Josh Magill looks back at all of the men who helped shaped the man he became, and is grateful for them this Father’s Day.
It’s the day before Father’s Day, yesterday, and I’m stranded in Minneapolis. My only goal is to get home for one short day with my family before jetting off on another business trip to Charlotte.
“The kids finished making your gift today,” my wife says through my nearly dead cell phone. The planes are delayed; they threaten to cancel all flights into Denver. The gift is a surprise. I hate surprises. And yet, I’ve fought the urge all week to disrupt the plans of my children to find out more about the gift. So I smile, knowing how hard they might have worked on it, their tongues clenched tightly between their lips as they concentrate or how they messed up and had to start over a few times.
My youngest boy turns five in a couple months; he will start Kindergarten. My daughter—the middle child—just saw eight come and go. And our oldest (another boy) is staring down his soon-to-be twelfth birthday. I’m proud of my wife and I for raising three great kids, but happier still that we have our sanity. I didn’t think we’d make it this far without truly wanting to give up. Being a parent is one tough job, but it’s possible with lots of prayer and a special quiet place to hide when steam pours from your ears. I tell her I hope to make it home; she says it would be nice to have us together for one day.One man pleads with the gate agent, but she has no control over the weather: “It’s the wind, sir. I’m sorry.” The man’s face drops into a frown when he says he promised his kids he’d be home on Father’s Day. Another father plays and laughs with his two young daughters, hide-and-go-seek among the Terminal chairs and peek-a-boo. He’s happy. No matter what happens he will be with them on Father’s Day.
I think about the different relationships I had or have with each of those men I call great, how each shaped my life in an important way that I can’t ever repay. I think how my children, without knowing it, see glimpses of those fathers in me as I try to live up to their legacies.I have wonderful parents, tough parents, but sitting on the floor of the airport, hoping to charge my phone from the hidden electrical outlet on the backside of a column, I think of my five grandfathers. (You read that right—five.) There’s a young girl sitting next to me, fiddling with the plug of her grandfather’s iPad because it won’t stay lodged into the outlet.
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Karl was my maternal grandfather. He taught me about compassion and meekness. He taught me that a man does not have to be large in stature to make an impact, but that never giving up in your family, your children, is a strength most men don’t have. He did and it was powerful; it was inspiring. His death came around my 19th birthday and it stung more than I can comprehend to this day..
Kenneth was my paternal grandfather, and of the five men, I knew him the least due to the divorce of my parents when I was four-years-old. He was tall and thick. He was a Southerner, growing up between south Georgia and west Tennessee. I remember his quiet mumble because I had to strain to hear and understand him, but when I did he taught me to be a dreamer. Not just any kind of dreamer, but a man of action that goes after his dreams, grabs hold and never let’s go. I regret not knowing him more, and there are excuses for it, but none that matter. Those excuses kept me from saying goodbye at his funeral when I was nearly 30 and the reason he never met any of my children. That still hurts.
Sidney was the father of the man I call “Dad.” When my mother remarried I gained Sidney as a grandfather and a teacher of tough love. He was a “man’s man” in the most positive of ways. He taught me about hard work, honest work that showed in his gigantic hands that looked like dark leather dried in the sun. Yet, he knew how to laugh when it was warranted, a trait you see in all eight of his children. He taught me acceptance by making me part of his family, making me his grandson without any exceptions. He lived the life of a cowboy, who died doing what he loved.
Those three were my grandfathers, great men I’ll never forget, but that is only three of the men I give such an honored title. There are two more I claim as grandfathers, two more that shape my life. Unlike those that have passed on from this mortal life, the final two still walk among us.
Richard is my friend. His is the husband of my paternal grandmother’s sister. For whatever reason, after my parent’s divorce I never felt too comfortable with that side of the family. It was difficult to bond, but Richard was always there as a support, never pushing me, never expecting anything other than friendship. We played chess and checkers. When nobody was looking, we snuck food we didn’t want to eat under the table to the dogs. He was my first co-signer when I bought a truck at twenty-two, never yelling when I came up late on my payments. Just that calm, sweet voice prodding me to do better as a man should. Richard taught me that there are no expectations in friendship. You help each other be the best at who you are, no matter what that is.
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Finally, there is Art—the unexpected grandfather. The one I fought embracing for so long. Art married my maternal grandmother years after he lost his beloved wife and my grandfather passed. In my early twenties, I lived with my grandmother at a storage facility she managed. It was there I watched their relationship blossom because of Art’s smooth talking and humble persistence. I wasn’t fond of someone taking my grandfather’s place, but that wasn’t Art’s intention. He was trying to be happy and help my grandmother do the same as they finish out their time on this earth. I saw how they made each other laugh and become friends, how Art never did anything without my grandmother in mind. He was respectful and kind, jovial and comforting. Art is a spark to any sad party. He taught me that you can bring light to any situation by being happy.
At 8pm I land in Denver. The flight was the bumpiest I have ever been on, but I’m smiling because I’m headed home to my children on the night before Father’s Day. I’ll get to see the surprise they worked so hard on and I’m okay with this surprise, even a bit excited. It’s a feeling I remember well because it is the same feeling I had each time one of my three children was born—each a surprise in their own way.
I can’t wait to see what being a grandfather feels like. I hope it’s a great surprise.
© 2014 Josh Magill