By DAVID EPPS
Pastor

Last Sunday morning, I attended a Service of Morning Prayer at The Episcopal Church of the Resurrection in Cranberry, Penn.

Scott Schwing, a lay leader presiding in the absence of the rector, invited the congregation to walk with him down “memory lane” as he shared, on this Father's Day, about the men in his life who had been “fathers” to him at crucial points in his life. Some of the recollections that he shared were humorous while others brought tears to the eyes of the listeners. I did as he asked and revisited those who, in my own life, had been fathers at important stages of my development.

One of those men was Charles Daniel Duckett, my mother's stepfather, known only to me as Grandpa. My mother's natural father had died of an illness when his three daughters were toddlers. My grandmother, Pashia Luster, struggled valiantly to care for her young babies and Charles came along at a critical time. He raised the girls as his own, eventually became the patriarch of the family, and was beloved by all of his six grandchildren. In my young years, when my father had to work long hours on his two or three jobs to keep body, soul and family together, Grandpa was the man who stepped into my life to fill the gaps.

Things were tough for our family in the late 1950s and early 1960s. My father was among the many men whose plans of working at and retiring from the Mead Paper Co. were cut short by massive layoffs. My father, a proud, independent man, did whatever he felt it took, as long as it was legal and honorable, to bring home money to feed, clothe and house his wife and two sons. He spurned offers of financial help from Grandpa and was offended that anyone might think he couldn't provide for his family.

Dad bragged to anyone who would listen that my mother was a master of finances because she always seemed to make his meager earnings stretch beyond reason. We never lacked for anything that was important. There was always plenty of food and the two boys managed to have new school clothes every September. Eventually, Dad landed a good job and built a career and a fine life. It would be three decades before my mother finally told him that, during those lean years, Grandpa always managed to slip her a few extra dollars and help our family with the most pressing bills.

Grandpa never mentioned it to anyone, as far as I know. In fact, the only time he ever intentionally interjected his opinion in a strong manner was when I was 6 years old and admiring the four tattoos that decorated his biceps and forearms. As I ran my fingers over the blue ink imbedded in his aging skin, he said, “Son, don't ever get these on your body. One day, you will want to because everyone around you is doing it. But the day will come when you will be sorry you did it and it will be too late. Listen to your old Grandpa and never get a tattoo.”

Years later, when everyone in my barracks it seemed, was visiting the tattoo parlor, I stayed on the base. It was my way of honoring Grandpa's admonition.

Some of the fondest memories of my childhood are of lazy Saturdays spent on the banks of the Holston River with a fishing rod in my hand talking nothingness to this patient and gentle man with the ever-present pipe in his mouth or back pocket. He allowed me to ask silly questions, helped me learn to bait a hook and keep tension on the line, and listened to my dreams of growing up to live on a houseboat floating down the Holston, fishing the day away, and living with Grandpa for the rest of my life.

He never shattered my childish dreams, never dealt with me harshly, and never darkened my dreams with reality by telling me that he would probably not be around during my adult life. My most vivid memories with him are of digging in the “worm bed” next to his garden, of watermelon on warm Sunday afternoons, of Christmas Eve gatherings at his house, of fishing on the Holston, and of that terrible day in the spring of 1973 when I stood by his grave in my Marine uniform and wept hot, copious tears that originated from the deepest recesses of my being.

There, alone in the quiet of Oak Hill Cemetery, with my wife and infant son waiting in the car down by the road, I thanked him for all the warm, breezy Saturdays and Sundays at the Holston and the joyous years of Christmas celebration. Memories of struggling bluegill and perch, of wriggling red worms, of red, sweet melon, of pork and beans and crackers, and of green, deep Tennessee waters flooded in and made me a child again. I longed to be on a houseboat, far away from this silent place, drifting down the Holston with Grandpa, lines dragging in the water, tempting the bluegill and the bass, even if for just one fleeting hour.

Now, I have four grandchildren of my own, three boys and a girl, so far. They are still quite young but are just about getting to the age when the waters and worms will beckon and the fish will call. In the days to come, I will listen to their dreams and plans, cut slices of watermelon and bait their hooks.

And who knows? Maybe one day, I will even be able to take that trip down the river on a houseboat, lines in the water, surrounded by gleeful dreamers. Grandpa would be pleased with that, I think.

[David Epps is rector of Christ the King Church in Peachtree City. He may be contacted online at FatherDavidEpps@aol.com or at www.ChristTheKingCEC.com]

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