They tell you to never meet your heroes. I don’t know if there’s any wisdom in that, because – for better or worse – I met my biggest hero the day I was born.
Chuck Wilson was a big man. I remember sitting in my grandpa’s lap when I was little hoping I’d eventually get his height. I never did catch him. Just last week, I was sitting with him holding his hand wondering how his hands still dwarf mine. He had one of those handshakes where he could wrap your hand up and look you in the eye without needing any of that false macho energy. He didn’t need to.
After retiring from his job at Ford, he drove truck for a few years. He wasn’t driving cross-county or anything, just doing day trips in Ohio for a local company. One day he took me to see his truck and I saw that his name was hand lettered onto the driver side door with that paint they use for pinstriping cars. It blew me away that they would put his name on this giant piece of machinery. It was clear to me – even as a young boy – that my grandpa was a very important man. He was not to be trifled with. I might have grown up and my reasons might have changed but that conclusion never did.
Later in high school, me and some buddies needed a ride to work and he ended up being our driver one day. As we were on our way, a car full of young guys threw something out their window hit his van. He (rightly) lost his mind and floored it to catch up to them at the next light. He rolled the windows down and gave them the business for the most tense minute of my life. Everyone involved fully convinced he was going to rough these kids up. Mind you, he was in his mid sixties – of course he wasn’t fighting anyone. But you sure as hell believed it.
Don’t let that fool you though – he was such a deep feeler. He loved intensely. I can’t fathom how many times he told me he loved me. He was so earnest. You could tell when he felt like he was saying something profound and it really meant something to him that you heard it. Most of those moments between us were during a big bear hug. I’ll hang onto those memories for a long time.
He was an incredible storyteller. Sometimes as he got older he’d forget that we’d talked about some old story, but I’d let him tell it anyway. I loved watching the expression on his face change as we inched our way to the punchline. He had the most expressive eyebrows you’ve ever seen and they’d get to work while he spun his yarn. You don’t get all those smile lines he had by telling bad jokes. The stories were worth the second listen every time.
Manhood was such an important concept between us. We’ve talked my whole life about what it means to be a man – looking after people, providing for others, reliability, trustworthiness. We had so many talks about being the man of the house. In hindsight, I have pretty big shoes to fill, so I’m glad we got started early.
He was also so unbothered by life. Anyone who ever sat with my family for a holiday meal knows exactly what I mean. Grandpa loved a holiday meal. He’d make a huge plate – truly huge – and sit down to eat at the head of the table. He moved through the meal at his own pace and when he was done, maybe he’d get some more. The thing is, my family has the efficiency of a NASCAR pit crew. They’d sometimes be cleaning up around him but he’d hang out enjoying the end of his meal. It wasn’t that he wanted to be alone – he’d be happy to entertain anyone who wanted to sit with him and talk. But if no one did? Unbothered. He’d sit there and finish his meal just the same. He was on his own wavelength.
As far as I know, he never played an instrument but his air guitar was the stuff of legend. Being as tall as he was came with certain wingspan advantages. You could see him strumming that bad boy from a mile away. It was usually accompanied by this sort of boot-scoot shuffle that he’d do around a dance floor. People often say “dance like no one is watching” but he weaved his little shuffle towards crowds in hopes that more people would dance along with him. If you don’t find that aspirational, you’re not hooked up right.
I’ve been going through old family videos recently and I’ve been noticing a really funny trend. There’s always a few people who shrink from the camera when it pans to them, but a shocking amount of people immediately start beaming at him.
“Hey Chuck!”
“Charlieeeee!”
“Hey buddy!”
People truly loved him. He had a million friends. He was fun and he made it so easy for everyone around him to have fun.
He was also so comfortable in his own skin. His jewelry was huge and bright. He wore leather vests. He had more shirts with cutoff sleeves than I could count. He wore American flags head to toe. His boots were big and leather. He looked awesome in a hat. Whether because of all that or in spite of it, he was so goddamn cool.
He served his county overseas. He was still riding (and unfortunately, wrecking) his Harley in his seventies. He helped re-roof his house and fell through said roof into his living room. This was also in his seventies. He stood for a photo in front of the “southernmost point of the U.S.” marker in Key West. He escaped the Ohio winters for the sand of Daytona Beach. He fished the salmon run off Western New York with his buddies. He saw so much of the country.
He lived such a big life. When I was a kid, I remember thinking he was so exotic. Maybe even a little mysterious. I just didn’t know anyone else who did things like he did. Now that I’m older, that feeling has changed to more of an odd sense of pride about the life he carved out for himself. How he did the things he did coming from Nowhere, PA and ending up in Nowehere, OH is still a bit of a mystery to me. He was truly something else.
It means everything to me that we got to know each other as men. The truth is, I probably learned more about him in the last years than I did my whole life leading up to that. Our last conversation centered around this Summer’s fishing stories and how much our children age us. For what it’s worth, he says you never do get used to that feeling. Typical old guy stuff. More than anything, I’ll cherish the fact we both knew exactly what we meant to each other. I don’t know how many male relationships have that kind of clarity and honesty.
His initials are tattooed into my right arm. In some ways it’s a reminder to myself that he’s with me but it’s also a desperate hope that he is in me.
Grandpa, you gave me so much. An impossible amount. The only way I can ever hope to repay that is to pay it forward. I promise I’ll try. I also promise I won’t wait until it’s too late to buy that boat. I’ll be seeing you out there. Bluebird skies and tight lines. I love you forever.