I Remember

I remember the man who married my mother nearly thirty years ago, becoming my step-father at the same time. My own father and I had always been close, both before and after you became a part of my family, so you weren’t a surrogate. I suppose a supplement is the more accurate term. Even this is less of an indication of any deficiencies on the part of anyone else, and more of a reflection of the special needs I had at that time.

Although many of my habits have been taken from others, and while I am certain I picked up at least a few bad ones from you, I have also learned many good lessons from you through the years. Whenever I see myself exhibit traits such as courage, pragmatism, and self-reflection, I think of you, and I am reminded of how you helped to shape me. Above all else, I suppose that discipline is the most important thing that I learned from you.

I remember when you went with me to pick out my first car. I hadn’t a clue, so I was basically just going by your advice. But just before I was ready to buy that red Chevy Monza, you took me aside and explained the situation to me. This was my decision, and the consequences of it would be squarely upon my shoulders. You were just offering me advice, but the responsibility for accepting or declining it was up to me.

At first, I thought you were just doing this to protect yourself. If the car broke down on the way home, you didn’t want me to be able to blame you. But eventually, I realized that what you were saying was actually the way it had to be. Even if I allow someone else to make decisions for me, I am still making that decision, and am therefore just as responsible as if I had made the decision alone. That was a good lesson.

I also remember that we stopped at the gas station on the way home with my new car. You waited in the car while I went inside. And when I got back in the car and tried to drive away, it wouldn’t budge. I gave you a startled look, and asked why the car wouldn’t drive. Of course, you could have simply told me that you had put the emergency brake on, but where’s the lesson in that? Instead, you asked me what I thought the problem might be, and watched in amusement as I figured it out myself.

I remember the day we were working on repairing the front porch. At one point, I realized that I was holding up a stick of wood that weighed less than I did, and that this stick was holding up a roof that weighed many more times than both of us combined. When you went under the roof to do some work, you reminded me that my stabilization of this thin stick of wood was the only thing that was holding the roof up at that moment. I wasn’t used to carrying that much responsibility, and I wasn’t sure if I was up to the task, so I asked what would happen if my arms got tired and I was unable to hold.

You just replied “Don’t worry, I’ll push you out of the way so you don’t get smashed.” Of course, it was my concern for you that prompted my question, and it was your casual reply that boosted my confidence. I realized then that if you really thought there was any chance of me dropping the roof on your head, you wouldn’t have walked under it. So if you were confident in my abilities, then I was too.

I remember when I blew the engine on that Monza. I had ignored the rattling engine for too long, and what could have been repaired for a few dollars ended up costing hundreds. The lesson here was rudimentary, although it had apparently escaped me up to that point. But you helped to make it clear. I can still hear you saying “Don’t ever be afraid to look under the hood. A problem won’t get worse just because you examine it, but it probably will get worse if you don’t examine it.” Somehow, I realized your advice here applied to much more than just cars, and I have heeded it many times since then.

I also remember that you suggested that “we” change the engine ourselves. Of course I was agreeable to this. It would save me a lot of money, and I knew that you had the knowledge to pull this off. Naturally, I just assumed I would be the assistant on this job, following your specific instructions. And that’s the way it started, until about an hour into it. Then you stopped and said “Well, it looks like you know what your doing. I’m going around front to work in the yard. Just let me know if you need anything.”

It must have been my quivering lips that caused you to turn around and explain the situation in a more gentle manner. You reminded me that the most important thing was to mark everything that I removed. If I took off a hose, all I had to do was put a piece of tape on the open end of the hose and mark it with the next sequential letter of the alphabet. And then I had to put the same letter on whatever component I had removed the hose from. At any point, no matter how many parts were lying around, reassembling the car would be as easy as saying the alphabet, albeit backwards. Then you reminded me that you were just a few feet away, and that if I had any questions, all I had to do was ask. I was still a little concerned. But again, your confidence in me helped to boost my own self-confidence.

It took a while, but “we” finally got the engine stripped down. I asked if you were going to make me pull the engine myself, but you offered to help with that. I actually thought you were joking when you attached chains to the block, put a heavy piece of lumber through the chain, and told me to lift one end. That seemed like an awful lot of weight, perhaps something that might require an engine hoist. But what the hell, I figured you probably didn’t want to destroy either your back or my own, so again I figured that if you thought I could handle it then I probably could.

I remember the time I was complaining about my brother’s matchbook collection. “What a stupid thing to collect,” I said to you. You could have simply pointed out that to some people my baseball card and coin collections were just as much a waste of time. Instead, you confided that matchbooks weren’t much for you to get excited about either. Then you added “But your brother likes them, and I like him, so that’s why I always try to find new matchbooks for him.” I don't recall whether you actually said it, or if I just deduced it from what you did say, but the lesson was learned. Sometimes we take an interest in things that don’t interest us, simply because those who we care about are interested.

I remember that my mind wandered in strange and lonely places for a young boy. Hobbes, Marx and Machiavelli - few people liked to discuss such subjects, and those who did were usually not interested in hearing what a kid had to say. But you did, listening and giving me feedback. When I would take an hour to describe my views on something, you didn’t respond by just telling me that some dead philosopher had already said exactly what I was thinking, just far more eloquently and succinctly. No, you would simply compliment me on “my” brilliant idea, and then suggest that philosopher as someone who’s material I might want to read up on.

Listening to another’s political views, without judging and trying to sway their opinion, is not something that many people do. Usually, they either have no interest in the subject or their chief desire is to prove wrong those who think differently than themselves. Although you might sometimes have suggested alternative viewpoints for me to consider, you never argued with me, never told me I was wrong. I was actually well into my adult years before I came to realize how differently the two of us thought about some political issues. And that’s a strong testament to your mentoring. Your goal was not to tell me what to think, but rather to encourage me to think for myself. A good lesson and a lot of good memories there.

I remember that I was always the kid who needed someone to show him how something was done, rather than just telling him. And I remember you never seemed to mind taking the time to show me.

Although you disciplined me many times, and in many ways, I remember that you actually only punished me physically one time. And I also remember that it was well deserved.

I remember your humor, often so dry that even those who were well acquainted with you weren’t quite certain whether it was a joke or not. And sometimes I think that lesson was learned too well for my own good.

I remember that I really had no business buying an old dilapidated house, especially considering how little I really knew at the time. And I remember that much of what I eventually learned to get the job done was learned from you.

I remember that as I grew up, and you grew old, you began to listen to me in a different way at times. You were no longer encouraging me to talk for my benefit, but for yours. And I remember thinking that if you were asking for my advice, then I must have grown up pretty well.

Finally, I remember as the end drew near, how profusely thankful you were every time I did something to help you. You seemed almost apologetic, as if you thought you were being a burden. All I told you was “Don’t worry, you’re a lot of trouble, but I guess you’re worth it.” I didn’t feel I needed to elaborate. But if I did, it would have been to say that you’ve done a lot more for me than I could probably ever do for you, and that no matter how high I rise in life, you’ll always be on a level above me.

I could go on and list a few more memories, but I’ll just summarize by saying that you gave me a lot of memories worth remembering. To me, you were a parent, a mentor and a friend. You served all three roles well and I dedicate these songs to your memory.

For the Parent - He didn’t have to be

For the Mentor - The Carpenter

For the Friend - Desperados Waiting for a Train