Here’s the mantle, as it’s been for years. That plaque in the background reads, “An old fisherman lives here, with the catch of his life.” Below, the unusually debonaire Hyatt E. Moore the 2nd. (I’m the 3rd, our son, the 4th, his, the 5th.)
My dad is 96. This is the year that we share the same numbers; I’m 69. If I’m cruising toward the penultimate stage of life, he’s in the ultimate. That’s in terms of quantity, not quality.
Happily he reads a lot, generally the same favorite books (Zane Grey). We play a couple of games of Rummikub on our weekly visits. Half the time he beats me. But he’s slowing down, way down. Watching it was at first disappointing, then instructive to me. The tower of strength and character I’d always looked up to, and sought counsel of at significant turning points, was no longer there.
Among other things, it’s made me see aging as something of a grace. Since we’re all here with a death sentence on our heads, at least the latter years bring with them a certain dullness, and a readiness for it. That’s how I see it with Dad.
Mom, at 94, and still living with Dad in their same house (with full-time care) may see it different; but she’s another story.
Lately on our visits I’ve taken to asking him things about his growing up years. A lot of it I’ve heard before, but not with that much attention. Realizing the source of these stories is almost gone, I probe. I get brief answers, maybe just one word, weakly stated, but, like I said, I already know some of them.
Though Dad’s degree was in electronic engineering, he had abilities in about ten other areas. One was painting. I never thought the paintings were that great, and maybe he didn’t either, but he enjoyed making them.
The one hanging above the mantel since I was a boy (I grew up in that same house) is of the homestead territory in Wyoming. He spent his boyhood years there. By the time he took the picture, years later on a return visit, there was nothing left of the house and buildings his dad had built.
But I look at it now and I marvel. Actually my grandfather (Hyatt E. Moore the 1st) was a railroad man out of Rollins. He had a wife and seven kids to feed and, times being what they were, applied for and got this mile-square plot of neighborless, over-cold or over-hot, windblown wild-land, a two-day buckboard ride from Rollins, the nearest town.
He dug a well, built a log cabin (with what logs, Dad? I see no trees in the painting), raised potatoes and whatnot, got fish from the tiny stream, and generally had a great time.
Right!
All the fun was had between chores by those five boys and later two girls, romping around in that wilderness of arrowheads and rattlesnakes. The hard truth is that to make a living Hyatt the 1st had to keep working the railroad, or be on standby in town, which meant the hearty Madge Comer Moore, my grandmother, did most of the non-stop work.
There’s more, like a small book’s worth of stories that will never be written. My dad, for all his gifts, wasn’t a writer; besides he never saw it as anything extraordinary.
It all may be why, as I think about it now, he likes those Zane Gray westerns so much.
I know one thing: I’ve grown to appreciate that painting over the mantle like never before.
Our Lives Together
Its About Life
10:15 am
Tremendous, Hyatt. Thanks for your perspective on the seasons of life–and for nudging us to dig for the treasure in earlier generations while we can.
10:35 am
Ah, those pictures (photos and non-photos) are the ones that last way into the eternal images of our minds. Maybe, Hyatt, from your dad’s painting was sprinkled enough creative water to help grow that seed of art that was in you. That seed eventually blossomed into the wonderful craft with which you bless us in so many ways. Those loved ones on the hearth smiling into your heart, saying, “Go for it son or daughter, and be sure to pass on the gifts handed down from generation to generation!”
I also love it, Hyatt, that you pass on that name legacy going from the 1st, to the 2nd, to the 3rd, to the 4th, to the 5th, to the… You get the drift.
Hyatt the 3rd, thanks for sharing your rich family legacy with us.
10:40 am
I absolutely love the painting above the mantle, Hyatt. It breathes of the Great Plains vastness, a statement of God’s huge love. My dad, Jack Huie, passed away this last August, as you know, and was almost 98. To think the both of them were that close in age, sharing ninety-some years of history together. At 62, I feel like such a young lad in comparison! You’re choosing to move in close with your dad in these years. Wise choice. Thanks for sharing.
10:45 am
A love story indeed. Thanks for sharing.
11:18 am
Paid detailed attention. He’s got me by the 20 years my PSA numbers tell me I won’t reach Between Randy Alcorn’s excellent stuff on Heaven (etc.,etc.) and my own heavy devotion to Trailside Companion (once call My Manifesto) as a legacy document for my grandkids and theirs, I am paying close (often joyful) attention to the hour glass. My new glasses could see it more clearly, but didn’t change the slow, inevitable trickle, much like yesterday’s chemo therapy infusion getup. You story tells me what I was missing about our kinship. I could picture past the painting. Our big logs came from Montana, but by three big logging trucks. My bet is he used two mules and 20 trips from around the back of the mountain. Onliest thing I have left to suggest for him (the small booklet on Heaven by Alcorn would be a bonus offer) is Louise Lamoure. Soninlaw reads them when stuck in traffic, on long trail rides or when a client doesn’t show. He’s gone through all of them twice or more and pretty much lives that life. I do vicariously by buying a gnarly Gus hat xackly like his…I just can’t get it that dirty, cooool dirty, like with real sweat and hay dust.
For the interested I finally posted on http://www.Gendads.com. It’s a description of our 12-cum-13’s manhood journey to SoCal. What a week that was.
12:48 pm
Gary, you make your cancer sound like an adventure. Brave man. Dad, by the way, also read all the Louis L’Amour books multiple times. Thanks for the link to your blog.
3:07 pm
Good one, Hyatt!
I keep on reminding the Golden Agers in the churches I speak in that they are the library of stories their descendants need to hear. Especially God-stories, answers to prayer, help through hard times, blessings of health, need to be passed on to children and grandchildren, by biblical command. I often teach workshops to the older folk on how to remember and write up the basic outline of God-stories to be passed on to those who will benefit by them and who will praise God for His blessings to their ancestors.
Jack
4:41 pm
Just lovely. Where do your parents live? Lately, to me it seems there are so many stories that should be recorded that would take up so much time, so I feel the need to go through life with my eyes wide open and just try to get the fullest experience as I go.
5:46 pm
Since 1955 they’ve lived in Palos Verdes Estates, California, after stints in Wisconsin and New Jersey (and a period in Paradise, CA, where he built a house). But I’ve aways been sort of proud of those rugged Wyoming roots.
6:20 pm
Hyatt, I love this one. Touches my heart and hits me where I live. I lost my Dad when he was just 65. I cherish the stories he told me growing up and I miss his laugh, and the unconditional love that a Daddy has for his girl. After he died, my interest in hearing the old family stories was keen, and I turned to my wonderful uncles (his brothers) to get their stories. Together we flipped through old photo albums, me asking questions, they reminiscing. I got it on tape and I so love to listen to them banter. I hope one of these days to create a little movie….their voices over images they are discussing.
Out of one of those wonderful evenings came the name “Hyatt Moore”, as it turns out Hyatt #1. Which led to a two minute internet search and to you. I’ve so enjoyed each one of your posts and getting to know your story. Maybe a little bit of my Dad’s hand in that….or maybe not. Well, I like to hold onto that thought anyway. Nice to get these pearls of wisdom every few days….they never fail to pop up, just as I need them to.
9:58 pm
Thank you for another great read. We just got back from an unexpected trip to Chicago to see Randy’s Dad. He’s 97 and bounced back again. The Energizer Bunny has nothing on him. By the time it was time to come home, he was telling & retelling favorite old stories. Some of the particulars change from telling to telling, but no mind. It’s fun to watch him enjoy the telling. May God bless these Dads!
6:31 am
Thank you Hyatt. My Dad passed the December before we moved to Florida. So many times I wish I could talk to him. I’m really looking forward to seeing him again in Heaven.
9:15 am
Such a wonderful tribute to your dad. Some day that
painting will probably come to you……I feel I could
hear the sadness in your words…..maybe I’m wrong?
God has given both your parents such long lives, & in
the same home!!!! Outstanding!
My mom is 94 years old lives in Washington State in a
nursing home.
Love,
Barbara Mitchiner
9:23 am
What you said is important, Hyatt, and you said it so well! We lived out of the US for a long time but were back for nine years before my Dad died at age 98. During those last years I listened in a new way to his life story as well as his stories of the pioneers he knew who settled Eastern Washington. I finally realized this personal history was going to be lost when I died so wrote it down for my family. The farm house we grew up in is still there and occupied by my brother. Thank you for your writing.
10:19 am
I never knew that about that painting either, Dad. It served as a special memory of childhood to him all those years above the mantle, whereas to us it was just a random landscape. And suddenly the Zane Grey books make more sense as well. I have enjoyed seeing Grandpa go over and over the stack of old photographs kept near his elbow, most of them his young family and old pictures of Grandma when she was barely an adult. And his “spot’ is actually facing this painting. How wonderful to think of him spending these quiet and slow days surrounded by his favorite memories.
10:36 am
Beautiful comment, Allison. You should write more.