His name was Red.
In a familiar summer ritual of my childhood, Dad pulled his worn blue Chevy pickup into the lumberyard, and I followed him inside. A bell jingled as we entered, and from behind a counter, an older man with ginger hair and a quick smile said, “Hey Keith.”
They chatted amiably. Dad asked Red how “the boys” and “the shop” were doing. Red asked how things were going at the local high school where my Dad held court as the most popular and tenured teacher.
Eventually, Dad pulled out his ever-present notebook from the breast pocket of his work shirt and rattled off the supplies he needed for his current job. He ran a one-man (plus me) construction company during the summer to supplement his teaching income. Nodding, Red said, “Pull around back, and the boys will load you up. I’ll put it on your account.”
His name was Buck.
As a kid, I’d often follow my dad into the little gun shop in my hometown. I loved the smell of the place, a heady mix of oil and wood and blued metal. I liked counting the number of antler points on the deer heads mounted on the wall.
Behind the long counter stood Buck, his bald pate gleaming above his dark beard and glasses. I never saw him without his black leather vest. “Hey Keith,” he called out. He and Dad would chat about the news, the latest business to open in town, and the local school board.
Eventually, Dad would tell Buck the part he needed for a gun repair he was doing for a neighbor. Gun-smithing is another of my dad’s many talents. Buck would retrieve the part and say, “I’ll put it on your account, Keith.” We’d climb back in the truck, and if I was lucky, we’d go to McDonalds, the only fast food joint in town, for my favorite, a plain hamburger.
I remember those days fondly, mostly for the time spent with my dad, but also for the ways things worked. When jobs and daily errands often involved community and mutually supportive relationships. Where people knew each other’s names and were appropriately familiar with each other’s lives.
That’s largely missing today in our online-retail-big-chain-store-global economy. There are great advantages to those things, of course, but let’s not pretend that something good hasn’t been lost.
My daughter Kennedy and son-in-law Sam have chosen to live in a small town. They walk their dogs in their quiet neighborhood and stop to chat with neighbors. There’s a weekly “dog park play date” in Evelyn’s fenced backyard, where everyone’s dogs romp and wrestle while the humans chat about John and Maisey’s downstairs renovations, Bill’s latest work trip, and Sarah’s preparations for her bike ride across France. Kennedy and Sam shop at the local hardware store where you get a free bag of popcorn at the door. They trade Kennedy’s homemade sourdough for fresh eggs from Carson and Carley’s chicken coop.
I’m proud of them. At young ages, they’ve recognized the importance of community. Relationships. Mutual support. Their lives stir those fond memories of how my dad lived fifty years ago. It gives me hope and makes me smile.
In our nomadic life, Lisa and I enjoy traveling the world, living on cruise ships, wandering global cities, and hiking beautiful places. That said, there’s something healthy and grounding about coming back to our daughter’s neighborhood, about living small and in community with these people who have adopted us as honorary-sometimes-residents. It’s a good life.
As you enjoy the gifts that modern times can bring, I’d encourage you to join me in looking for ways to slow down. To live smaller. Live simpler. Live in community. To take a lesson from my dad and Kennedy and Sam. I think your life will be richer for it, and you’ll take another step toward Becoming Yourself.
