There is a man who lives in my memory wearing long sleeves and long pants in the sweltering heat of Wisconsin summer just so he can pick blackcaps before the bear get a chance. He stows his bounty in a little coffee can holder he fashioned himself. He returns home and makes a blackcap something (was it sauce? jam? syrup?) to put up and store on metal shelves in the basement. He's a man who's known for growing plump ripe tomatoes and bushes of beans. He's been on wild gooseberry chases and the occasional 'cooned corn adventure.
This man can make something from nothing better than anyone I know. He uses scraps of this and bits of that to make wood stoves, rope makers, snowshoes, Christmas mantels and ice fishing houses. He views objects differently than the rest of the world. Dreaming up plans and making them reality. He has been green long before green became the new black. Perhaps growing up in a logging family with 6 boys and 6 girls forces a man to be resourceful. Necessity is the mother of invention.
Rolling a sleeping bag tight and a tent tighter--it will fit in its bag if you do it right-- climbing hills with a pack on my back just for fun, making foil meals (cooked both indoors and out) and loving the feel of earth as my pillow are skills that he passed down to me. He also taught me to be loyal and proud and honest, and trustworthy and reverent. He did not teach me how to read a compass.
Standing up for myself. Believing in myself. Honoring myself. Love. Dedication. Doing onto others as I would have them do onto me. Helping when someone is in need. No strings attached. These were things I learned from watching this man.
He has hands of steal, a voice like thunder, and a heart of soft flannel. He wears black socks with old cut-offs, has salt-n-pepper hair (hold the pepper) and laughter in his eyes. Calm. Brave. Stern. A survivor with chicken cooking on the grill.
Cutting wood in the summer time to keep us in shorts during the winter months. Hand split logs pushed down a self built wood shoot. Stacked nice and tight. The sound of metal on metal as one more log is added for the night.
A comedian, laughing so hard at his own jokes that you have no idea what he is talking about. A teller of anecdote about the one that got away, snipe hunts, of fish that were this big and snapping turtle soup. Tales of men with names like Spoon, and Ol' Grandpa and many other names I can not recall. Changes in volume and tone always present to illustrate different characters. Gestures bringing the story to life. A performer. A dancer in his own mind--generously passing sly moves down to one of his offspring's offspring (thank goodness the girl gets her dance skills from me).
Fetcher of salty french fries and raspberry shakes when I have a scratchy throat. Fixer of car mirrors when the garage decides to take them off. Oil changer. Gas can getter. Protector. Kisses and hugs good night.
Grease stained fingernails. The smell of car parts. A black plastic comb in his pocket for combing hair forward after taking off his hard had. Green work shirts and pants. Black metal hing topped lunch box with salt and pepper shaker for hard boiled eggs. The ever present scent of sandwich cookies. Leaving in a little car, a red truck with a white stripe, a little yellow truck returning all covered in saw dust.
There are so many more memories that I earned while growing up in the presence of this man. I can never thank him enough for giving me a strong foundation to grow on. I can never thank him enough for being instrumental in helping me become who I am today. I'm hoping that a simple "Thanks Dad" says enough.
Dedicated to Roger Gene Larson
Let's make some more memories, Dad.
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