I spent some time this morning backing up some old posts I have on that other blog site before I close it down. I found this-a post about my grandfather. Re-reading it made me realize how much I miss that old man.
I never really had what you call a father image, but I had my Grandpa Jack. I doubt he ever knew just how much he meant to me.
Love you Grandpa Jack-we will go fishing soon.
I hope you don’t mind me posting this again.



When my grand father died many years ago a bunch of his old buddies came to the funeral. Some of these old men I had known most of my life, they had helped to teach me how to hunt and fish. They had showed me how to sneak up on a deer and tickle a trout and most of all they helped to teach a young boy about manhood.
One this cold fall day they had gathered to say good-bye to an old friend, some one they had known, a man they respected and loved. They had been in business with him, they had gone hunting and fishing with him and had spent long hours discussing just about everything while sitting in front of the fire with a glass of 7 Crown in hand.
They were paying their last respects. That was important, it was what you did, that’s all- it was what you did. And you knew they would do it for you.
Since there hadn't been time for them to set up a proper wake a couple of them had shown up with a bottle or two. They wanted Jack to get the proper send off, they needed to have a shot or two and tell “Down River Jack” stories.
Somehow before the funeral started a silent signal was given and they all made their way to the parking area behind the funeral home. There were no women involved, this was a male rite of passage, wives and daughters were left inside to console the widow and Jacks family over coffee and tea. They needed stronger stuff to say their goodbyes. A couple of them made sure that I was brought along, introducing me as Jacks grandkid to the ones that didn’t know me thus giving me temporary admittance to this society of men.
As we stood there a bottle of whiskey was passed and we all took a drink, maybe two and passed it along. Tongues began to loosen and stories began to be told, many of them aimed at me.
A lot of them seem to begin with “ You know kid your grandfather was a hell of a man, I remember the time he and I……………” or “Do you guys remember the time Jack-Kid you must have been 4 or 5 at the time” and a another tale would begin. Some were tall, some were funny and a few were sad, but they were about Jack Calkins the man. I knew about Grandpa Jack, but I didn’t know Jack the man and these old friends were making sure that I learned how special and respected he was. Oh they told stories about his faults, he loved a pretty girl and a drink or two and was known to partake in either when the opportunity arose, but he was an honest man, a man whose word was his bond. He was a man who did what was right and let the chips fall where they may-no apology’s.
And then the whiskey was gone and the stories faded. We stood there in the cold and shuffled our feet and looked at each till somebody’s wife called us all in.
We took Jack Calkins and buried him and I didn’t cry.
These old men, these old friends of his had given me my grandfather. I had learned how much of him I was, so you see he hadn’t really died- his life had been passed to me.
30 some years later I still miss and think of my grandfather often, and I still thank those old men for letting me know him.
It does take a village to raise a child--its just to damm bad we all live in big cities now.


See ya