There's a picture of my grandfather - rather, there are multiple pictures of both of my grandfathers; some are photographs, and some are just memories held by me alone. Still, there is one in particular that holds a deeper meaning for me. In it, my grandpa Joe holds a stringer of fish proudly above his shoulder - hoisted like a prize trophy given at the end of a great race. He was well dressed and neat - a condition my dad would later teach me as "strack" - military slang for well turned-out or neat. Proud and clean, he claimed his trophy that day. There were other trophies too; the walleye mount on the wall of their single-wide in Garrison, or the buckshot that resides in his leg to this day. In his working years he was an HVAC man. Hard and ready for work, but he has been and still is a gentle soul who gardens and knows how to care for a rose.
My grandpa John has been gone for a few years now - the actual date softened in my young mind by time, but the stories I have heard of hunting grouse at the family cabin near Remer, MN are strong in my mind. The many miles my grandfather walked with my dad and uncles, with police-auction guns, heavy with a days worth of beating the brush, and the memories savored of a crisp autumn day. My Grandpa John was a singer, and a more beautiful voice in a man I cannot think of. He sang with the Apollo Club of Minneapolis. Slight through all the years I knew him, he was a man of the strongest character, if not the most prominent physique.
My forefathers - my idols growing up - have included my grandfathers: well-rounded men who have embodied far more than pure machismo, they are men who are diverse in their interest, abilities and knowledge. I'd be remiss if I didn't include my own father, too; and while I find it more difficult to pay tribute to people who had to spend more time disciplining me than others, my own dad has come to embody the same things I revere in my grandfathers. Well into my own adult years, the times I truly cherish most with my father are the ones that are the most simple. A day beating the underbrush for grouse, a day of empty skies on the Upper Mississippi, or hauling in fish after fish of pan-sized sunfish beats any other day out there.
I think that's the thing that has become more apparent the older I get - that the concerns of our youth give way to the respect and understanding of adulthood. My grandfathers have always stood as a symbol of what a man should be to me; strong and kind, with a capability for things far greater than their own self. My idols live for their families and treat others with a powerful kindness. Still, they would want no place on a pedestal - my grandpa Joe still gets a twinkle in his eye when he sneakily give you a punchline, and one of my favorite memories of my father is him telling me as we traversed a rough section of hill with some sort of trailer that the reason I was along was to be the voice of reason (The older I get, the less likely I am to be the voice of reason oddly enough).
I'm not yet a father - but I hope daily that I can live up to the examples given by my grandfathers and my own father when I am. These men have taught me a respect for the outdoors, and in an ever-changing world, that there is a place for time in the woods. So, on this Fathers' Day, I pay respect to my Fathers.
*This is a tough time of year time-wise for me if you wish to be a part of sharing your hunting experiences or add, please contact me. Until later, please bear with me until things slow down a bit.
