An Inadequate Tribute

Last week I had a chance to remember Clement Joe Slowey, my grandfather. Here is a picture that shows a couple things I loved about him.





Notice his smile and his wave. Classic Grampa Joe. When my family would come to visit, he always had that smile and that same closed-finger wave. Looking at this picture I can almost imagine I am approaching him and hearing him say his patented, “ho hoooOOO!” I felt warm all over when I heard it—his wordless expression was a sign that he was excited for our arrival.

Grampa Joe always seemed to move young to me. He was almost, oh, I don’t know, spritely for an older man, perhaps a function of his height (he was about five foot seven), or more likely, a result of his energy. He was an avid reader, inventor of a board game, a birdwatcher, a storyteller, a banana bread baker, and the most sincere giver of prayers I ever heard. He always began his prayers by talking to God as if He himself were in the room. “God,” he’d say in a colloquial tone, “it sure is nice for us to be together…”

Time softened Grampa Joe. Toward the end of his life he would take me aside and speak to me one on one, grabbing me in a one-armed bear hug, bringing me close to his eyes, and telling me how proud he was of me and my brothers. And then he’d get misty-eyed and tell me again.

And so this last week my brother Craig, whose special relationship with Gramps deserves more time than I can offer here, got into the warm water of the San Diego Temple baptismal font. My father joined him to serve as proxy for my grandfather. And so, as Mormons do, my brother baptized my father in behalf of my grandfather. It is our tradition, a Mormon belief, that all need baptism and that all can accept baptism, even after they have died. And so it was this belief that brought my oldest brother and my father to that place, dressed in white, my father rising out of the water after being fully immersed. I couldn’t attend, but that evening I imagined how it must have felt for Craig to lift my Dad out of the water, my grandmother looking on. She explained to me in a phone call later that week that she felt my grandfather's presence throughout the week. I don’t doubt it.

Grampa Joe: banana bread baker, birdwatcher, world traveler, husband, cancer fighter.

Grandfather.

HohoooOOO to you Grampa Joe. I’ll see you soon.

Until then: DDAD.

identities gained, identity lost

Married life kinda gave me a left hook.

Six months ago, I decided to take the plunge, not realizing it would submerge me into so many identities that I would feel as if I didn't have any. From one day to the next I went from Provo's patron saint of single life (they were building a statue, I swear) to a father of three and a husband of well, you know, her.

Her.

That girl that everyone talks about. That girl that laughs and you hope it is because of something you said. That girl that has her choice of guys. The one that knows how to play with you, knows how to talk with you, and knows how to live. That girl. Yeah. Go ahead and think it. I'm lucky.

So about that plunge and left hook. It isn't that I expected things to be perfect. I expected that things would change and change drastically. I just didn't expect me to seem less me.

So here's the scenario. I'm sitting with Dixie's family who(m) I finally (FINALLY!) feel comfortable with. I can laugh with them, I can listen--I've even performed a song or two. We're family. So I find it the strangest feeling when, that night, I don't have anything to say. I just sit there like a big doofus watching other people be funny and share and laugh. When I open my mouth, I hesitate. I'm like the guy that arrives late at a dinner party and doesn't know if the joke he opens his mouth to share was already told. I'm the guy who tries to break in with an "um," "well," "uh," but is just a step late, a step behind the flow of traffic. I'm the guy that thinks of something to say about one topic when the conversation is already two topics further down the line. It is then I realize that I don't recognize myself. I've never been that guy.

You see, as a single guy, I had all these conversations--ALL these stories. I was, and I hate how superficial this is going to make me sound, I was smooth.

(James Bond here pretty much represents my relative smoothness level at the time)


Oh yes, I could tell a story. Oh yes, I could be funny. Oh yes, I knew just how to relate to that group. I had read all the books they read and knew all the theories that they were learning in school. For Pete's sake, I was teaching at BYU and gave assignments in the stuff they wanted to talk about. So, as a result, I could command a crowd and lead a discussion. And all of this because I was so intimately acquainted with Provo single life. Wanna know something sad about me? While most Provo residents experience single college life for 2-4 years, I experienced it for twelve (I hang my head in shame).

But at least, at LEAST, I knew what the heck I was doing.

And now I'm here.

From one day to the next, I don't know what the heck I'm doing--although I will give myself some credit--I'm doing it all with gusto. I'm a repairman, a painter, a fort-maker, a grilled cheese flipper, a cockroach killer, a ward clerk (thanks a lot, Tony), a bedtime storyteller, and , of all things, a copier salesman. I mean, really, a copier salesman? Who wants to talk to me about copiers over dinner? "The Xerox 5225 comes with a 100-sheet duplexing automatic document feeder." Ugh. I bore myself.

And I'm constantly doing instead of thinking now. I'm picking up toys, running errands, taking Livy to school, packing lunches, making 50 phone calls a day to businessmen who don't want to speak with me. I haven't had a coherent thought in 6 months.

And why endure the shame of my uncoolness--my unsmoothness? Why in the world would I let myself get so punch drunk with left hooks?

Have I mentioned her?