Day-Day was not a big man, but he was a man's man. A machinist by trade, his hands were rough and wrinkled, course and hard. He kept a workshop in his little garage, where I often watched him tinker on broken, household things or bikes or cars. He was uninhibited and unafraid; he took on all manner of work, such as carpentry, wall papering, plumbing, electrical. He could do it all and enjoyed it all. It was, I think, his therapy. At an early age, I showed some signs of his tinkering nature, though I have since lost all signs of promise or desire in this area. Would that I could have continued in this manner, for then I would have been of some valuable use to others, especially my wife and myself. I guess we all show early signs of picking up things from our relatives, only to find ourselves, later, incredulous that we ever showed such signs. In my case, I can now barely change a light bulb, and the only tinkering I have desire to do is the tinkering done on my computer.
In further keeping with being a man's man, Day-Day enjoyed hunting and fishing. I remember once going with him to have butchered the deer that he had shot, and I recall eating venison at a very young age. Though I have never hunted, nor my father, my brothers have done so for many years; it's probably due to a special gene passed on by Day-Day; he would be proud of them! As far as fishing goes? Well, fishing has always been a favorite past-time of mine. Fresh water fishing, never salt water fishing. And I like fishing best which is done with friends and not alone, for I remember Day-Day going out fishing with his best friend - a skinny man that lived around the corner - and I vividly recall the sense of sharing and camaraderie that bounced off of the two after they returned home from a day in the boat. While still a child, I think it must have been the allure of that bright glow and heartfelt feeling of friendship that first attracted me toward my own goal of fishing with friends; it's doubtful that I found attractive the sight of cold, dead fish and guts in my grandfather's kitchen sink. Yes, I would have to say that it must have been the idea that I, too, someday, might enjoy doing something fun with a friend. I remember wanting to be a sports fisherman, like my grandfather, on a boat with a good, faithful, companion. And I have since experienced the joys that my grandfather experienced. I recommend it to everyone reading this essay! Go fishing with a friend!
Now, one thing more that I need to point out; in keeping with being a man's man, Day-Day was not the Pepperidge Farm type of grandfather - the soft-spoken, twinkle-in-the-eye, story-telling, cuddle bum. He showed love, to be sure, but he was not sweet about it. Yes, he hugged and kissed us; in fact, I remember that he seemed to enjoy giving and getting a hug and kiss; but that's as sweet as he got. The reason that I tell you this is not because I found him to be less of a grandfather because of this, but because I want to paint an accurate picture of the man. He loved a beer or other alcoholic drink; he loved to eat peanuts out of a jar and drink Coke from a glass bottle while watching the newest “Gunsmoke” episode on television. He loved his recliner (so did I, when he was at work), and he loved his workshop. He loved his tinkering and his job at the General Electric. He loved his family, of course, and his friends. He loved his hunting and fishing and tackle. And, let me tell you, quite clearly, my grandfather loved, he absolutely loved, his boat! And this brings me to the part in my story in which I tell about the day that I almost crashed that beloved boat.
I might have been six years old at the time. It was a summer's day. It was just my grandfather and myself. It happened on Flax Pond, which I have always thought was incorrectly named because ponds seem to have a reputation for being small. Personally, I would call it a lake, but I would be taking my life in my hands if I did this because people can become enraged when someone begins messing about with tradition, landmarks, and treasured places. Suffice it to say, then, that Flax Pond is huge and can not be entirely seen from one angle.
As I've mentioned in previous essays, Flax Pond was nearly at my doorstep in my early childhood days. I could walk to it in about two minutes. Young men water skied on it, an old beach house (called “the bath house”) attested to its long history as a popular swimming hole, old folks meandered its shoreline with their dogs, and many other men and boys fished it day and night. DayDay fished it with his friend, in his beloved boat.
The boat, as I recall was white - about a 12-footer. It had a small, outboard motor and even now, as I write this, my olfactory sense is picking up the smell of the gasoline. DayDay kept the beloved boat in top shape, so it ran very well. He kept orange life preservers hanging from the garage ceiling; I can't recall where he kept his fine fishing poles, but I would guess that he stored them in the inner sanctum of the garage's workshop, safe and sound from grandchildren. I used to watch him taking the boat out of the garage. I used to watch him drive off, out the driveway, pulling it behind his car. I used to watch him, from the shore, driving all over Flax Pond or Little Sabago Lake, in Maine. That's where we vacationed, the entire, extended family, in those years of the 1960s. We had Maine relatives that had a camp on the lake, and my father and uncle, Gene, would rent one close by theirs. The blueberry picking strolls were always fun...oh, sorry, I digress.
Flash back to a Saturday morning. As I said, I am five or six, maybe seven years old. I don't know. My home away from home is my grandfather's house, on Flax Pond. And for some reason, maybe because I looked sad and pleaded, DayDay decided to take me on a boat ride around the pond. I do recall, though not vividly, my mother's apprehension and mild anxiety, but my grandfather assured her that all would be okay. I think she went down with us to the pond. Anyway, my first memory of it was having the orange life preserver placed over my head and strapped on tightly. Then DayDay ripped the cord of the outboard motor and I instantly smelled that glorious odor of the motor fuel. It sputtered but started right up. I sat in the middle seat and, of course, he sat in the rear, with his hand on the steering and gas arm. Then off we went, like a bullet, the waves waving, the bouncing up and down, the wind in our faces. It was actually happening! I was getting to ride in the beloved boat! Just me and DayDay!
Funny thing happened, someplace in the middle of the pond; we completely stopped. DayDay stopped the boat motor's forward thrust so that we simply bobbed in the water. There we were in the middle of the pond, a place that I had spied with my little eyes and dreamed about, like a distant galaxy, bobbing up and down, gently, in the wake of the waves that we had been making. I think that I must have felt like John Glenn. My space craft the beloved boat. Was I actually bobbing up and down in an area that I had watched so many water skiers wipe out and dash over?
It was quiet. As quiet as it can be with the sound of an idling outboard in your ears. And it was strangely still out there in the middle of Flax Pond. It was a clear day, blue skied, not windy. DayDay was smiling. He looked at me with great delight.
“Can I steer the boat, DayDay?” I asked.
I watched his face intently. I could read him as well as any grand kid can read their grandfather.
Before I knew it, I was sitting beside him with my hands on the steering and gas arm. Yes, his hand was placed over my hand, and he was doing the real steering and gas flow, but, even today, I feel like I was at the helm doing everything myself. Don't try to tell me otherwise! Little kids don't have to actually do the deed to feel the joy and satisfaction of it all. Imagination, and self-delusion, are wonderful things. I was doing it, period!
I powered that beloved boat all over the pond. I made circles. I made straight lines toward the distant shore. I aimed for floating ducks. I explored the country that my little eyes had strained to see, so many times, from the bath house. It was exhilarating! I smiled. DayDay was smiling. The wind, the waves, the bumping up and down, the blue sky and then...
A boat from behind.
It came up fast and too close, I guess, because DayDay almost jumped off the seat. In the precise moment of shock, he took his focus off of me and off of his guiding hand. Suddenly, I really was steering the beloved boat. And for that split second, I was not doing such a tremendous job of it. I could tell because DayDay let out a short grunt and suddenly grabbed back his hold on my hand and the steering arm. Whew! That was a close one! However, the other boat passed us by with a wider birth (the other boatman had, obviously, been inattentive, too), and we headed toward the shore. I could tell that DayDay was still shaken up a bit. Yet, today there would be no occasion for the necessity of field testing the orange life preservers. We got back, safely, on shore, and rest is, as they say, history.
I had forgotten that small incident of my life, until a few months ago, when I had the thought of how much of our lives, even as grown-ups, are like boat trips of adventure and even danger. Think about it for a moment. We're all like little children to God. And He's our Father, or like our DayDay, if you please. We grow and watch and dream and long to go out and visit the various places and experiences. But we need someone bigger to with us; we need protection; we need guidance; we need a bigger hand placed upon our own, smaller hand.
Our lives are like that boat, beloved of our DayDay. They can be damaged. They can be wrecked. They can take off fast, create fun waves, smell of good or smell of bad fuel, bring us to where we want to go or shift off course and enter dangerous waters. If we're not willing to let that bigger, DayDay hand clasp unto our own hand, or, worse still, if we don't believe in DayDay at all, and so shrug off His guiding, loving hand, well, we're gonna get hit, from behind, a lot. Some day we might get hit so bad that we sink. The beloved boat will be gone. What a sad day, indeed, that would be!
Sentimental hogwash, some will say. Maybe sentimental, but not hogwash. I am grateful for that wonderful day that I had, with my DayDay, on Flax Pond, the day that dream of being on that beloved boat came true. I am grateful that my DayDay's thoughts were on me, enough to take the time out of his day off and share himself and his joy of adventure and living. And I am ever grateful that he made me feel that I was steering his beloved boat. But, most of all, I am forever grateful that he loves me still and that he protected me by his guiding and strong hand.
We are the beloved boat. And God is real. Let us continue to be as children, full of adventure and dreams and forward thrusts into various places and experiences.
But let us recognize Him and His hand. And let us forever welcome its touch upon our own hand, just as I did, one long-ago day, on my grandfather's boat.
God bless you.
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