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(One year ago today, Feb. 28, my father died at age 97. In his honor, from my archives in 2019, here is a column he greatly enjoyed about his own dad. The ending paragraph has been updated.
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Grandpa Ansel, the only grandparent I knew, died when I was only 7, yet he lives on clearly in my memories.
That my son’s middle name is Ansel goes a long way in telling you how much I loved and admired Grandpa. An art assignment when I was in the first grade further fills in the picture.
“And who is this?” asked Miss Bower, studying my crayon portrait response to her prompt: “Who is the most important person in the world?”
“My grandpa,” six-year-old-me replied, matter-of-factly, as though it were so obvious no answer should have been required.
“All your classmates drew portraits of President Johnson,” Miss Bower noted, adding: “Your grandpa must be very special.”
Me: “Yeah, he’s pretty ginchy.”
To be honest, the thought of drawing a portrait of the President of the United States never crossed my mind. In truth, I wondered why my friends had not drawn pictures of their grandpas.
After all, it wasn’t the President who patiently showed me how to bait a fishhook. Certainly the President had never set down his fly rod to calmly help me untangle a bird’s nest of fishing line in my backlashed spinning reel.
It wasn’t the President who taught me other important things a boy needs to know, like how to skip flat stones across the water; how to whistle; and how to pound nails without bending them.
The President never gave me a ginchy handcrafted wooden toolbox for my fifth birthday – or taught me funny old-fashioned words like “ginchy” which means “cool.”
“Grandpa, how come you don’t use worms like I do?” I once asked while “helping” him tie a fly in his basement fantasyland workshop of tools and endless jars filled with fishhooks, feathers, fur and other thing-a-ma-stuff.
“Oh, it takes a mighty skillful fisherman like yourself to catch a fish with a worm,” he answered. “That’s why you always catch big fish while I catch the little ones. I’d better stick to using flies if I want to have a chance to keep up with you.”
“Okay, Grandpa – but if you change your mind, I’ll share my worms with you.”
Grandpa shared lots of important things with me, like how to look a man in the eye when you shake hands; The Golden Rule; and that little boys in Russia are the same as little boys in America, this being during the Cold War.
“Which way is the wind blowing?” I would ask Grandpa whenever we went fishing. Before answering, he would moisten his index finger in his mouth and then dramatically extend it high in the air as I mimicked him.
Upon seeing which side of his finger-turned-weather-vane dried first, Grandpa would whistle-hum happily before responding: “I do believe it’s blowing from the west.”
Always, the wind was blowing from the west.
Always, this excited me and I would then recite by heart a poem Grandpa had taught me:
“When the wind is from the north, / The wise fisherman does not go forth.
“When the wind is from the south, / It blows the hook into the fish’s mouth.
“When the wind is from the east, / ’Tis not fit for man nor beast.
“But when the wind is from the west, / The fishing is the very best.”
Growing up, I wanted to be like Grandpa Ansel; six years ago, I truly became like him – a grandpa. With fishing as a metaphor, whenever we are together, I want my dear granddaughters Maya, Auden, and Amara to always feel like the wind is blowing from the west.
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Check out my memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” and my essay collection “Strawberries in Wintertime: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” …