Ol' Men Talkin': On A Father's Love
|
|
Date Published: June 9, 2021
|
Gathering Together
It is hard to say when this group of old men first met. When one of Rudy’s employees asked, for a bemused moment they all strained to recall, but then they decided it wasn’t really that important. It was though; it was one of those nagging questions that if not answered supposed that they were too old to remember.
|
So ever since, one of them would bring to the meeting a new remembrance—a selective remembrance, an imprecise remembrance, a remembrance tainted by time. They knew their memories were fallible; old men blur reality with wishful ruminations like the too-often-told, one-that-got-away fish story. With each new recollection, they positioned the memory as if it were a piece in a puzzle, using their communal timeline to see if the edges fit.
They believed that their joint memories would eventually uncover that initial conversation that made Rudy’s 360 what it was today: a breakfast-home away from home and a reenactment of an old Texas settlers’ tradition, a gathering of old men discussing life with all its twists and turns.
|
For generations, old men in Texas have gathered around the local store's stove to talk crops, politics, life and survival.
|
Sometimes these discussions could turn faster than a cuttin’ horse, and gore quicker and deeper than an ornery steer.
Today was an example.
The Life and Times of Doug Wilhite
Mike asked, “Jim, what do you think of all this hoopla over the definition of marriage?”
Doug flinched. His hands trembled for a moment. Jim, sitting directly across from him, pushed back his metal chair, “Let’s refresh our teas. They just brewed up a fresh batch.” This was the way of these ol’ men. If anyone discerned a subject hitting too close to home, a diversion was offered.
In his friends’ eyes, Doug was a man’s man. He always said, “Men don’t cry.”
Doug flinched. His hands trembled for a moment. Jim, sitting directly across from him, pushed back his metal chair, “Let’s refresh our teas. They just brewed up a fresh batch.” This was the way of these ol’ men. If anyone discerned a subject hitting too close to home, a diversion was offered.
In his friends’ eyes, Doug was a man’s man. He always said, “Men don’t cry.”
|
They knew he didn’t because Doug always said it with the conviction of a person that had traveled through time’s greatest desperations and survived. He was tough, gruff and hard; he was a fourth generation Texas rancher. This year alone he sold all his cattle before they died from thirst or hunger; he plowed his crop under to preserve the soil for a better year; and he watched the worst firestorm in a century blow overhead through the treetops at forty miles an hour. He made a lonely stand against that fire. He nearly died protecting a single tree—a majestic oak centered in a grassy field that marked his family graveyard.
Last week he described lying on his belly where water once flowed and, with his chest pressed against earth that was harder than concrete, reached down into a jagged fissure so deep he was unable to see or reach its bottom. His observation on this occasion was simply, “The only roots alive that deep down, are my family’s.” |
|
Doug’s convictions sprang from the wells of wisdom his family dug into the earth and into life, probing ever deeper with each successive drought. His friends knew that similar dry spells, as his family called them, had drawn those same words from his father, grandfather and great-grandfather. These men were all clones of the one hardy pioneer that had put down the original Wilhite roots. Doug was just the latest of a long line of Wilhite stewards.
No, Doug never cried. It was just life and he didn’t cry about life. Even if it was hard, it was the life he had chosen. He would never deny it. His dry ashes would float across that desolate landscape first. He shrugged off admiring words with, “Just another year raisin’ kids, cattle and weeds in Texas.” This was the Doug each man at that table knew so well. He was a proud Wilhite, but his family roots were withering with him. He was estranged from his son.
They returned to the table and between sips of refreshed iced tea, Harold looked across the table and asked, “It seems you ought to have an opinion on this marriage topic, Jim?”
Doug gave the green light. “Jim, if you have an opinion, I would love to hear it.”
No, Doug never cried. It was just life and he didn’t cry about life. Even if it was hard, it was the life he had chosen. He would never deny it. His dry ashes would float across that desolate landscape first. He shrugged off admiring words with, “Just another year raisin’ kids, cattle and weeds in Texas.” This was the Doug each man at that table knew so well. He was a proud Wilhite, but his family roots were withering with him. He was estranged from his son.
They returned to the table and between sips of refreshed iced tea, Harold looked across the table and asked, “It seems you ought to have an opinion on this marriage topic, Jim?”
Doug gave the green light. “Jim, if you have an opinion, I would love to hear it.”
Jim had been waiting for this invitation. If someone didn’t want to discuss a topic, this invitation would not be issued.
To Doug, Jim was one of God’s most complex creations. Jim only attended church on Easter Sunday. Every Easter he would complain, “Darn Catholic Church taught me if I didn’t go to mass on Easter it was a mortal sin. I attend just to cover all the bases.” Doug knew he didn’t go because of the Catholic Church. If so, he would have attended the local Catholic service. Instead he sought out a more catholic god at a local multi-denominational service to hear about forgiveness, God’s grace and the ongoing attempts of “an imperfect creation” to understand a perfect creator. Jim would hang this last thought like quotation marks around his stories.
Doug watched Jim finish up his bite of food and wash it down with a sip of his cold drink.
Jim was a spiritual creation. His views defied religious classification. His thoughts transcended rigid rules, inflexible laws, eternal damnation, and talk of hellfire and brimstone. On the other side, he disdained theological complexities as utter nonsense. He only studied such complexities to extract clear, simple truths and then use these truths in his stories.
Doug loved these stories. They were full of life, laughter, and love. He often thought, “If a Man of God overheard this story, he would surely steal it for himself.”
Jim chuckled, knowing what he was about to bring down on himself, “Doug, you know I have an opinion!”
To Doug, Jim was one of God’s most complex creations. Jim only attended church on Easter Sunday. Every Easter he would complain, “Darn Catholic Church taught me if I didn’t go to mass on Easter it was a mortal sin. I attend just to cover all the bases.” Doug knew he didn’t go because of the Catholic Church. If so, he would have attended the local Catholic service. Instead he sought out a more catholic god at a local multi-denominational service to hear about forgiveness, God’s grace and the ongoing attempts of “an imperfect creation” to understand a perfect creator. Jim would hang this last thought like quotation marks around his stories.
Doug watched Jim finish up his bite of food and wash it down with a sip of his cold drink.
Jim was a spiritual creation. His views defied religious classification. His thoughts transcended rigid rules, inflexible laws, eternal damnation, and talk of hellfire and brimstone. On the other side, he disdained theological complexities as utter nonsense. He only studied such complexities to extract clear, simple truths and then use these truths in his stories.
Doug loved these stories. They were full of life, laughter, and love. He often thought, “If a Man of God overheard this story, he would surely steal it for himself.”
Jim chuckled, knowing what he was about to bring down on himself, “Doug, you know I have an opinion!”
The Story of Two Wedding Ceremonies
Buck, because Rudy’s is a family institution, leaned forward and lowered his voice to a whisper, “And we all know what opinions are like. …” and Harold finished it with, “… and we all have one!”
All five men leaned back and laughed a comfortable laugh. It was a laugh that caught everyone’s attention in Rudy’s. It was the laugh of good ol’ boys sharing something special, something that bound them together. It said to everyone, we have shared tough times; we have fought alongside and against each other; we have argued but we never cross that line that damages friendships. We accept our differences. We are comfortable with who our friends are and yes, who we are. This was all communicated in one continuous, deep laugh by five good ol’ boys just sittin’ and talkin’.
Jim continued, “Now that everyone has commented on my opinions and my posterior, get prepared to be mooned.”
Old men laugh at the silliest things, but this was why they got together. Hundreds of times they had used that saying and none of them had ever taken this saying that direction before. Each of them would smile all day thinking of Jim mooning his opinion at them. Even Doug recovered.
“Laughter!” he thought. “If you help me laugh this pain away, you are a good friend Jim.”
Jim had struggled with the marriage topic for thirty years. Seeing in Doug’s eyes a man reeling on a cliff’s edge, he set down his bacon, potato and egg breakfast taco and focused.
“You know I am an imperfect being, but marriage to me is one-part man’s laws and one part the love of God, family and friends. Many people take a marriage which is composed of two separate defining events and celebrate them as one; they get confused. Marriage is a legal contract blessed by the state, but it is also a spiritual covenant defined by God, family and friends.
Jim looked around. The questioning looks said he had their attention.
He pointed to a group of younger men studying the Bible a few tables away, “They study the Bible here every Wednesday morning. Do you think they sometimes study it so hard that they miss its utter simplicity?”
He didn’t pause, “The Bible they are studying is about one thing: it is about God desiring a relationship with man; his desire to have spiritual sons. Do you think they ever ask the simplest of questions like, ‘Why are there Old and New Testaments with four gospels of love jammed in between?’
“Do they ask, ‘What was old?’ and ‘What is new?’”
Jim continued answering his own questions, “The Old Testament, just like so many religions, is about laws, legalities and penalties. It wrapped a straightjacket around all men in the hopes of preventing evil, but, in so doing, it also hindered good. The gospels were a transition to a “new” covenant. Yet many still want to live under the old. The New Testament is about throwing off the straightjacket of Old Testament laws, legalities and regulations and being free to love God with your whole heart soul, mind and strength. …
He paused for a second, “Heck, I even have to love guys like you—which, I might add, is one hard thing to do.”
Everyone smiled and shifted a little in their now-uncomfortable metal chairs. They repositioned and sipped on their teas trying to make the uncomfortable, comfortable; but most importantly, it was a moment to digest what had just been carefully positioned on the table.
“And marriage, to me, is just like the Bible; disguised in a single wedding ceremony are two covenants; the old governs man’s relationships through the laws of man, and the new is about something greater—a covenant of love between God, family and friends.”
Doug looked at Jim intently. He respected Jim but most of the time he didn’t agree with him. But he always listened, and occasionally, baking out in that mid-day 100+ degree Texas sun with dust swirling all around, he would gain an insight into what Jim meant. On very rare occasions Doug would admit it. Then Jim would say, “I guess it takes that West Texas sun to burn some sense into that thick, balding skull of yours.”
Doug would just respond, “That’s why we Wilhites stayed in Texas. It takes tough times to get our attention and country life gets it. Life, otherwise, is boring.” He would then chuckle because most of the time he would decide that Jim’s opinions were full of crap—and he treated them just like the dried, cattle, meadow muffins he plowed under in his fields. He thought, “That Texas sun can turn both ways Jim, but it does get to the truth of a matter.”
Harold asked, “How in the heck did you get on this thought, Jim?”
“Harold, thirty years ago, my wife and I were married twice.”
Mike said, “You have to remember two anniversaries, Jim? Heck, I can’t remember one.”
“I think the only reason we are still married is my wife’s memory is as bad as mine.”
Harold said, “Or maybe the wedding nights, with the emphasis on sssssss, weren’t so memorable for her, Jim?”
“And you had two tries!” Mike said, shaking his head discouragingly.
There was more laughter around the table.
Jim loved the banter. He continued, “We had already set our marriage date as July 1st. Then, because we wanted to finance our house with the Veteran’s Administration, we had to get married by a Justice of the Peace on June 1st. So, I have always said we were married twice; once by the State of Texas and a second time by God in front of our family and friends. That started me thinking about the difference between a couple’s two covenants; one enforced by the laws of men and the other guided by God’s love and the love of our family and friends.”
Jim paused for a moment and then made his point: “Sometimes when there is a conflict, we have to decide for ourselves which is more important.”
He straightened up in his chair and sighed, “I think I have said enough. Since I am an imperfect creation, I will finish with caveat emptor boys, this opinion is worth less than what you paid for it.”
“Two dollars and ninety-eight cents for a breakfast taco and tea refill,” said Harold. He then slapped both hands on the table to signal the end of the morning meeting and said, “Enough talking for me.” He crumpled up the foil from his breakfast taco and threw it into the white paper bag with his name printed neatly on it. “I’ve got plenty to think about today that I didn’t have when I came in this morning.”
“Amen,” said Mike.
“Yep,” said Harold, “I’ll picture Jim’s posterior … I mean … his opinion all day.”
Doug asked, “Mañana?”
Harold said, “Absolutely, unless we all die.”
Jim countered, “Or the good Lord returns to send us all to hell together.”
Doug responded, “One definition of hell would be the five of us spending an eternity together.”
With this last outburst of laughter, everyone at Rudy’s knew the gathering had come to an end. These men had started a new day with community, wit and laughter. These were old men that the world knows are set in their archaic, rigid, and inflexible ways: but how little the world truly knows.
All five men leaned back and laughed a comfortable laugh. It was a laugh that caught everyone’s attention in Rudy’s. It was the laugh of good ol’ boys sharing something special, something that bound them together. It said to everyone, we have shared tough times; we have fought alongside and against each other; we have argued but we never cross that line that damages friendships. We accept our differences. We are comfortable with who our friends are and yes, who we are. This was all communicated in one continuous, deep laugh by five good ol’ boys just sittin’ and talkin’.
Jim continued, “Now that everyone has commented on my opinions and my posterior, get prepared to be mooned.”
Old men laugh at the silliest things, but this was why they got together. Hundreds of times they had used that saying and none of them had ever taken this saying that direction before. Each of them would smile all day thinking of Jim mooning his opinion at them. Even Doug recovered.
“Laughter!” he thought. “If you help me laugh this pain away, you are a good friend Jim.”
Jim had struggled with the marriage topic for thirty years. Seeing in Doug’s eyes a man reeling on a cliff’s edge, he set down his bacon, potato and egg breakfast taco and focused.
“You know I am an imperfect being, but marriage to me is one-part man’s laws and one part the love of God, family and friends. Many people take a marriage which is composed of two separate defining events and celebrate them as one; they get confused. Marriage is a legal contract blessed by the state, but it is also a spiritual covenant defined by God, family and friends.
Jim looked around. The questioning looks said he had their attention.
He pointed to a group of younger men studying the Bible a few tables away, “They study the Bible here every Wednesday morning. Do you think they sometimes study it so hard that they miss its utter simplicity?”
He didn’t pause, “The Bible they are studying is about one thing: it is about God desiring a relationship with man; his desire to have spiritual sons. Do you think they ever ask the simplest of questions like, ‘Why are there Old and New Testaments with four gospels of love jammed in between?’
“Do they ask, ‘What was old?’ and ‘What is new?’”
Jim continued answering his own questions, “The Old Testament, just like so many religions, is about laws, legalities and penalties. It wrapped a straightjacket around all men in the hopes of preventing evil, but, in so doing, it also hindered good. The gospels were a transition to a “new” covenant. Yet many still want to live under the old. The New Testament is about throwing off the straightjacket of Old Testament laws, legalities and regulations and being free to love God with your whole heart soul, mind and strength. …
He paused for a second, “Heck, I even have to love guys like you—which, I might add, is one hard thing to do.”
Everyone smiled and shifted a little in their now-uncomfortable metal chairs. They repositioned and sipped on their teas trying to make the uncomfortable, comfortable; but most importantly, it was a moment to digest what had just been carefully positioned on the table.
“And marriage, to me, is just like the Bible; disguised in a single wedding ceremony are two covenants; the old governs man’s relationships through the laws of man, and the new is about something greater—a covenant of love between God, family and friends.”
Doug looked at Jim intently. He respected Jim but most of the time he didn’t agree with him. But he always listened, and occasionally, baking out in that mid-day 100+ degree Texas sun with dust swirling all around, he would gain an insight into what Jim meant. On very rare occasions Doug would admit it. Then Jim would say, “I guess it takes that West Texas sun to burn some sense into that thick, balding skull of yours.”
Doug would just respond, “That’s why we Wilhites stayed in Texas. It takes tough times to get our attention and country life gets it. Life, otherwise, is boring.” He would then chuckle because most of the time he would decide that Jim’s opinions were full of crap—and he treated them just like the dried, cattle, meadow muffins he plowed under in his fields. He thought, “That Texas sun can turn both ways Jim, but it does get to the truth of a matter.”
Harold asked, “How in the heck did you get on this thought, Jim?”
“Harold, thirty years ago, my wife and I were married twice.”
Mike said, “You have to remember two anniversaries, Jim? Heck, I can’t remember one.”
“I think the only reason we are still married is my wife’s memory is as bad as mine.”
Harold said, “Or maybe the wedding nights, with the emphasis on sssssss, weren’t so memorable for her, Jim?”
“And you had two tries!” Mike said, shaking his head discouragingly.
There was more laughter around the table.
Jim loved the banter. He continued, “We had already set our marriage date as July 1st. Then, because we wanted to finance our house with the Veteran’s Administration, we had to get married by a Justice of the Peace on June 1st. So, I have always said we were married twice; once by the State of Texas and a second time by God in front of our family and friends. That started me thinking about the difference between a couple’s two covenants; one enforced by the laws of men and the other guided by God’s love and the love of our family and friends.”
Jim paused for a moment and then made his point: “Sometimes when there is a conflict, we have to decide for ourselves which is more important.”
He straightened up in his chair and sighed, “I think I have said enough. Since I am an imperfect creation, I will finish with caveat emptor boys, this opinion is worth less than what you paid for it.”
“Two dollars and ninety-eight cents for a breakfast taco and tea refill,” said Harold. He then slapped both hands on the table to signal the end of the morning meeting and said, “Enough talking for me.” He crumpled up the foil from his breakfast taco and threw it into the white paper bag with his name printed neatly on it. “I’ve got plenty to think about today that I didn’t have when I came in this morning.”
“Amen,” said Mike.
“Yep,” said Harold, “I’ll picture Jim’s posterior … I mean … his opinion all day.”
Doug asked, “Mañana?”
Harold said, “Absolutely, unless we all die.”
Jim countered, “Or the good Lord returns to send us all to hell together.”
Doug responded, “One definition of hell would be the five of us spending an eternity together.”
With this last outburst of laughter, everyone at Rudy’s knew the gathering had come to an end. These men had started a new day with community, wit and laughter. These were old men that the world knows are set in their archaic, rigid, and inflexible ways: but how little the world truly knows.
"Great love keeps on loving no matter what."
|
Later that day, Doug was working his fields. These were alone times when he talked to his dead father, argued with his deader grandfather and yelled at his deadest great-grandfather about their ancient belief systems. As he labored, he remembered the common belief passed between the generations, “Family is more important than anything. Great love keeps on loving—no matter what.”
He stopped his tractor near the family oak tree. He paused to wipe the sweat, dirt and, where they mixed, mud from his face. He winced as he moved his aging body gently to the ground. He tramped over the residue of dead grass to revisit that deep, jagged crack penetrating his water tank. He looked down into the deepest of the chasms where there was nothing but his family’s roots; where he knew neither drought nor difficult times could or would ever reach. He eased down onto both knees over it. He said to his forefathers, “I thought I knew what you taught me. But what you taught me before anything else was how to love a son. I forgot that. I’m sorry. I remember now.” |
He then politely excused himself, “Pardon me. I have a son to call.”
He lifted his light, tough but now less rigid frame from the earth and journeyed across a desolation that suddenly didn’t seem so arid. He was going home to tell his gay son that he would attend their God, family and friend celebration. Doug had decided to live in the new and not have his family swelter under the oppression of the old.
Back in the fracture that Doug had just left, a single tear finally found bottom and splayed. From it a new growth sprouted and, true to the Wilhite tradition, it sent out roots in a place where droughts never reach.
He walked home grateful for this one-hundred-plus-degree day and its brilliant, burning, baking sun. …
… and a morning that always started with some ol' men talkin’.
He lifted his light, tough but now less rigid frame from the earth and journeyed across a desolation that suddenly didn’t seem so arid. He was going home to tell his gay son that he would attend their God, family and friend celebration. Doug had decided to live in the new and not have his family swelter under the oppression of the old.
Back in the fracture that Doug had just left, a single tear finally found bottom and splayed. From it a new growth sprouted and, true to the Wilhite tradition, it sent out roots in a place where droughts never reach.
He walked home grateful for this one-hundred-plus-degree day and its brilliant, burning, baking sun. …
… and a morning that always started with some ol' men talkin’.