It was hard to not feel like a bit of an ass when, after trading phone calls disrupted by the relentless wind that perpetually haunts the coast here, Gena's hair dryer, and our general luck of never seeming to have a clear phone connection to talk through, Gena said off-handedly, "Well, I called my dad today, for you know..."
"For what?" I asked, immediately feeling like there was something I had missed.
"It's Father's Day." She laughed at me, already knowing my answer to her question, "Haven't you called your dad?"
Well shit. "No, I guess I should."
"You think I should get him something? From both of us?"
"Yeah, that'd be good."
"I was thinking of just getting him some beer."
I smiled, "Yeah, that sounds good."
So, calling my dad is on my list of things to do today, and I must say, it's probably the only thing on that list that doesn't feel like an obligation. Not that I worry it's going to hurt his feelings if I dont, we talk regularly enough, in fact, he's probably more up to date on my life and times here than just about anyone.
As I finished the mile and a half hike into town, and well into my exquisitely delicious breakfast at Clayton's, I fell into an on-going contemplation on a topic which I have wanted to write about for some time. Its basis was forged in the reading of David Gemmell's Sword in the Storm, followed by my own writing of a short story I titled Beautiful World, and my own aspirations and thoughts on what makes not only a good man, but a good father, and a good mentor. This idea, I've come to define as The Big Man.
David Gemmell's original Big Man was his character, Ruathain. A hulking celtic warrior who took it upon himself to raise his dead best friend's son, and rear him to unstoppable, uncontrollable, hell-raising manhood. Ruathain was a collossus of tempered fury on the battlefield, a virtual well of wisdom in terms of everything involving the pursuit of manhood, a loving father, and a devoted husband. Everyone, including his own wife, referred to him as The Big Man. It was a moment in both my emotional and literary growth that found root in my subconscious, and has since grown into one of the absolutes in my firm set of beliefs. Everyone needs a Big Man, and all men should strive to be one.
My own iconic image of The Big Man centers, as most of my masculine ideals do, on John Wayne. Growing up, he was my ultimate fictional hero, and still is, only he has some company now. When I think of The Big Man, I picture John Wayne, standing with his back to me on some hill, a campfire before him, silouetting his massive frame, head half turned enough to see his profile, a cigarette dangling from his weathered lips, cowboy hat pulled low, jacket collar pulled up high, his enormous hands buried in his pockets. What he is contemplating, I'm not sure, but I know it to be a myriad of things; the world beyond and what it offers, some lost love waiting for him beyond the horizon, the men out there who need a good ass kicking, and me, standing anxiously behind him. He half turns towards me as if to ask, So...you gonna saddle up with me?
Growing up, I was surrouned by proverbial Big Men, both literally (my dad is the shortest of the men in his family by a few inches, and he's a solid six feet), and figuratively. My grandfather is an enormous man, a college basketball star, a football and basketball powerhouse in the Army, and well into his adult life, lived about as hard as a man could live...starting his days at dawn, working all day in a solid manly job at a brewery, and partied his nights away, all the while being a good enough dad to raise three sons with good, tough heads on their shoulders. His larger than life presence and hulking frame are exceeded only by his ability to weave a good yarn. He's proud of himself, and he's proud of the things he's done, and he'll talk your ear off if you let him. At my sister's graduation, he held all of my friends in near rapture as he recounted the legends and lessons he's gathered in his life. He'll at once tell you a story so near to a tall-tale that you're sure he's pumping himself up for you, and end it with a self depreciating anecdote that lets you know he's a man who both takes himself none too seriously, but has a strong sense of self identity and humility. He's the original Big Man of my family, and conveniently bears a strong resemblance to John Wayne. There's little wonder as to why he was my hero growing up.
My uncles and dad are three guys that simply couldn't be more diverse in terms of interests and directions of life. My uncle Mike is a virtual template of all things manly. He's huge, with shoulders nearly as wide as he is tall, works twelve to fourteen hour days as an independent contracter, where throughout his career, he has worked almost entirely alone. When he's not building houses, he's out on a horse hunting. Growing up, he was almost unapproachable simply because he was so obviously many of the things I was not. I had no knowledge of wood, horses, or guns, and he wore cowboy boots at all times. In my eyes, he was the last living cowboy...and judging by the way he watches Lonesome Dove alone in the dark seemingly once a week, he'd give everything in his life to be just that. My dad has often said Mike was born in the wrong century, and I whole heartedly agree. He'd be much more at home living the life of a Texas Ranger in the Old West, living off what his horse and gun could provide him.
My dad was the direct opposite of Mike growing up. Books and games of strategy were his world, and thank god, because if not for him, I'd be quite a boring person. But despite his bookworm personality, he was a pretty solid athlete. Tough as nails as a wrestler, actually. When I hear his stories of what he would do to make weight, running around the gym in full sweats while everyone else enjoyed lunch, I know that at his age, I would never have had the self discipline to do that. In fact, I know it for a fact. I tried wrestling. It was miserable. Being good at wrestling requires a good deal of self control and self reliance. To face off against another person, one on one, with no teammates to rely on is pretty intense. I was much more comfortable on the football field, where if I made a mistake at defensive end, there was hopefully a hard nosed linebacker coming through to fix it. Nonetheless, there are many laughs and smiles at family gatherings when stories of my dad going fishing with Mike, and spending the time reading a book, most of the time not even bothering to put bait on his line.
My Uncle Dave, the youngest of the brothers, was a late bloomer. He was well under six feet tall up to the point of graduating high school, and then managed to explode up to a solid 6'4. He became a powerhouse of a volleyball player in college, and has continued to work out until his legs were the size of tree trunks. Being the youngest, he seemed to model himself off both his brothers equally. He's a die hard fisherman, nearly out-reads my dad (which I've found to be impossible, no matter how hard I try), taught himself carpentry, and is a school principle. I can only imagine how hulking and intimidating he must be if you are to fuck up in his school. The men in my family share a glare that can make your blood run cold (which they got from my grandmother, who is still one of the more formidable people I've ever met).
I've grown up in a family of Big Men. Big Men who are to a tee, almost entirely ruled by their wives...and I'm proud to say I've mostly followed suit. Whether intentionally or not, all of them have raised kids who are mentally tough, independent, and very aware of themselves and their identities...although, I'm probably a bit of a wild card, as I change identities like a girl changes clothes. Nonetheless, I'd still say that I've got my bearings on who I am better than most people.
Which brings me in the end, to a full appreciation of who my dad is, and the way he's raised me and my siblings. Despite working heavily most of his life, I was never short on "Dad Time". He brought me into his worlds of fantasy games and books, and his appreciation for a good war movie. I met all my fictional heroes and phillosophies through my dad, and learned a healthy respect for war and the men who fight it. Whether he meant to or not, he firmly established my desire and need to be a fighter, and as I managed to butt heads with nearly every person who ever saw things anything but my way through life, he's been a tireless mentor to me, acting as both a sounding board, and as a brick wall when I needed it.
He is, in all actuality, the toughest man I know. It started with something as simple as working two jobs to put both him and my mom through college, to when his at the time, best friend and boss hired someone else for a position my dad would have owned, he said fuck off, and moved us all to Ohio to start his own compnay. With some of the monumental set backs he's had the misfortune to befall him, I've never seen him waver in his beliefs or ability to maintain his place in our family as a fixture of solidarity. He has always provided a feeling of security in our family, and while being a shrewd businessman, has never wavered in taking his own calculated risks which most people would not dare to attempt financially. The times I've heard him raise his voice to a yell are few and far between, yet I've also found myself in his iron grip when I've crossed whatever lines he has placed. As I've grown into adulthood, I find myself appreciating more and more what kind of man he is. He's one of the few good men left, who will offer you sage advice while also never daring to tell you how to live your life. Whether it's in Joel's clear-charted course of financial success and well being, or my own wild escapes into the world of adventure and death-defiance, he's our most trusted mentor, and I know that to my sister, he is her ultimate guardian. Toughness is not something my dad portrays, it's something he silently carries and has demonstrated time and time again, and I feel that through him, I've found my own center of power. I hope that I too can face down all the demons of life as competantly as he has.
So, happy Father's Day, Dad. You're a Big Man.
