The Things We Pass On

My dad is a great and talented guy, and has passed a lot of gifts on to his offspring. I’d say my sister got his keen intelligence and compassion for other people, which is exemplified in her deep concern for her patients in her medical practice. My brother Greg got his love of knowledge and reading and the ability to teach with passion and dedication. My younger brother Nathan, got his handsome boyish looks, great hair and an empathetic heart for the downtrodden. He is the consummate activist, and if there is a protest, a sit in or and walk-a-thon, there you will find Nathan.

I got dad’s athletic prowess and his fine carpentry skills.
To give you an idea of the breath of this legacy, my dad lettered in wrestling at St Olaf College. This feat was done without him wrestling a single match, as no competitor ever made my dad’s light weight class. He had an undefeated record on sheer forfeits. I too lettered, though in High School. and incidentally… in music. When Henry and I go to the playground to shoot hoops, sometimes we’ll play “elephant” instead of “horse” just to keep me in the game a little longer. And instead of me explaining the intricacies of football plays, it is Henry or Scott who needs to remind me whether they are playing innings, quarters or periods.

When I was a kid I asked my dad to build me a playhouse. He spent hours in our damp garage planning and building me a simple wooden structure. I remember when it was almost finished, he carried out to the yard and finished off the roof and walls. In my mind, it was the greatest thing since Frank Lloyd Wright’s “Falling Water” plus I had a vivid imagination and was able to see all the possibilities it could be. With the first strong wind it promptly blew over, which gives you an idea of it’s substance. But dad figured out how to stake it down and it became the source of great adventures. That wooden house with the sharply pitched plywood roof, was a fort, a lemonade stand and a jail during many hours of play. Even when our wealthy neighbors brought in contractors to construct a playhouse with two floors, glass windows, a shingled roof and a Dutch door, we still loved our little lean-to. But sadly, when we had a moving sale a few years later, it was snatched up by a man who promptly broke it apart for scrap wood.

As a kid, I had my own hand at light construction. My best friend Peter Ylvisaker and I built what to us was a tree house that was rivaled only by the Swiss Family Robinson. It was comprised of several platforms hammered on to three scrappy crabapple trees, precariously connected by thin pine boards wedged into the crooks of the branches. To our dismay, one afternoon we found that it had been dismantled by our parents and was reduced to a pile of lumber at the base of the tree. Knowing my folks general laissez faire attitude towards their kid’s safety, I’m guessing it was the concerns of Peter’s dad who brought it to my parent’s attention. But I harbor no hard feelings.

This spring I asked Henry what he wanted for his upcoming birthday. And to my surprise he asked if we could finish off part of the basement for a man-cave for him. We’ve always lived in great houses, but never one that had a true game room where he could set up his trains, racetrack or with space for a ping pong table. I tried to explain that converting our pre-civil war stone-walled and damp basement into anything that resembled the beautiful finished basements of his suburban-living school chums, was not financially in the cards. But I decided to see what I could do with those great carpentry skills I inherited from my dad. I’ve been secretly working diligently for the past two months cleaning, painting and planning out the space. I’ve dug out tools and made numerous trips to Home Depot and Killians Hardware and sought the advice of sympathetic salespeople.

I’ll be honest, I realized that what I got from my dad has nothing to do with carpentry skills what-so-ever. I’m sure if a building or fire inspector saw my work this building site would be shut down as fast as the tree house Peter and I built. But what I inherited was the same desire to do right by my son. I might not have the ability to cut a straight line. I may break five drill bits before I realize it’s the wrong kind. And I may have killed off several million brain cells by painting without proper ventilation. I can’t predict what a twelve year old kid is going to think about his basement get-a-way. But I hope he’ll eventually understand what it meant to me and what I got out of at least trying to build this special place for him. He’s not going to come out of this family a crackerjack carpenter, but maybe he’ll learn about being a visionary. And despite my complete lack of athletic skills, I hope when he is playing with his kids, he’ll remember playing elephant with his papa. That like my dad and wrestling, it’s all about showing up. It’s about being there. Those things are the legacy of my dad.