The Legacy of Manhood

Below is a letter I wrote to my Grandfather on his 80th birthday. Today I'm submitting the letter to The Perfect Gift for a Man, a result of ManWeek.

Dear Grandpa,

What can I say to someone who has lived four times as long as myself? I’ll tell you my first impressions of you. I’ll hold a mirror for you to see what a young boy sees in your towering figure. You were scary and cuddly. That’s probably the best way to describe it and you gave several distinct lessons without words to my young and impressionable mind:
• cooking food is a sacred experience;
• being open and hospitable to strangers is a rewarding experience;
• special events are worth hours, nay months of preparation;
• story telling is an art form worthy of honour and untold respect;
• music’s voice is not heard but felt.

Let me expound:
Food was always exciting at your house. Most of the time Grandma would painstakingly show us how to kneed dough, preserve fruit, cut apples, mix spices, roll piecrusts and bake and cook all manner of food. When you took to the kitchen, all manner of fidgeting children were expelled for Grandfather to brood and simmer and cook. Anything with that amount of energy and emotion invested must command respect.

Hospitality was a way of life. I’ve had many strangers approach and ask the lineage of my last name and then proceed to tell me they have eaten in your house. Their recounting is accompanied by wistful and longing looks as they describe their experiences. You always made extra food and there was always someone there to eat it. You gave more than you received and I respect that.

Events, particularly, Christmas. So worth attending that most years we would drive around 13 hours from California to Washington for a few days visit. My parents enduring profoundly bored children and we, my sister Angie and I, enduring it all for Christmas.
Having grown up in the woods you knew the best specimen of tree (not the inferior farmed trees seen today) with the aroma and look alone to fill mind and soul with a great fantastical holiday feeling. Then your pain-staking decoration with each tinsel strand placed singly on its own until the tree was sparkling. The decorations carefully collected over decades each with a story granting mystical powers over the mind and the lights placed ever so perfectly.

The tree combined with food and hospitality set the stage for Christmas Eve. A parade of Christmas gifts to the tinkling and jangling of sleigh bells. Young and old participated as equals. Starting from the youngest, at times not quite steady on feet, we would signal with bells for all to shut eyes which gave us freedom to manoeuvre our child bodies around the room placing gifts under the tree. The bell gave us control. We were important, we could take away everyone’s sight as long as we rang those bells. And then we would stop… the adoration and excitement expressed in “Ooohs” and “Aaahs” was thrilling. Christmas was a group effort. We all had to play our part. Then Santa would come, reindeer on the roof with hooves clopping and the scrapping of antlers. The HO HOing first outside, then inside with magnificent rustling and jostling of packages and, finally, then all was quiet. Not a creature stirring, not even a mouse. Then in the morning, there were all manner of delays like waiting for you to shave before we could proceed to the mountain of Christmas loot. There were always a few items left unwrapped, creating wonder as to whom they belonged. And the smell of coffee and the taste of candy… a perfect day.

Story telling is in your genes, the heritage in the name: LeBard. Let me try and pinpoint what you give to stories. You build expectation with fear of a betrayal in the story line often with an inbuilt moral. Like the time my father was walking on the path ahead of you and the family and you shouted “STOP”. We all thought, how controlling, how unreasonable, why? “JUMP TO YOUR LEFT”. And he does it, “NOW TAKE TWO STEPS BACK” and he does that too. In the end we find you stopped him from stepping on a rattlesnake that he didn’t see. Not only were the stories so intriguing, but your voice and manner all contributed. You could hear a pin drop in the rooms while you spoke. And if there wasn’t quiet, you were the loudest. By the way, your signature “boy you better listen to me” look is very effective. Piercing eye tilted, slight preference to one side, face stern as rock, almost vibrating with intensity and lips thinly drawn. No doubt perfected through years of teaching and serving in the military.

Music As a child I loved telling everyone I knew that you could play The Flight of the Bumble Bee on the tuba. Also, that we were somehow related to the Juilliard School and you could have taken a free scholarship. I remember your exploits with high school kids and being daring enough to teach them Handel’s Messiah and having the skill, fortitude, strength and inspiration to be very successful and then receive accolades for it. You gave me the hope that I could play music. By example you encouraged me on my ventures from singing in the high school choir, to playing the trumpet and French horn in the band. As well as later, learning to drum in a band with my friends, which formed strong relationships that last to this day.

You are a building block in my life. You’re a scholar and a poet and tough as nails. I love you.