A Long-Ago Father's Day

Grandpa and the 10 Tobys (all of his dogs were named Toby) observed every Father's Day with their own tradition, and one year in the mid-'60s, they brought me along. Grandpa said, "It's time you understood this day. It for sure ain't about gifts." He hated receiving Father's Day gifts, and it had been years since we tried to give him anything aside from a home-cooked meal. "Presents are fine for Mother's Day," he said. "Moms everywhere deserve the attention. But Father's Day is about history. You can't figure out who you are without knowing where you came from. Dads pass their last names down from generation to generation for a reason."
They picked me up in Grandpa's big International Harvester pickup truck, all the Tobys climbing over each other in the back, positioning for the best views and scents. It was a farm truck and looked like it had seen battlefield service, its most significant scar a scraping dent along the side. I always ran my hand over that damage because I considered it mine. The year before, I had been playing in the cab with all the Tobys while Grandpa was occupied with a load of cinderblocks he'd just removed from the back, and as we wrestled around, we hit the gear shift, accidentally discovering how to put it in neutral.
It was parked at the top of the path to the barn, but not for long. When gravity pulled us down the hill, I stood on the seat and did my best to steer, but the nine-year-old muscles at my disposal were inadequate to affect the truck's direction. The dogs tried to help via rapt observation and drool, and as we accelerated and they realized what was coming, two Tobys pulled me onto the seat and lay on top of me. We crashed into the side of the hay baler and tumbled to the floor as Grandpa chased us down the hill on foot. It was my first experience driving, and that dent was a symbol of my growing maturity.
You can't figure out who you are without knowing where you came from.
Grandpa puffed at his Falcon pipe and admired the new damage. "Nice," he said. "Gives the old girl even more character." Though the truck was covered with minor disfigurements, Grandpa declared this dent his favorite, and I was proud to contribute to his collection.

I didn't know where we were going on this excursion, but soon recognized the route, and soon the village cemetery floated into view. I'd been there only once and didn't know why it was significant for Father's Day.
Grandpa parked and lit a bowl of Granger, which the Tobys recognized as permission to wander. They leaped from the back and ran across the grounds, converging at one spot they seemed to recognize. Grandpa, however, led me in a different direction, and we were soon standing at a grave with a large, weathered headstone.
"I come here every Father's Day," he said, "and it's time you start to learn why. This is your great-great-grandfather. He ran a lumberyard. He made his own maple syrup and could sing folksongs that would make you cry. He died in 1942 when his car went off the road and hit a tree."
Though the truck was covered with minor disfigurements, Grandpa declared this dent his favorite,
I digested that information. "Do you think the tree was getting revenge?" I asked.
Grandpa blinked, then laughed. "I guess that's possible, but unlikely. I don't think trees obsess over the nature of lumberyards, and they liked him fine."
We stepped to a pair of ornate headstones a few feet away. Musical notes were carved across both. "These are my parents," said Grandpa. "They ran a music store and we lived in an apartment above it. My dad was heavily interested in local politics and was often frustrated. I loved to hear him rant night after night about whatever injustices were bothering him at the time."

"What happened?"
"I was away on a camping trip when the building burned down. They didn't make it."
Grandpa emptied his pipe and filled it with Carter Hall. The dogs recognized that aroma as meaning "heel" and came racing back, sitting around us in a circle. I traced my finger across a quotation carved into the smooth granite of my great-grandfather's headstone.
"What does this mean?"
"That was his favorite quote. He said it was the greatest epitaph ever written, so I borrowed it from Jonathan Swift when I ordered these monuments."
It said, "He has gone where savage indignation can no longer rend his heart."
"'Rend?' What's that mean?"
Grandpa signaled the Tobys, and they became alert.
"Toby," he said, and pointed at a dried and withered bouquet of flowers at the grave. "Rend!"
The dogs pounced on the bouquet and ripped it apart, pulling on the stalks in a tug-of-war and obliterating the remnants.
"That's rend."
I was a little embarrassed that the dogs possessed a better vocabulary than I. "Oh. I guess he really hated politics."
Grandpa chuckled. "You could say that."
The Tobys, with nothing else to destroy, stayed close but meandered around, finding rabbit scents and interesting beetles to molest as they went.
"This is an interesting headstone," said Grandpa, moving a few steps away. "Not a relative. This is Marvin Winthorpe, the village jokester. His kids still run his dairy farm on Old Church Road, but they aren't as funny."
The dogs pounced on the bouquet and ripped it apart,
I read the stone. "Please move a little to your left," it said. "You're standing on my face."
After jumping off the grave, I realized that I'd been fooled and thought it was the most hilarious thing I'd ever encountered. "You can joke with headstones?"
"You can do anything you like. Lots of headstones reflect a little of the person's personality. Here's Mrs. Winthorpe next to her husband, and she had a sense of humor, too." Her stone read, "I always suspected this would happen."
"One of these would make a great gift," I said. "I got my dad a squirt gun for Father's Day so we can have water battles, but now I'm thinking I should get him a headstone. Do they sell them here?"
"I don't know about that idea; people can be particular about their headstones, and they're pretty expensive. You might want to postpone that plan."
"I'll save up for next year. Where's Grandma?"
Grandpa paused. He didn't talk much about Grandma, though my mom said he missed her. She died before I was born.
"She's with her parents, over there where the dogs like to hang out. But this is Father's Day, not Mother's Day. We should go."
"I'd like to say Hi as long as we're here." Grandpa thought for a moment and nodded, and we walked up the hill to a tall, white monument with a cross on top and a concrete visitor's bench in front of it. The inscription said, "She loved and was loved."
"How did she die? I asked Mom and Dad, but they say it's your story to tell."
"It's a hard story, best saved for another time."
I wouldn't let up, though. "I'd like to know. I never got to meet her."
we walked up the hill to a tall, white monument
Grandpa sat on the bench. "Okay, I guess it's natural for you to be curious, but I don't want to talk about it after this." I nodded and sat next to him.
"It's almost silly. Your grandmother loved animals. I'm still surprised we never had pets of our own. She was always finding injured chipmunks and possums and nursing them back to health. She saved an owl caught in barbed wire once, and it was very vocal. We couldn't sleep until we'd healed and freed it because of all the hooting.
"We were driving to the village, and she saw a young collarless dog on the side of the road, so I stopped the truck. We could never leave strays; she rescued them all. I offered to chase the dog, but she said I'd scare it, so she dashed across the road, and it came to her as if they were old friends. She scooped it up: a handsome little shepherd/husky mix, blue eyes and everything. She was so delighted that she didn't see the car she stepped in front of. When I got to her, the puppy was unhurt, and she pushed it toward me. 'Don't blame the dog,' she said. 'You should name him Toby.' She smiled and was gone."
He didn't look at me; he just stared at the headstone. I guessed that Grandma wanted him to have the dog in her absence. A lot of questions I didn't know I had were answered.
Grandpa lit his Carter Hall, and the Tobys jostled close to us as we walked back to the truck. "A place like this," he said, "is a comfort. It reminds us of all the lifetimes that came before, lifetimes of hardship and joy, misery and triumph, labor and celebration, lived day by day to build a world and family for us. Every family is different, but that's what we celebrate on Father's Day."
We could never leave strays; she rescued them all.
I didn't think about it much back then, but in later years, I decided that Grandpa's Father's Day visits to the cemetery weren't as much about connecting with his forefathers as he thought. The mixture of joy and sorrow is difficult, and I think he was driven to relive becoming the father of an inevitable and never-ending pack of good Tobys.
Comments
This story was pretty good it seemed like I was right there with them.
Reminded me of a dog I owned long long ago, Bock, an old mustard -colored terrier that was loyal to the end. I was in a secondhand bookstore that day when for some unknown reason a guy was winding up to throw a book bomb at me. Bock, sensing the danger, lunged at the would-be assasin and sunk his jaws into the man's leg. The book detonated and took them both out. Dogs can be such loyal companions. Sometimes when I visit the used bookstore I can feel Bock's presence. I swear that Bookshop is Haunted. This was a good Father's Day read, and I laughed at the tombstone inscriptions.
In memory of Bock, please purchase a Lost & Found: Give a B*CK cigar for the Canine Cause. Your psychic reach seems to be layered and far reaching...but these words are just words... concepts... things...mystical...perhaps nothing...
No, no, I believe synchronicity is at play here. Coined by Carl Jung, I believe... something about collective consciousness, the universe, and being interconnected...goes beyond the definition. In Buddhism there's a saying to treat everyone as if they're your mother because in a past life we are all each other's mother at some point...and I would apply that to fathers, also.
In memory of Bock, purchase a Lost & Found: Give a B*CK cigar for the Canine Cause. Coincidence...probably nothing đŸ˜‰
I find myself reading this only days following my father's passing and with emotions raw I found it beautiful. My mind has been filled with a tornado of memories and emotions as expected, though I had not expected to be dealing with this at all. I think that's how it goes, no one plans for death like other events of our lives, and once we realize "Oh, that was today?!" all we can do is hold onto the times we had with them and the knowledge they imparted. Thank you for sharing. It brought a tear to my eye, and a smile to my face, and warmth to my heart.
Excellent Story... We need to hear and pass on more like it. I don't consider myself a good story teller... but my favorite Uncle Joe was a good one... and I remember sitting at my Aunt Dorthy and Uncle Joe's table listening to him tell his stories and my Aunt raising her eyebrows.
They have both passed from this life to their next.
Blessings...
Wow! What a Father’s Day story! Chuck, when I was in the 5th or 6th grade, circa 1953, I learned to drive a 1949 International pickup in a plowed field. Tom told me to go get the pickup. I told him, I don’t know how to drive. He replied, you will by the time you get here. That’s how I learned.
Love those old International pickups.
Dang it Chuck! I wasn't planning on shedding tears today. I've been reading and loving your Grandpa stories for quite some time. I love them. I can see them as if they're a recurring segment on a TV show.
Yesterday marked one year since my mom's passing. This edition of Grandpa and the Tobys really hit home.
What a wonderful story. Well told!
Sherwood Anderson would be envious of such a beautifully written story!
This is really well written! Thanks for posting.
I always wondered about the Tobys and never expected to know the secret of their name.
Absolutely terrific story, Chuck.
Dear Mr. Stanion, I belatedly wish you a happy Father's Day. Another excellent story that had me blinking wetly. Thank you for your gift of the printed word. Kind regards.
A heartfelt reflection, It’s a reminder that connection and legacy go beyond time.