Catching Glimpses

He could fix anything. He just knew what to do, how to do it, and made it look so easy. I never saw him reference YouTube videos, which is what I have to do to attempt the most basic repairs. He looked at a problem and suggested a solution so obvious and straightforward, it never entered my brain. The time he helped me fix up an old propane grill. I couldn’t get the old rusted starter wires out to replace them. Why don’t you just cut them and use a lighter to start the grill? I guess some might say that’s not the “proper” way to fix the problem, but it was so easy and takes no greater effort to light the grill this way. I hugged him for that suggestion, knowing that there was still a creative and helpful person inside. I wanted to feel it again.

I wanted to recapture the young, ambitious man who managed to clear 15 large trees from our property after a particularly severe ice storm. He used his chainsaw, which he had to constantly tune-up for each use, nylon straps designed to secure items in the back of a pick-up truck. And he used said pick-up truck to pull those straps that were looped elegantly around the tree trunks that had been cut to just the right size to clear the driveway. He stood proudly among the debris, leaning against the truck parked on the long gravel driveway, with the trees strewn and piled to either side. He did that. All by himself.

Yesterday, I saw him again. This time in the form of our 14-year old daughter. I needed help figuring out how to work one of his old pieces of music gear, which someone was interested in purchasing. I had plugged it into the amplifier and the guitar, but nothing happened. I searched YouTube for information, but–can you believe it?--I found nothing helpful. I asked her if she might know anything about it, and if not, could she ask her guitar instructor? She pulled out her phone and did a quick search. Within 2 minutes, she was unscrewing the case and changing the two long-dead 9-volt batteries inside. Duh. And it was him. The straight brown hair parted in the middle and hanging around her face. His clothes that she wears–I think it’s more that she prefers the gender-neutral style, than an homage to her dad. The grabbing of just the right tool for the job. The simple determination.

And then, she plugged in the amplifier and the guitar, and perfectly-pitched notes emerged. I asked her to play a little, and she stood just like he would, weight shifted to one foot, the guitar resting on the other hip. She looked up and thought about what to play and how to play it, looked down, and moved her fingers across the fret board, sliding them up and down to get just the right screech at the right moment. She grimaced with some frustration that she wasn’t doing it up to her own standards and then smiled sheepishly. Just like he would do.

I didn’t say anything, but my body was warm and my heart pushed tears into my throat and up to my eyes. I willed them back and played it cool. Thank you, I said. I knew you could figure it out.

The man I met so many years ago.

In less simple times, the man I knew and always loved.