Life lessons, like acorns, take root

By Michael Huseman

As I write this we’re midway through August, and 90-degree days belie my feelings, but for this former Northerner, the start of school always feels like fall. We always started classes in September up there, and I remember walking along, kicking leaves and acorns on the sidewalk.
Right now I’m not thinking so much about school, but about acorns. You see, my dad planted some “acorns” for me many years ago, and in the same way that those little kernels of life sometimes grow into giant oaks, so did the lessons he taught me.
My dad was a gentle man, and a gentleman. He was quiet but strong. Whenever he did raise his voice, my sister and I knew he really meant it, and we toed the line quickly. But it was the little things he did without saying a word that, I think, have left the greatest impressions on my daily life. Like courtesy. I always remembered my dad opening doors for people—family members or strangers, it didn’t matter. He would reach around and hold the door, smiling all the time, sometimes sharing a warm “hello,” never waiting for a thank you—just doing it.
My dad could fix anything. He was the handiest man I knew. If one of my toys broke, Dad was there with his famous line, “Let’s see what we can do with this.” I’d stay by his side, taking it all in, watching carefully as he brought out those magical tools that materialized from deep within his workbench in the basement. Most times, it was a quick fix: Twist this, tighten that, perhaps a drop of glue or a spritz of oil, and I was on my way, with my toy as good as new—sometimes better.
Years later, when I decided on one of my college breaks that I was going to build a harpsichord, I came to appreciate his magic tools once again. One of the many challenges with the construction of this instrument was twisting all the wires so they would hook onto the pins. After trying to do this by hand, and leaving myself with a tangle of wire and some very painful punctures, I called for help. Not a problem for my dad. He reached into his box and, within minutes, fashioned the perfect tool. In no time we were properly twisted, and no longer punctured.
When I was in the Boy Scouts, everyone loved to check out my campfire cooking. You see, Dad had been in the scouts, and knew a thing or two about camping . . . and loved to eat. So, he fashioned a reflector oven out of sheet aluminum for me. It was an engineering marvel. He made it so that it folded up and could slide into the back of my backpack. All thanks to my dad, I was the only scout around serving up biscuits and meatloaf, while everyone else was learning the taste of burned hotdogs and beans.
I guess I can trace my love of cooking in part to those early experiments at the campfire. Nowadays, I’ve been able to move indoors for most of my culinary efforts, but the memories of those campfire meals linger on. I recently was cleaning up the attic, and I came across that reflector oven, still in great shape. Perhaps one day, I’ll take my boys out and treat them to some campfire biscuits.
My boys have discovered my tools, many of which belonged to my dad and are
now mine. Well, perhaps it’s more proper to say they’re still his, but I’ve got them now. It’s funny how something as simple as a hammer can make you remember the day that you helped Dad put down the new flooring on the porch. Kneeling on the floor, pounding nails into the floor every eight inches, using a special guide he made to be certain the job was done properly. Was I thrilled at the time to work like that? Well, yes and no. I loved that Dad would let me use his big hammer. After the 10th nail, however, it became work. But when we took our lunch break, and Dad and I just sat there, eating a lunch that I know mom wouldn’t have approved (just blue cheese and Ritz crackers!), and we looked over our work and he told me what a good job I had done, it was all worth it.
Now that I’m the dad, I find myself more conscious of what I can do to teach my boys. I try to involve them in my projects, teaching them about how to use my own set of “magical” tools, helping them learn how to cook, how to experience all the tastes and flavors of good food, how to be kind.
My oldest son is visiting with us, and the dinners he has surprised us with have been restaurant quality. The other day, I had to smile when my 4-year-old insisted on holding the door for all the people coming out of church. No one told him to do it; he just did it. And when my 7-year-old brought the peppermill to the table, asking if we needed any “seasonings,” I could begin to see his path.
I just hope and pray that the acorns I plant within my boys bear as much fruit as those my dad planted in me. If they grow up to be courteous, and to be gentle men and
gentlemen, I’ll know those life lessons have taken root.

By Michael Huseman