful look inside the mystery that was inside of my father. For probably the first time, I shared an exact experience on his terms of what it was that he did when he was doing.

He was evangelizing me--challenging me--to experience living the outdoor life from his view of life. And I was saved.