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Words by Jack MacTavish
“Here you go, Pop.”
I handed my dad the rectangular box that I had carefully wrapped several weeks previously and hidden away under my bed. The family sat around the living room of our small ranch house on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. It was cold outside, and the wind howled across the flat 2 acres that had been my home for the last 10 years or so. I will always remember moving in. I was 8 years old at the time. There was no carpet or hard woods, just particle board sub-flooring. The only room that had unfinished drywall on it was Pop and Mom’s. The outside walls didn’t even have insulation, just bare plywood. My two brothers and I each had our own small bedrooms, and we could walk through the 2 x 4 studs to play with one another. At the time, it wasn’t even heated, now on Christmas morning, a woodstove burned in the next room, glowing, keeping my parents, my 2 younger brothers, and I warm. The house wasn’t much when we moved in, but it was ours, a piece of the American dream.
Our living conditions improved over time. Paycheck, to paycheck, Pop added drywall, flooring. Eventually, some of us got carpet. Everyone pitched in. At the time, I didn’t realize how poor we were. Over my childhood and early teen years, Pop taught me how to use a hammer, I learned how to connect pipes, plumbing the house. Often, he and I labored late into the night, working by the shaky beam of a flashlight or the headlights of the family car. Like every other Gen X kid, I got yelled at a lot. Fortunately, life wasn’t all work. I was surrounded by the Eastern Shore of Maryland. Hunting and fishing were part of the fabric of life, and Pop was a good teacher and an accomplished outdoorsman. I was often rewarded for my work around the house with a pack of BB’s and an admonishment to be home by dark. I would quickly head out to the woods or the Choptank River, a Red Ryder, a “Camper’s Knife” and often a book. I would prowl the local woods and waters. Many times, I would end up under a tree reading a book, living an adventure through the eyes of the characters of the books I read.
I looked over at my Pop, who for the first time in my life I saw crying.
“I knew what this was the second you handed it to me.” Pop said, sniffing. He carefully removed the paper. Inside, an M-1 Rifle lay nestled in brown paper. The same type of rifle he carried for 4 years in the Marine Corps. Pop looked over at me, looking me in the eye, man to man.
“Thank-you.”
“You’re welcome.” I mumbled. I was eighteen. The previous summer, at 17, I had left the Eastern Shore for the first time in my young life. Army Basic training had been challenging, but I had learned discipline, hard work, and how to shoot from the man who was holding the same type of rifle that he had first touched in 1959 as a Marine boot on Parris Island.
“I’ve got something for you.” Pop looked over at Mom, grinning. Little did we all know at the time that the cancer that would take her life just 3 years later was already growing inside.
Pop handed me a small box. I ripped into it, unsure of what it was. Inside, was a Seiko Dive Watch. A 7C43-7009, Professional Diver. I know now that it’s a Pepsi. At the time, it was the most expensive gift I had ever received. I had seen the watch on the wrist of the men I had admired during my training in the Army. Seiko’s were ubiquitous in the mid 80’s on the wrists of Soldiers and Marines. A 1980’s Seiko, in my eyes was the mark of an adventurer, the mark of a professional soldier. They were the mark of a man. Proper equipment for a proper adventure.
“Thanks Pop.” I looked down at the heavy stainless steel diver strapped to my wrist. I looked over at my mom.
“Thanks Mom.” I would be wearing the watch just over a year later at Fort Benning when I would learn that Mom “had a little mass” in her abdomen. I was wearing it on the second time that I saw my father cry- the night Mom died.
That little house, built on a corner of a former cornfield was an amazing home. Constructed bit by bit, dollar by dollar. As a kid, I watched Pop straighten nails, never wasting a thing. I remember skipping school to help Pop and my Uncle Ron, a former 82d Airborne Division medic, hang aluminum siding. Mom brought us bologna sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and coffee in a mason jar. I didn’t know it at the time, but while we were building the house, I was being slowly built into a man by my Pop. Family gatherings were frequent, fueled by spaghetti dinners and stories. Invariably, I would end up sitting, listening to the older generation tell stories about far off places and hunting and fishing trips long since passed.
I cherish our family history. Much of that history, and the stories that are told around the kitchen table were linked to military service and growing up during tough times. Pop was left fatherless at the age of 10. He was largely raised by his grandfather. My great-grandfather, who married the 14 year old daughter of a Scottish Immigrant, understood hard work. After fighting in World War I, he returned home to Maine where he cut a cord of wood every day for a dollar until he had saved enough to buy his first farm. My Pop’s father, my grandfather, was older, and from what family lore tells us, was somewhat of a black sheep. He was born in 1896 and was in the Coast Guard around the first World War. My mother and father’s uncles all fought in World War II, and though they didn’t talk a lot about the war, pride in military service was something that seemed to be part of our family’s heritage. My younger brothers and I refer to the military as “the family business.” Pop was a Marine. I’m a Paratrooper. My middle brother is a Paratrooper. My youngest brother is a Marine. His youngest son is a Marine and his oldest son will soon be a Naval Officer. Interestingly, Pop never told me or my brothers to join the military. When the time came, each of us made the decision to serve on our own.
As I look back on that cold Christmas morning in 1988, I’m grateful for a father that gave us the gift of a hard work ethic and the toughness that was handed down from the generations of family that came before us. Unfortunately, as young men, we were left without a mother at an early age. My sister-in-law recently pointed out that we had to succeed. We simply had no soft place to land. Fortunately, we were well equipped for the task by the man I remember tearfully holding that M-1 rifle in his hands in a simple ranch house built with his own two hands. I think the rifle reminded him of the adventures of his youth, adventures like the Bay of Pigs and Laos and other places around the globe. Currently, the M1 is in still in his gun safe, and I still have the Seiko. The watch is mostly retired now, although I still bring it out from time to time. It’s been worn on adventures around the world. It sits by my desk when I write. It’s a tool that has been with me during the highs and lows of my life- war and peace, love and anger. Sorrow and joy.
Pop is still with us. At 83, he’s still going strong, and despite having had 3 heart attacks, all on boats, which for a former boat captain, is probably about par for the course. He’s a master storyteller, and published his first book, Tales from the Eastern Shore, last year. He’s writing a follow up book now. Pop is a great-grandfather, and I am grateful for the knowledge and lessons he still passes on to me on our daily talks.
I’m grateful for the love, work ethic, the toughness that I grew up with. I’m grateful for my father’s gift of story-telling. One day, and I hope it’s years from now, that surplus M1 rifle, bought at Woolworth’s for $89, will hang in my office. The Seiko diver will be sitting on a shelf, beside mementos of generational adventures lived around the globe. I will tell my two grandson’s about their great-grandfather. I will spin tales of adventure and daring, hardship, sacrifice, and love. I want them to gaze on the old guns, knives, and weathered books. I want them to see watches and compasses and maps, scattered around a delightfully shabby library. I hope they leave my home, dreaming of the day when they will live their own adventures, inspired by the man who inspired me.
Author Bio:
Jack MacTavish is a retired United States Army Colonel who spent over 36 years in the United States Army and Army Reserve. His first action/adventure novel is Royal Diamonds. Jack is also the author of two military/espionage thrillers, Letter of Marque and Sons of Liberty. Jack began writing shortly before retiring from the military. He is currently seeking an agent and looks forward to publishing his work soon. Jack’s military background includes multiple assignments with Airborne, Special Operations and Aviation units, including assignments with the 82 nd Airborne Division, The United States Army Special Operations
Command, and the United States Special Operations Command and Naval Special Warfare Unit-3. Jack has served in Afghanistan, Korea, Haiti, Central and South America and other locations in the Middle East. Jack worked as a contractor for the Central Intelligence Agency. His graduate education includes a Doctor of Medical Science from Lynchburg University. A mini-MBA from Clemson University, A Master of Physician Assistant Studies from the University of Nebraska, and graduation from the Physician Assistant Program at Wake Forest University. His military education includes the Navy War College, and the Army Command and General Staff College. Jack practices emergency medicine in North Carolina. Jack is a voracious reader of action/adventure, military and espionage thrillers and history. His writing style is heavily influenced by Tom Clancy and W.E.B. Griffin. Jack has developed a solid social media following throughout his writing journey. He is particularly focused on supporting other writers in their own writing adventure. He can be followed @jackmactavishadventures on Instagram.
His website is http://www.jackmactavish.com.
