Family Values

In times like these, my thoughts go back to the world and the ways of Grandpa John

An aside:

Needless to say, I complimented my friend on his uncanny wisdom and suggested he send a note to Jerry Falwell, who would be happy to receive such clarifying input on this hot topic.

But seriously, folks, if I had coined the term family values, it would have been to denote qualities of character of someone in my family I most wished to emulate.  Or someone whose positive qualities I hoped might rub off on me.  The man in my family who most embodied the virtues and values of my ideal person was undoubtedly my grandfather, John Mills.

Note  -  None of this is to diminish the role of my own mom and pop in keeping me on the straight and narrow; they're both highly admirable value-wise, too.  But parents are, you know, parents, people you don't have any real choice about.

Actually, John was a step-grandpa, who married my father's mom at a time when polite society judged divorcées as tarnished goods (sometime in the 1930s).  The big war came along, WWII, after which my dad came home to do his part, with my mom, for the Baby Boom.  Growing up in the Midwest "Leave it to Beaver" 50s, I would see grandma and grandpa once or twice a year.  They lived in the Chicago area; we dwelt near Kansas City.

Unless one is a precocious (exceptionally bright) child, one doesn't discover eternal enduring truths about one's relatives until well into one's teens… or sometimes well into one's fifties.  :)  I was not a precocious child.  To me, this set of grandparents represented mainly a source of copious gifting and extended sugar highs—Grandma made multiple tins of delicious Christmas cookies, year-round.

In the 8-12 year-old timeframe, I saw Gramps was becoming a trifle embarrassed by these superficialities showered on my brother and me.  He wasn't about to dampen his wife's grandmotherly exuberance that drove the excess, but he seemed more interested in what we were doing, who we were becoming.  Our lives were more important than these things.

Not that he ever stated it as such.  But Grandpa was the rare nonparental relative who bothered to ask me questions.  Then, listened.  Not just, "Would you like some more ice cream?" or "Would you please quit hitting your brother?"  But why did I like baseball so much, how did I get so good at it, was I aware of some of its history, I seem to like to read a lot, what kind of books am I reading, and so on.

Of small-to-average stature, Grandpa John had the granite strength of a cornerback.  As I got bigger and stronger, he'd shake my hand with a smiling challenge, gently but firmly testing my strength.  I'd put up a spirited, youthful battle, but his vice grip was a force of nature.  (You know those obnoxious guys who get their jollies from unexpected bonecrushing handshakes?  They should all have to try their mean little pranks on Grandpa!)

When I was 13 or so, Grandpa retired and they moved into the southeastern Missouri mountains.  On one visit there, he drove my brother and me to a celebrated local public works project, a dam I believe, where they were giving tours.  Missouri mountain roads made me queasy, and neither of us kids was in a particularly positive frame of mind that morning.

Grandpa bounds out of the car, excited as a boy at a picnic.  He tries to cheer us up, saying, "C'mon, guys, this is gonna be great.  We get to take in this marvelous sight.  Look at all these people.  We're going to have the chance to talk with a lot of interesting new people, today, get to know them.  What a thrill.  And it doesn't cost a cent."

I swear.  Here's a grown man actually getting a charge from talking to perfect strangers!  Even though I was a gregarious enough kid, it would never occur to me to seek conversation with unfamiliar folks, much less try to derive enjoyment from it.  It did not compute.

My mom adored John, for the same reasons I began to see how special he was.  He was a man's man.  And he was a man women were delighted to be around… because he made everyone feel special.  The situation, though, was awkward for dialog between Grandpa and other adult company when Grandma was within hailing frequency.  It is fair to say Gram, though truly loving, was overwhelmingly needy, also extremely jealous of John's attention.

Gram was also a Chatty Cathy, seldom letting someone else's conversation go by without intrusion or leaving a silence to carry on in blessed peace.  What a contrast in styles.  In my late-teen Ayn Rand years, as I was learning to give up the ghost, Grandma, when we visited, would pester me to cleave to the Jesus road.  I'd try to explain, but her hyperkineticism left no room for input; I could not complete a sentence, much less a paragraph.

Grandpa, on the other hand, totally respected what you were thinking, so long as it was clearly formed from your own thoughtful judgment.  He would listen patiently, maybe ask an occasional question, impart a word of wisdom.  He believed in "God"—atheism was against the law in Missouri :)—but he never abdicated the responsibility of practical reason.

To love is to understand.  I recall back on a Chicago visit by myself when I'm 10, we all hustle off to church where Gram makes a Hollywood production out of me to the faithful.  Not being particularly shy, I still remember wanting to crawl away and disappear.  Grandpa puts his hand on my shoulder, says a few comforting words, shields me the best he can, tries to make it a more normal, casual, shortlived event.

He understood, therefore he sympathized, therefore he cared—especially for children.  The embodiment of family values, yes?  He is today my model for love trumping anger.

He taught me to drive a stick shift, on their old VW beetle.  In fact, on a learner's permit, I'm driving a winding mountain road with him, coming up a rise, when a semi appears in my lane directly in front of my windshield.  Yikes!  I react quickly without thinking, moving to the shoulder.  We were both incredibly calm afterward, realizing we had dodged a bullet from the Grim Reaper, thanks to pure luck and the Missouri Highway Commission (who'd inexplicably seen fit to build a shoulder on this remote trail).

A few years later the Grim Reaper finally took Grandpa away with a heart condition.  They found gold in there.  Grandpa John: An iron grasp with an agile mind and a heart of gold.

A fitting epitaph to a man with all the family values one could hope for.