One day long ago I thought my hero died.
I've had other heroes since, but they've only reigned over certain arenas of life such as music, ministry, literature, or sports. I admired and looked to them for their skill, talent and gifting. They inspired me to strive to be better in my character or craft. Some of them I've known personally and others wouldn't know me from a knot in a log. But, there is one who stands shining over them all, and barely a day goes by without his examples and teaching bubbling to the surface of my decisions, actions, or exploits. I'm amazed at how much life my hero packed into the 10 years he guided my growing little life, as if he knew his time was short.
My father died nearly 46 years ago, and his hand-prints are still plainly visible in my life. A couple of those are on my butt, if you get my drift. My prayer is to have even half as profound of effect on my children and grandchildren as he had on me. I could then say my life was well lived.
This all came screeching to the forefront of my mind as I sat at a funeral for the wife of an acquaintance. As children, relatives, and friends told of her well lived life, a very selfless existence, memories, fresh as the morning filled my mind.
My earliest memory of being coached by my dad was the ordeal of peeing out of the car in a driving rainstorm in Europe somewhere, I was three or four years old. As I got older, he taught me the more noble art of growing vegetables, I had my own plot and would sell the produce to the neighbors. How many lessons in commerce, responsibility, and hard work grew in that little garden? I still recall Dad explaining the mystery of black spots showing up on the leaves of my plants, charcoal in the soil, and how he taught me to graft plants onto one another. Today I can't recall the particular plants, but I know I tried it with many of mine. I was probably eight years old. Today I'm not a very good gardener, but there were more important lessons I learned in that backyard plot.
I can't pick up a baseball or basketball, which is seldom today, without hearing his bits of advice in my ear. He also single-handedly corrected my pigeon-toed feet by simply and kindly reminding me not to walk like that.
A minor lesson in courage happened on one of our spontaneous fishing trips to the Newport Beach Pier. I caught a huge crab, a monster by seven or eight year old standards, and I was awed by its fearsome claws.
"It's not as scary as it looks," said Dad. "Put your finger in the pincers and see."
I said a fearful, "No," and Dad exerted the mild pressure it took to get me to do anything and had me put my finger in the claw. He was right. Just a little pinch, teaching me that most things are more fierce in appearance than they are in reality. I knew I would do anything my dad asked me to do and defiant no's were inconceivable.
A much larger lesson came on the day I ran home crying, away from a bully that was a head taller and two years older than I. Up until the moment Dad stood me in front of Dale Rudd, I fully expected him to take care of the menace. It ended up looking more like a dance than a fight. Lesson learned- I could never back down from a threat, the slightest temptation to do so would set me to thinking of Dad as if he was standing next to me.
Dad and I built a slot car track out in the garage. It was on a large board with pulleys that could be pulled up to the rafters and out of the way. How many individual lessons about simple things such as tools and more complex things like patience and persistence did that project teach?
I remember going to work with Dad during summer vacations. Eating lunch with him and his coworkers made me feel much older than my seven years. I spent the day catching frogs while he worked in the park. He was retired from 27 years in the Army and now worked for the Santa Ana Parks Department. Once I took the frogs home in Chinese food containers and they all disappeared in the car on the way home, they were small but not minute. We never did find them.
These are just some of my life's treasures, but most of all he taught me to be kind. It showed in everything he did. He never explained, it was just part of who he was. You could be sure not to mistake his kindness for timidity or weakness, for he was never afraid to stand up for himself or a victim of another's abuse. He also had some very strong views on world affairs that wouldn't be very user friendly today.
His kindness was his standout trait though. On a ride in the car, back in the days when a family outing could be to simply drive around, he accidentally hit and killed a small wiener dog. I remember sitting in the car with Mom as he took that dead dog through the neighborhood looking for the owners so he could tell them he was sorry.
If I am half as kind and compassionate as Ellmore Houghton Matheson, I'm good.
I bitterly remember not being allowed to visit my dad in the hospital where he died. I was too young. The last time I physically saw my dad was when the paramedics forced him to ride the gurney downstairs. I remember his remonstrations. I talked to him every day on the phone fully expecting him to come home until I came home from school one day to a gray room and a tearful mom.
"Come sit here Mikey"
The day of his funeral is as clear as yesterday. I was 10-1/2 years old. No son should have to bury his father. Unfortunately, it happens much too often in this violent disease prone world.
Our immediate family was seated in a separate part of the chapel, box seating if you will. From there I could see the profile of his face sticking out of the casket. I was crying the tears of real grief and growing old alone. Standing out most clearly to me is the part of the service when everyone wishing to say goodbye or pay some form of respect was urged to file past the open casket of my slain hero.
I refused to be part of that horrific parade. My great grandma Gran kissed him. More than one well meaning relative strongly encouraged me to view the corpse of my hero.
I wouldn't do it.
I resolutely refused their request. I didn't throw a screaming fit, and I didn't get angry, not at them anyway. After all, they had nothing to do with his death.
I wasn't scared to view the body. I just didn't want to see my hero like that. To me he was superman, strong and loved me. He had the answer to every question. How could he do that from that box?
Today he is just as strong if not stronger, and now 46 years down the road the seeds he planted in the first decade of my life have borne much fruit.
My hero died but he still lives on in nearly every breath, decision and exploit.
