A Custom-Built Family Man

I am always in awe of the beautiful creations that are skillfully assembled out of a simple pile of wood; that an ordinary piece of timber can be cut, sanded and molded together with other pieces to form something so sound and magnificent.

As I pulled up to my father’s shop this cold February Saturday afternoon to take a look at a piece of furniture he was making for us to go in our bedroom, I was so grateful I had a father who had such a talent. I was equally as grateful that I was able to benefit from such a talent. My mind was racing ahead to the idea of having this piece in place in my home and how wonderful it was going to be.

Chet and I walked up to the door through the melting snow and opened it to the sound of Creedence Clearwater playing in the background. I breathed in the smell of freshly ripped lumber mixed with lacquer. Dad appeared from behind a massive structure that at first did not occur to me was the object of our visit there that day. Upon further examination, I was stunned at the sheer size of it. I walked over to get a closer look. I marveled at how different and beautiful the wood looked from its original state. The grain distinctly stood out to me and Dad explained that it marked the hard and soft variations in the wood. I watched as he lightly rubbed his finger across the face of a panel door. “I don’t know if you can feel that?” He questioned. As I followed his actions, I felt the subtle contrast under my fingers.

I find it very fitting that if you look up the word “man” in the dictionary, you find several different meanings. One definition reads, “to strengthen, fortify or brace”. As I observed the features of Dad’s face, topped with thick brown hair and surrounding deep brown eyes, I noticed the character that time has imprinted on him. It was strikingly similar to the grain on the material he has worked with for so many years.

I reflect back to the numerous occasions as a little “tom-boy”, desperate to spend any moment I could with Dad. Looking forward to the short trek down the horse pasture in the summer for him to irrigate and for me to fill my jacket pockets with water snakes, water skippers and, if I were so lucky, an unguarded frog; appreciating the time alone together in our 1980 root beer-colored Ford truck on our way to and from an occasional hunt for pheasants or rock chucks; sitting and waiting in that same truck, munching on kippered snacks and crackers, eager for him to surface over the horizon's snowy peak, our newly chopped Christmas tree following close behind; patiently lurking behind a king-size snow fort with my sisters for a suspecting dad to drive up so we could pummel him with a mound of formerly prepared snowballs; or listening intently to the proper way to gut and scale a freshly-caught trout.

His has been a lifetime filled with strengthening and fortifying his family. Each line in his face representing the hard work realized over the years and a soft and compassionate heart so familiar to those who know him best. I watched as the evidence of bracing life’s blows was pronounced in every step that he took and was filled with an overwhelming sense of love and gratitude for the man who stood before me.

Life has beaten and broken his body but sanded and molded his spirit into something so sound and magnificent. This is a custom-built family man.