Like most adults of a certain age, I have held a number of titles; Lieutenant, Captain, Chief, Vicar, Rector, Dean, The Reverend, The Very Reverend (Yhea, that one was a bit of a stretch…..in a fit of narcissism, I decided to put that on my checks, only to discover that virtually everyone thought it was a joke. Turned out that in the real world “The Very Reverend” is like the Rodney Dangerfield of ecclesiastical nomenclature; it don’t get no respect…..I ordered new checks). Then there was Padre, Dad, Grandpa, but the latest took me completely by surprise.
“Gramps!?” I exclaimed with incredulity to the little moppet at my feet, “Gramps!?” I repeated louder and at a higher pitch for emphasis, “Who’s “Gramps”?” I challenged, and then it happened……the solemn, sacred proclamation of a 5 year in a pink princess dress with clashing pants underneath (in the Pacific Northwest, layering is an obsession that starts early) … ”YOU ARE!” and just like that I was given a new name, a name that most assuredly would endure through the ages. It had been bestowed from on high with all the solemnity that a “Little” could muser; immutable, irrrefutable, unalterable.
It was her definitive answer to my identity. From that time forward I would not be the “Pater familias”, nor the Patriarch of the Clan, nor the Elder….not the dignified, formal “Grandfather”, nor even my favorite “Grandpa”, but the familiar, casual, country cousin of a derivative; “Gramps”.
Grandparents sometimes get to choose their own names. My mom was the French “Grandmere”. Others may be Papa, or Mimi or Grammy, but for me, that ship had sailed; Elvis had “left the building”, I was “a day late and a dollar short”. Henceforth and for the duration of my natural life, in their immediate family and to their children’s children, I would be known as “Gramps”. Well, at least I wasn’t “Grandpa Rhoads”. That title was already taken; it belonged to MY grandfather, he owned it, lived it, and, as far as I am concerned, he will forever hold it. I could never emulate his legacy, nor would I want to.
Albert W. Rhoads was born in somewhat difficult circumstances. George Rhoads and Mary Reidell we’re married in January and he was born in May….him…turns out my Great Grandparents struggled with the expectations and conventions of courtship in the late 1800’s. In any event, they were young and love, or at least lust, was in the air. The marriage didn’t last. She moved out with the baby and Grandpa Rhoads never knew his father, let alone his grandfather. When my cousins, my sister, and I came along he had to live into a new relationship without a mentor or example to follow.
While not a particularly affectionate person, it was clear that he loved us and his heart’s desire was to pass down a legacy of wisdom. In his generation that was what Grandparents were supposed to do. Imparting wisdom was integral to the implied job description, and Albert was very much a product of his generation. They came to maturity and responsibility during the First World War, they survived, and even thrived, during the Depression, fought and worked to insure victory in World War II, and lived from the age of horse and buggy to the space age. Albert had an 8th grade education and yet went on to become a career Lieutenant Colonel in the Army, retiring in 1962.
I am convinced that, when it comes to haberdashery, there are two kinds of men; those who are comfortable in a suit and those who are not. Albert was clearly the former. He never owned a pair of jeans, or dungarees, as he would of called them. He always wore a coat and tie to dinner. Casual clothes were for golfing, and “work clothes” were simply older slacks and shirts no longer suitable for forays into the public domain. At all times his attire was dignified and appropriate. No shorts or sandals for him….he wasn’t some kind of hippie….no sir.
He could be a hard drinker (I have several pictures where he is clearly “3 sheets to the wind”), reveled in his heterosexual identity (he loved to flirt), and could smoke like a chimney. Almost every picture in my dad’s family album shows Al smoking a cigar. That was something he and his brother in law Bert, my grandmother’s brother, shared in common.
John Herbert “Bert” Blessing lived with his wife Florence in a little white house set back from the street in an older part of Glendale. We only visited Uncle Bert and Aunt Florence a couple of times but as a small child I was very impressed by this little, early 20th century southern California bungalow. The doorknobs were crystal and the doors had skeleton key locks. Everything was white and there was lots of lawn for running and playing.
I grew up thinking that Uncle Bert was a banker. Dad said he worked at a bank and he clearly looked the part. Somewhat portly, he like Albert, almost always wore a tie, usually with a suit. He fit my Monopoly game image of a banker. Only later did I learn that Bert was the janitor. He would go to work wearing a suit, take off the jacket, put on coveralls (with the tie), reverse the process for lunch, redon the coveralls for the afternoon, and return home with his dignity and public image intact.
And then there was the ever present cigar. Not the kind of cigar you find in expensive, exclusive stores that cater to that kind of thing today; sleek, aromatic, hand crafted. These cigars were nasty. They were big, fatter in the middle than at the ends and made of cheaper tobacco. You had to bite off a little bit of the end to smoke ’em. Invariably, part of the cigar became wet and disgusting and when lit, which was was not necessarily all of the time, they smelled more like a burn pile in the back yard than anything you would want to inhale. Someone once told me that kissing a smoker was like licking an ashtray, and I think they were probably right. When it comes to a chronic cigar cmoker, you can often smell them before they even enter the room. Did I say the these were nasty? Well, they were! Aunt Florence wouldn’t let him smoke in the house or drink inside, and don’t even ask about playing poker with the boys. Consequently, Bert spent a fair amount of time on the back porch because smoking, drinking and gambling were also forbidden in the front yard. But the garage…now that was a different matter.
The garage was not just a home for the car or a storage space for forgotten boxes and gardening implements. The garage was a bastion of male sanctuary. Here, he was Lord and Master. Long before the advent of man caves and she sheds there was the primordial detached GARAGE.
Today’s garages are an evolution of a concept. Often they are attached to the house. They have room for at least 2 cars. Sometimes they are fully finished, insulated, and heated. You could even comfortably store you mother in law there….. if you were so inclined…..just sayin’…
Here in Sequim we have what are best described as “Garage-mahalls”; gargantuan structures as big and sometimes taller than the house. They house the cars, motor home, riding mower, shop space and outside storage items. Uncle Bert’s garage was nothing like that. It was the humble precursor to what would evolve to shelter the boy, and sometimes, girl toys of the modern age.
Yes, Uncle Bert’s garage was a completely different animal. Just big enough to fit a single car, especially a big one, they were made of wood framing and horizontal siding, they had two doors that swung open on the front, were completely unfinished on the inside, plain and simple as was the custom back then.
The car could be brought inside at night and left in the driveway for easy access during the day. In this fashion, the interior of the garage was an ideal venue for smoking, drinking and especially faddutzing.
What’s “faddutzing” you ask? Well, that’s a great question!
Faddutzing is when human beings, particularly older male human beings who generally have the luxury of not much to do, gather together to sit, drink coffee (or in more exotic locations, tea) and collectively analyze, critique and especially lament the current state of affairs, whatever they may be, whether local, domestic, or foreign. Although women are not excluded from this endeavor, there are far more male practitioners of this ancient art. Women, you see, seem to prefer to gather in small groups to actually do something rather than just sit around. They meet for a purpose; to organize sew, quilt, scrapbook, prepare food, or make cards for example. Any faddutzing that may or may not happen is a secondary phenomena.
With pure faddutzing, shared lamentation is critical. Faddutzers gather exclusively for the sport and entertainment value of the corporate critique. It can be surprisingly competitive, which each individual jousting for the most insightful commentary. It is probably genetically inherited because faddutzing is universal and cross cultural. You can find faddutzers around the world or in your own back yard; small groups of guys, sitting, drinking, watching the world go by, with a running dialogue. They may not the be the “sharpest tools in the shed” and many might be “out of their depth in a mud puddle”, but they are committed to the task. They never actually do anything…they just talk and talk and talk. You can probably find them in your town if you want to. Just go to any cafe, coffee house or even fast food restaurant, generally between the hours of 7 and 10am, and now alerted to the characteristics of classic Faddutzing, you will undoubtedly spot them.
Because watching the world go by is critical to hardened faddutzers, fadutzing usually takes place within the public arena. An open garage, facing the street can be a fine, albeit rudimentary venue, in which to practice. I can easily imagine that Uncle Bert was a seasoned, perhaps even gifted, practitioner.
So…..what idoes all this have to do with faith and Simplicity.?
You can fly around in the air for a time, but eventually you have to land somewhere and it’s well past time in this blog for our final approach.
Two of the most important questions that people of faith, that is any faith, should continuously be asking are; Who is God calling me to be? and What is God calling me to do? Transfer them into the plural and they are essential questions for the church as a whole, and any congregation or religious community.
Specifically, the first question, “Who is God calling me to be? Now, and at this time and place in my life, is not easy to answer.
The temdency for many of us, and here I speak from experience, is to wrestle with this by ourselves. We might spend time in meditation or prayer or we may go all out and seek some kind of retreat. We can spend hours brooding and wrestling with the answer. When we are really desperate or spiritually flummoxed we could find a bookstore and browse for inspiration.
But human beings are relational by nature, None of us live in a vacum. The call we are seeking often comes not “in abstencia”, but through these relationships, both past and present.
Little Aurora wasn’t just calling me Gramps….she was calling me her Gramps. She was identifying a relationship between the two of us and specifically my calling to be connected to her because we are family. She was laying claim to my time, attention and love as well as giving those in return. Here was the wisdom of a 5 year old.
Grandpa Rhoads showed me how to live with dignity into my senior years. He rose from difficult circumstances, overcame his educational deficit, and was never going back. No one would look down on him.
Uncle Bert was so much more than his work identity. He was who he was, he expected respect, and he found a sanctuary in one of the least likely places. He was content and at peace. He was a great example of simplicity for a future Franciscan.
Faith and Simplicity 