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 [email protected] or at www.ChristTheKingCEC.com ]