Grandpa (Tell me 'bout the good ol' days)
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#Father's Day
#Grandpa, Tell Me About the Good Old Days These are my people.
For Father's Day, I've been thinking about my dad, who died a few weeks after the 9/11 attack. He fought in General George Patton's army, came home with the Bronze Star, and explained it to me by saying "Everybody got one." He didn't speak of the war. It must have been unspeakable for him.
I've been thinking about his dad, too, a West Virginia farmer and coal miner: Grandpa Miller. He was a quiet man who let me jump in the hayloft, told me where the strawberries grew, and drank maybe a little too much. I thought about Mom's dad, Pap-pap Williams. He told me bear stories, played the piano, and made hard cider. Which he drank too much, too, I’m told.
Now I can't play the harmonica yet. But I want to. So I bought some cheap ones in different keys, I turned on Spotify, and I started trying to play along in the chords.
(Someday I'll take lessons, I suppose. But for now, it's relaxing fun trying to play along with great musicians.)
Something happened to me when I came to the song by The Isaacs, "Grandpa (Tell me 'bout the good ol days)."
I played along with the harmonica and started to cry. I've lost a lot in the last few years. Both younger brothers are gone. Mom's series of strokes and dementia have left me with someone who speaks kindly to me but doesn't know me. You'd think the dog we had to put down would have been comparatively minor. He was not. He was my friend. And it came to me to end him while his brown eyes looked directly into mine. One of the worst moments of my life.
I’m not sure why the song by The Isaacs struck with me with such force. It’s a song about dads who leave the family. All the dads in my family, far as I know, have stayed until they died. But the music touched my spirit and brought to mind my good ol’ days.
Listen, I have personally known outdoor toilets in the winter. I’ve walked barefooted in chicken poop in the chicken coop...and through larger pies of warmth. I’ve hauled spring water from the hillside across the bridgeless creek when Granny’s well went dry.
None of that was good.
But there is one good thing about the good ol’ days.
My dad was there.
So, to soothe these moments of memory as Father's Day approaches, I play the harmonica terribly, pretending it sounds good enough not to mortify my kids. Though I’m fairly sure it does. And I cry, because I will always miss my dad.
There’s a picture in this video of Dad holding me in August, in the month and year I was born. When I saw it, I rested my face in my hands and sobbed. The power within that picture caught me off guard. He looks so happy with me. And I know he loved me throughout my life.
The song is what initially triggered my emotional response. Dad’s picture with me finished it.
So, I gathered some family photos for my kids and grandkids so they can see the humble places from which we come and discover that what is good about the good ol’ days are the people who were there.