Ten Minutes to Noon. . .

 

 How many stories have we all heard in our lives?  Where did they come from?  Over the years, I’ve collected uncounted works of fiction and historical books, each one read many times, but the stories I enjoy the most are those told.  As a child, I would find an unoccupied seat at the table and let the family’s stories wash over me as the night would wear on.  Stories from uncles and grandparents; tales of childhood and work and war, all spoke of character and characters, triumph and tragedy.  I learned so much from those treasured nights, and of the storytellers, the one I always enjoyed hearing the most was my dad.

My dad was a ‘boomer’, born in 1946.  It was a simpler time, by his telling, much easier to get into trouble.  Some of his earlier stories were of bumper skiing and building match head rockets, while his most regaled were of hunting and work and gardening and time spent at camp.  They were all part of a larger tapestry--the story of lessons learned and a life lived.

Today, at ten minutes to noon, the story ended.

As my own story progresses, I have done my best to see that his continues, those lessons of the past best taught through his experience.  Everything from hunting skills, fire building, mechanic work, tooling; all need to be passed on.  How many parts of the story are there to tell?  I have no idea.  They have become such a part of myself that their wisdom roll off my tongue with little effort, a measure of joy in the realization that they were his.  As I held his hand today, gazing down at eyes that I desperately wished would open again, I wondered how much of that story I still hadn’t heard.

Dad wasn’t just an excellent storyteller; he was an artistic complainer.  This was another ‘skill’ he passed on to me.  I didn’t fully appreciate the subtlety of a finely-honed ranting skill until years ago, on a fishing trip to Barren River, when he accused the Kentucky Department of Fish and Wildlife of seeding the river bottom with spring-loaded rocks to make people think there were, indeed, fish there.  He’d never give up, though.  Through it all, we would do brake jobs in the rain, we re-packed bearings on the side of the road, and he kept fishing.  We did so much, but it still wasn’t enough.

He was on this world for seventy-two years.  He sailed two tours in the Navy during Vietnam and has seen parts of this world I haven’t.  In the Navy, he met John Wayne, and a few years before that, he got a ride across town from Muhammad Ali.  He could rebuild engines and work with wood, and could never seem to do enough of what he loved.  His story was voluminous--in his life he spoke millions of words; sometimes eloquently, sometimes not so much.  His last words to me were, “Oh, yeah”.  My last words to him were, “I wish you could hear me”.

That was ten minutes to noon.  So many hours later, I can still barely see to write.

Ronald Wayne Wilkins

December 27, 1946-January 28, 2019