“Hey buuuuuuddy!”
This is what I’d say when I saw my Pawpaw Bud. His actual name was Warner, but everybody called him Bud. He knew how to do everything, and I mean everything.
He and my grandmother were the resident managers at a resort on Snowshoe Mountain for many years, and in the off-season they would go down to their house in the valley. When they bought the house, it was a teeny little thing. Being the two most productive humans I have ever known, I like to think that they’d get down there exhausted after the busy ski season, put their feet up, drink some iced tea, watch the deer and the cats in front of their most beautiful mountain backdrop, and after only a moment, one would say to the other, “I’m bored. Let’s build a new dining room.”
The exchange I imagine can’t be too far off since that is what they did. Off-season after off-season they’d come down the mountain and start a project in the valley, never neglecting to also tend to the garden and the massive yard that came along with it, keep the house absolutely pristine, while having a steady stream of pies and breakfast pastries coming out of the kitchen at all times.
They did build a dining room one summer with bay windows that curved around most of the room and a built-in cherry wood buffet the length of the whole room. It was a charcuterie board’s dream home. Dining in style with a view, they must’ve imagined, and they sure did make it come true. One summer it was a wrap-around porch with two sets of stairs providing for us ample opportunity for the best hiding-and-seeking ever, and some real good porch sittin’ when we were ready to slow down. Then came the big one. They built an upstairs! A beautiful staircase that entered a second living area, a bathroom, and french doors that led into a bedroom built for a truly pampered houseguest. The view, impeccable. It was my favorite house, of all my houses - built with love from the teeniest beginnings.
Someone from above captured this picture, this moment in time, and I am overwhelmingly grateful for it.
Anyway, all this is to say that he was a really wonderful man, impressive and wonderful. He retired from the Air Force, he was a mechanic, a handyman, an architect, a contractor, electrician, plumber, and that’s definitely not even the half of it. He knew how to do everything. He was all kinds of renaissance. He was a really impressive husband to watch, an incredible father, and most definitely grandfather. He loved people, and was always the most genuinely happy when he was helping someone who needed his many talents to be put to work.
He lived in a lot of different places, but went to the prettiest place about twenty years ago. The resounding piece of his advice for me, “Go, and see, and do.” He must have said this all the time because there’s a decent amount of people in my family who quote these words often. It was the answer to many moments, and it still is.
To live a life that isn’t boring.
To see all that there is to see.
To do things that make you feel uncomfortable,
and then empowered.
To “abandon the idea that what you do has to be perfect,
and just do it!”
To go.
To never sit in the muck of a moment
that doesn’t work for you.
To appreciate different places,
different cultures,
different spices,
different love languages…
Wait, not like the five love languages. Like when you go somewhere and can only speak a little of the language, but you can somehow connect and communicate and love with a language that only the eyes and the hearts involved can understand. He said to go find that in five words. He was awesome.
Want to join me in my practice?
Write the advice that resonates, or draw it, or whittle it in wood. Something that pops in your head too often not to know that it was given and made for you. “Listen to the words that won’t go away,” my dear friend Anne has told me many times. They might be a theme of your life, or they might just be there so that you can remember someone with clearer eyes. In any case, see what happens when you let the silence of your thoughts meet your internal artist. You might find something in there that you hadn’t realized you already knew.
My Uncle Carl wrote this song with his daughter, Talisha. We’ll talk about him sometime in here, I’m sure. He is a life to document, and a travelin’ fool! It’s one of my favorite songs in the world, and it reminds me of my Pawpaw Bud. It’s bigger than just the words, and more important than just the sound. That’s one of the best things about music - it transcends, speaks to a soul, and becomes what the listener needs it to be. This one always makes me tear up, I’m doing it now actually. Peace, peace, peace, my friends.
