“You have to be what you are. Whatever you are, you gotta be it.” –Johnny Cash
Do you ever have those moments, regardless the days, weeks, years, or even decades that something comes up from your past, and suddenly, you’ve gone full circle on a conversation or moment; and you weren’t even realizing you were on that orbit? I had one last night.
I have been slow to catch up on Ken Burns’ Country and Western Music series. Last night, Gary and I watched the installment that was about Merle Haggard, Johnny Cash and of course others. (If you have not watched this series yet, I highly recommend it. Though I have the feeling, most of you have already.) I have never been a fan of Johnny Cash, and it occurred to me last night, why. He was my Grandpa Harry’s favorite recording artist. He loved him, and growing up, I was not fond of my Grandpa Harry. There are all kinds of reasons I wasn’t fond of him, and I will spare you that—since it is not ultimately going to be my point. But what I could never figure out, as a runt, was why everyone else in his circle and our family adored him. I would hear, Harry would give you the shirt off his back. Or even if it was our last bean in the pot, there was always plenty to feed someone else. And it went on and on. But in the world of Grandpa and I, I never felt as if I was the benefactor of his goodness; I was his muse; his voodoo doll, someone one to stick it too—knowing I was not only the voodoo doll but the subject of the poke.
And so… Grandpa and I were like oil and water. I would dodge him as much as possible. But this part of this documentary piqued me and took me right to Grandpa like a moth to a light. I was intrigued by the profile of Johnny Cash. A talented man; a loving man; an open-hearted man and a troubled man; a man who carried the burden of his young family years, into his adult years; a man who had a dream and almost ruined it with addiction; yes, Johnny Cash was a troubled man, even in his most joyous moments and it was then, I saw Grandpa Harry.
Grandpa Harry, a man left to take care of his family as a youngster—a very big family too, by the way, for his Father was often ill and his Mother was mean and nasty. He gathered coal along the railroads and picked up ice that would fall out of the ice man’s carriage to sell to neighbors: it provided food for his Mama and Daddy’s family. Later, he got a job on the railroad, and in his internship to be a mechanic, he lost his eye and had to leave. He was 15, and his Mama was so upset that he left the family to make a living for she and the rest; she punished him and would not allow him the monies the railroad paid for his loss. It was then; he left his family for good. Took what siblings he could along with him and built a struggling life caring for them and welcoming others as they grew up and wanted out from their Mama’s apron strings as well. //Grandpa married my Grandmother, Iola, sometime later. He picked up a drinking habit and would go out and work during the week—he gave her no money to care for their 6 kids and her, while she had 12 pregnancies. He was a dustbowl’s bon vivant and he would come home and beat my Grandmother up on the Saturday night; and he and Grandma would get up the next morning and feed the world from their Sunday table. Everyone would come and with Grandma’s ironing money and selling canned goods from her massive garden—people would feast and then join in music.
My Grandmother, God love her, not without her own challenges in life, loved Grandpa Harry. She seemed to think it was part of being a wife, to take what was given to her—bad or good—in grace and in the Lord’s name. But she quite literally worked herself to the bone and her children paid the consequences. Oddly, as I grew up, it was Grandpa’s children who spoke so well of his generous spirit—not of their Mama’s. //Grandma and Grandpa Harry were from Sioux City Nebraska and I was not around them until they moved west many years later. And they lived with us for a time, while Grandpa found some work in the orchards to care for him and Grandma. //Grandpa wasn’t like the men I knew, when I was being raised-up. My Father, raised by women, was good humored and loving—fairly gentle for a man of that period of time. My Mother and he were madness, when it came to loving each other—meant to be together through it all and happy to do so. But Grandpa? A different sort. //My Grandfather never stopped loving my Grandmother; regardless of his cattin’ around and mistreatment of her. And the day she died, I watched him cry. And for years to come, if you even
mentioned her name, he would well up. One day, Mama got a call from Grandpa—who lived about ten minutes from us, up in the mountains of the Rogue Valley, and he had cut two of his fingers off. He was making some bird houses for his girls for Christmas and the skill saw slipped. The most difficult thing for him, when that happened, was he had to put down his guitar. Was I paying attention? No. //I suppose my point is this: Grandpa, tough-as-old-rusty-nails Grandpa, saw himself in Johnny Cash. He couldn’t step away completely, from his difficult childhood. He gave away part of his integrity and soul when he cheated on and harmed Grandma. He created his own suffering, by making her suffer and couldn’t tell the difference—just seemed to believe he deserved it as much as she did.
I mean, looking back, I see a man who loved music; loved fun. I see a man who gave up his eye to care for his family. I see a man share his last bite of food to make sure another gets fed. I see a man who lost 2 fingers for the love of his daughters. I remember a day when I went to his mountain and picked him up to go and see his Doctor. I hated it, but Mom made me. And there he sat on his rickety old step going up to his front door, in front of an old caboose, he had fashioned for his home; on a hot summer’s day, in Talent, Oregon; sun bearing down without a lick of shade; a quart mason jar full of ice water while he sat waiting for me. And all around him in his 20 foot deep front yard were cosmos. Cosmos facing up and smiling at the sun, and they were all planted there because Grandpa knew Grandma Iola liked Cosmos: Bird houses swinging from his sagging rafters; and a plastic pot full of geraniums for the hummingbirds.
I see it and him as clear as day; and I saw it then—but I couldn’t see past me and what I believed and how I was raised. Now, I see. I wish I had been wiser. I wish I didn’t have to admit, I was once so small and it took a Ken Burns Documentary to teach me, my Grandfather was a great man. But he was a human. He was full of pain and frustration and it gave him a wild drive to tame… and in the taming, he used a razor-sharp whip. He had many demons handed to him in his childhood; and I sadly held him accountable for everyone one of them, not really knowing a single one.
So, there you go… To the family we don’t understand; to the ones that irritate and aggravate…. We may see them or we may not, come Thanksgiving—but it is my wish, my very sincere wish, we all can find our common ground and be thankful for them and show ourselves, so they can be thankful for us.