Men Who Loved Me: Part 1

1941 Chevrolet dashboard. Photo: Jesse Mortensen

When I recall the men who loved me, I think of my maternal grandfather. Ours was a silent bond, cemented by actions, not words. He taught me to shoot using his double barrel 12 gauge shotgun, let me drive his truck off road, and, on rare occasions late at night, I was admitted into a circle of itinerant men gathered around a coal stove listening to him share stories about the Great War. 

Once, when we drove into town for supplies, my grandfather pulled off the road next to a field of ripening wheat rippling in the autumn breeze like waves on a green lake.. “Look at that wheat, Stevie,” he said. He admired the scene’s beauty in the moment, as an artist might—a thing apart from his appreciation of it as the son of a farmer. I did look at it, and learned the lesson he taught me, that it was okay to take time out to witness miracles. More important, he showed me that it was okay for a man to acknowledge beauty.

My mother’s two brothers also contributed to my boyhood education. My uncles did their best to indoctrinate me into their version of manhood by helping me drink Genesee Beer to the point of intoxication at the local beer joint, refining my sharpshooting skills on tin can and beer bottle targets, letting my 12-year-old self drive their odd assortment of cars—one of which was the first Edsel in town, and allowing me to witness at least one of their rodeo driving tricks: changing drivers in a 1941 sedan from the back seat to the front at 50 mph on a hilly backroad. 

In perfect sync, Uncle C pulled out the choke to keep the accelerator depressed, pushed open the driver’s door as Uncle H exited the back door and walked along the running board to the front, where he slipped behind the wheel at the same time Uncle C climbed into the backseat to sit next to me. 

Then there was the time I had a bicycle accident that shattered my wrist. Uncle H carried me in his arms from the street where I lay in a bloody heap to the doctor’s office downtown.

I was laid out on an exam table while my uncle administered ether by dripping it drop by drop from the bottle onto a piece of gauze laid over my nose and mouth.The small town doctor performed a miracle by piecing my broken bones together without the benefit of x-rays. 

Despite their own hardships, my grandfather and my uncles gave me bountiful gifts of love, dignity and acceptance. When I needed them, they rescued me and protected me from evil. 

They were men who loved me.

—Stephen Newton