Seeing my father in me

By Matt Lea

My childhood memories are filled with lessons I learned from my dad. I can see him now, pacing back and forth in his workshop, tool in hand, crafting or repairing something. As a young boy, sitting there in the shop, I never realized I was learning more about being a man than I ever would have learned from watching John Wayne or Clint Eastwood in the movies.
My dad was my hero—and he still is. I admire him for so many reasons. I saw how he treated our elderly neighbors, my family, his friends and my mom. I noticed that his coworkers always spoke highly of him, and I knew how hard he worked. I also realized it took a lot to make him cry. I can recall only three events that ever made him tear up: the day we lost his grandfather, Pap; the day my own grandpa passed away; and the day I got married.
My father and I didn’t always see eye to eye; sometimes we bickered like two old women. But he always won. Not just because his rule was law, but because I knew, deep down, that he was right.
As a teenager, I didn’t always understand why he would make me stay home and study when my friends were allowed to go to the mall on school nights, or why he insisted that I get good grades. Even as a little boy, I wondered why my father would make me wash my metal Tonka trucks after I’d played with them in the mud, and why I had to keep them on a shelf in the garage. After all, my friends left their trucks outside in the yard; washing my toys and putting them away seemed very unnecessary, considering that the next day I had plans to mess the trucks up all over again building a superhighway through my mom’s flower garden. (Sorry, Mom.)
Here’s another thing that took years to understand. Every Christmas since I was baby, along with the usual toys I’d requested, my dad would give me some sort of tool. It never failed: I would get to the last present, open it, and think, “Oh, great—a set of screw drivers,” or, “Wonderful—a ratchet set. Don’t I already have one of these sets, but smaller?”
Every year, Dad added to my collection: a shovel, a saw, or some other tool that, at the time, seemed unnecessary. I would often think, “Why does he keep buying me all these tools when I can just use his?” Because Dad never wanted me to use the tools he gave me. Instead, he would always say, “Hold on to them and keep them new; you’ll need ’em one day.” When my friends would ask what was in my large, rolling tool chest, I would answer, “Oh, just my collection of ‘dust catchers.’”
I noticed that my parents always enjoyed coming home from their jobs and working in the yard. I didn’t understand why they didn’t want to go to the mall or go out to eat with friends. “You guys act like you’re 80 years old!” I would say. “Let’s go somewhere and hang out.” How boring my parents’ lives must be, I thought, for them to feel the need to come home at night and work in the yard and clean the house.
These were all things that used to confuse me as a child and perturb me as a know-it-all teenager.
Now I’ve begun to view those early years with a much different perspective. I understand now that my dad was preparing me for my future life in his own secret way—a way he learned from his dad, and his dad, and so on and so forth. He was teaching me to be a man, just as Pap and Grandpa had taught him.
Now that I am married, have my own home, and work full time, I realize I act more like my father every day. My parents stayed at home at night because they were tired from working, and home was a special place that meant something to them. As an adult, it becomes more apparent to me each day that it costs money to go out and eat, and that when you have bills and a house payment, life is not as easy as it once was.
It’s obvious to me now that Dad wanted me to help him in the yard and in the garden so I would learn how to plant bushes, lay down seed and grow vegetables. He knew that one day, when my wife and I were working in our own yard, I would need to know how to transplant a bush and mow the yard. (And let’s not ignore the fact he needed the free labor.)
The tools I once criticized now have become some of my most cherished possessions. I am thankful my dad had the foresight to start a collection for me so early in life, because I could never afford to buy them all today. My workshop is the envy of the neighborhood, and thanks to Dad, I have the basic knowledge to build and fix just about whatever my wife needs, wants or, in some cases, breaks. My neighbors call me “Matt the tool man.”
This year, I will turn 29, and I realize now, more than ever, that it takes energy and commitment to take care of your family and be a responsible man. I see that it doesn’t matter how many Indians John Wayne could take, or how many bullets Clint Eastwood could shoot. What matters is how those you love remember you. It matters what your coworkers think about you. To a man, reputation means everything.
Like all good things that must come to an end, metal Tonka trucks are now a thing of the past. Lucky for me, mine still look as good as new. When my wife and I have a little boy or little girl, they will have metal Tonka trucks to move mountains—or at least a flower garden.
Looking back, I wish I could regain the time I spent goofing off with friends I never see anymore and spend it with my parents. I respect my dad’s ways now more than ever, and I realize that instead of being overprotective, he was showing me in his own way how much he cared for me and loved his family.
I am a much stronger person today because he took the time to teach me. He taught me to be myself, serve others, enjoy life, trust God and enjoy watching something grow. It’s amazing what you might learn when you don’t even realize you’re learning.
I’ve learned a lot in my 28 years, but the most important thing I have learned is, as Paul Overstreet sings, “I’m seeing my father in me, and that’s how it’s supposed to be.”
Thanks, Dad.