A Marlboro Weekend

The last two days have been wonderful memory making moments for me. Friday evening I took my youngest son deer hunting. He has been wanting to use his bow to kill a deer for a long time. After work I rushed home and we headed off for the woods until dark. We didn't see any deer, but we came across some fresh tracks on our way out, telling us they somehow ran around behind us. Either way, it was a good time.

Yesterday (Saturday) the whole family attended the Fishing and Hunting Expo put on by the NC Wildlife Resources Commission. We sampled some wonderful outdoor cooking, watched "real" mountain men start fire with a stick, did some simulated duck hunting, and tied some flies to hopefully catch some trout on someday. The whole family had a great time.

Yesterday evening, my oldest son and I went dove hunting. We had discovered a secluded field on some public game land that appears to never be used. We've hunted it before with success. The difference in this trip was I brought along a gun as well. When we first arrived, two large flocks flew out of the field. We took positions on either side of the field and walked parallel lines up the field, hoping to flush any stragglers left behind. Right before three birds flushed immediately in front of me, I remember thinking, "This is the stuff great magazine articles are made of."

Allowing the Hallmark-made-for-tv-movie side to show a bit, I really did think how great the weekend had been. Perhaps it is a bit stereotypical, but a dad and his sons out hunting are great memories. It's part of making my boys junior Marlboro men. I was doing something I enjoy. They were doing something they enjoy. We were are enjoying God's creation. And we were doing together.

I also couldn't help but think that sometimes God feels this way. Whenever we are doing some that we really enjoy and we are doing it for his glory, he has to enjoy being part of it. Weekends like this help me appreciate my relationship with my heavenly father. When I think about my relationship with him it also helps me enjoy my relationship with my children even more. It makes me want to do more things with both God and my children.

Just a thought

If I Had a Hammer

I have a hammer that is of immeasurable value to me. There's nothing particularly fancy about it. Just a standard hammer with a soft rubber like grip of some sort on the handle. It's covered with paint and caulking. The hammer is at least forty years old. It belonged to my great-grandfather, Poppy.

I once thought I had lost that hammer. I nearly instantaneously vomited at the thought. That's how much it means to me. Someone needed to borrow a hammer one time. Luckily they said, "Do you have a hammer I can borrow?" instead of "Can I borrow your hammer?" I was able to answer truthfully and without selfish guilt, "Sorry. I don't have a hammer you can borrow."

I'm not a carpenter. Just your average family handyman. I use that hammer for all my hammering needs. Occasionally I will use one of my kids' hammers if I need something light because of the nature of the job. I once used a hammer in the toolbox I keep in my wife's car for emergencies. It just didn't feel right. I have Poppy's hammer and it works great.

Poppy was a boat builder. He built wooden boats the old fashioned way in his backyard (which was my front yard). He even lost two of his fingers doing it. So the hammer is a sacred relic that connects me to my coastal heritage which has no contemporary manifestation. Sometimes I can hold that hammer and I swear that I can smell the sawdust as Poppy cuts and planes those juniper planks. I smell the paint and varnish used to help keep barnacles from growing on the bottom once the boat was put overboard. I can even smell his sweat and the sweet smell of Red Man on his breath.

Sometimes I hold that hammer and I think of Poppy's celebrity. The big town newspaper from Raleigh, The News & Observer, did a couple of stories on him before he died and his dying vocation of boat building. (I was even in one of those. I'm the cute four year old sitting on the bow of the boat.) He was in a book written by a journalist who traveled down the Intracoastal Waterway by boat. Somehow, this guy ended up on Harkers Island and met Poppy. There was even a picture of him in the NC History textbook used by many of the elementary schools in our state with a caption referring to his use of natural resources. When that book came to the schools back home, it generated quite a buzz.

I think a lot of just who Poppy was. Even though he died thirty-two years ago, there are still quite a few people back home who are old enough to remember him. And every single one of them have nothing but respect and good things to say about Mr. Stacy.

Right after I graduated from college, my father gave me Poppy's hammer. He gave it to me in part because I simply needed a hammer and had no tools to speak of. But he also gave it to me as an exercise of trust. He made me keeper of the flame. I'll never forget his words. They were few and simple. "This is Poppy's hammer. Don't lose it." and that was it. We both knew nothing else need be said.

Last fall I sorted through my deceased father's tools. My boys called him Poppy. My Poppy and their Poppy had a lot of similar character traits. My dad was an civilian aircraft mechanic at a Marine Air Station. I took some old ratchets and sockets and divided them up into two groups. At Christmas, I gave each one of my boys a set. I gave them these simple words. "These were Poppy's. Don't lose them."

Some things are too important to not pass on. Faith, character, and values are at the top of the list. Poppy passed all these along to my father, who passed them to me. Hammers and other tools follow close behind in importance. Arlo Guthrie (no relation, but quite interestingly an appropriate reference) sang, "If I had a hammer, I'd hammer all over this land." Well, I've got a hammer. I intend to use it everywhere I go.

Just like my Father

Yes, I know, tomorrow is Mother's Day. So why am I writing about my father? Because I like to be non-conformist sometimes. I'm a closet revolutionary. I don't like doing stuff just becuase everyone else does. But that's not why I'm posting.

I'm sitting here in my office burning CD's I promised some kids. As I was writing the title on each one with a Sharpie from my hidden stash, I stopped and thought to myself, "I recognize that handwriting." Before you begin wondering about my mental soundness let me get to the point. It's my dad's handwriting. Frequently when I jot something down, I realize that our handwriting samples would almost be indistinguishable. Especially when I sign my name. What I find so hilarious is that growing up he used to give me so much grief about the neatness (or lack thereof) of my penmanship. Then one day I made him compare the two. He stopped.

How did this happen? To my recollection, there was never a time in my life when my father sat down with me and said, "Here's how you should write . . ." Yet our handwriting is almost the same. It must be some weird genetic thing. I wonder if some biotech company out there could isolate which gene caused this.

There's a bunch of other things in me that I hope are like my father. And I hope I pass them to my boys. I hope that one day there are sitting somewhere and say, "OMIGOSH! I'm just like Dad" and without them realizing they are really like their Poppy. One of them already is in some ways. I'm hoping to break him of that ;-)

In my faith journey, there are people who have influenced me and I hope some of their traits show up in my life. I pray that I can in turn pass those along to others as well. That's why it is so important to never journey alone.

Sorry Mom, but these are my thoughts for tonight. I promise to give you top billing on Father's Day. Just a thought.

Real Love

Valentine's Day is in two days. If you've not done so yet, make sure you go out and buy something special for the one you love. Two weeks from tomorrow, Feb 27, will the two year anniversary of my father's death. As we get ready to celebrate a day of love, here are some thoughts on my father's love.

I'll never forget the first time I realized how much my father loved me and how much he was willing to sacrifice for me. I was around eight years old. It didn't come in the form of a gift, a hug, or even in the words, "I love you." It didn't occur to me as some sweet "A-ha" when he came to my Little League baseball game. It happened across the street from our house, down at the shore. It was summer time. We walked down to the shore where our boat was moored. By the way, we call it "the landing" back home. We would always go down several times a week, just to check up on the boat - check the batteries, bail out any rain water, knock off some barnacles.

On this particular day, the tide was low. While my father worked on the boat and my little sister played on the shore, I walked around on the shoals that were exposed by the low tide. There was so much to do as I wandered along those microcosms of life. I'd find sand dollars and watch them bury themselves to get away from me. Sometimes a sea horse or even a baby sand shark would be stranded in a tidal pool. Most of the time I would dig up clams, look for conchs, or just sit around eating raw scallops.

On this day, I was playing around in one of those tidal pools when I raked my foot across a jackknife clam. It "slit my foot wide open", as we used to say. The water turned bright red in a hurry. I guess I gave one of those screams that every parent recognizes - the one that indicates REAL pain or trouble, not just frustration or anger. My dad jumped out of the boat and ran over to me.

To stop the bleeding, he pulled his shirt off and wrapped it around my foot. As he did so, I distinctly remember thinking, "Wow! He is using his shirt. He will never be able to wear this shirt again. He is willing to sacrifice this for me." That may not seem like a big deal, but to an eight year old kid, it was pretty big. Then, he threw me up on his shoulders and carried me home while my sister walked beside us.

I don't remember anything else that happened that day. I probably got rushed to the emergency room for my yearly tetanus shot. I got quite a few of those as a kid. But I'll never forget the feeling of my father's love, a shirt wrapped around my bleeding foot.

Interestingly, as I finished writing this story, I am reminded of another son who bled, but his father chose to watch because of the greater love he felt for us. Something to think about, isn't it.