Tools

One of my favorite childhood photos has my father, Jack, sitting on a stump with an eight-year-old me balanced on his knee. From my uniform and the leafless trees behind us, we must be at Camp Quapaw for a winter cub/dad outing. I look glad to be there. Jack is also in uniform–fedora, white shirt, jacket and slacks, certainly more Archie Bunker than Ralph Lauren.

I also spent time with him and his pipe in his workshop, sometimes working on projects for me, such as a machine gun or pirate ship crafted from scrap lumber, other times just visiting and listening to the Cardinals on the radio while he worked.

There were trips to be made with Jack and my older brother, Mike, during school breaks, sometimes to places such as Lookout Mountain, Washington, D.C., or Northern Virginia (visiting battlefields), other times to cities nearer at hand, like Dallas or Tulsa. By then Jack ran a heavy truck dealership, so we occasionally stopped to visit other dealers.

He was probably a little disappointed that guy activities such as golf and fishing were not included in our family agenda, sports genes having apparently skipped a generation in the case of Mike and myself. But, I think Jack was consoled somewhat that we shared his love of books and the written word. A self-described “peddler,” he called on prospects and kept a volume of the Yale Shakespeare in his briefcase to read while he waited.

For all of his virtues as a parent, I sometimes think he really was just practicing up for his role as GranGran, the super grandfather to my two daughters. He retired at 62 primarily to spend more time with them, usually Wednesday and Saturday afternoons and evenings. That also meant time in the workshop with them, a substantial dollhouse being a major project.

He also took them on “lunch dates,” at the Sam Peck Hotel, among other venues, but one girl at a time so they would have his undivided attention. Another favorite photo from the family archives has GranGran standing on the steps of the Capitol with granddaughter Catherine’s third grade class on a field trip. He never made me feel that he was standing in for me on those occasions.

When the Central High crisis hit town years before, Jack had spoken up for calm and reason whenever he got the chance and probably was never concerned about his sons’ involvement in the goings on. But, decades later, his granddaughters were another matter entirely. Younger granddaughter Sarah participated in the AAC Summer Theatre Academy the year Betty Bumpers’ Peace Links underwrote the production of the play “Peace Child.”

Word got out that a group of virulent anti-communists were going to picket opening night. GranGran made sure he was on the sidewalk between the entrance and the pickets. When a snidely vocal one got too close, GranGran and his pipe were promptly in his face, growling sufficient undeleted expletives to propel the picket back across the parking lot.

I think from time to time about Jack’s early retirement and those cozy years in GranGranLand–most often when I am on a too-long plane ride for a too-short visit to a far away grandchild. But, I am confident that, in the same situation, Jack would have been grateful that those girls and grandchildren were only a frequent flyer flight away, and he would be happy making the trips (taking something to read, of course). So am I, Jack, so am I.