People have often said when I was growing up that I had my dad’s eyes, a somewhat unique blue, and that always makes me smile. As you read my writing, you will quickly learn that my dad was one of my greatest heroes throughout much of my life. With the exception of a few years in my teens, I just knew that he was a pretty smart old guy. And in reality, he was always smart, but I was too stubborn to admit it for those few years.
Not only did I admire his work ethic and his willingness to always lend a hand to anyone who needed it but I also admired his outlook on life. He was raised in what would today be considered poverty, but to him, it was just fine. He had loving aunts, uncles, and an amazing grandmother and that was enough for him. Even as a tiny child he understood more than most adults do about what is important in this world and what truly makes one a rich person.
In many of my stories, I seem to find myself striving to see things through Clyde’s eyes. That’s my dad’s name by the way. He just seemed to have this ability or gift of looking at something and simplifying it, right down to what was really important. He saw the majesty in a perfectly shaped pine tree growing in a field. He saw the beauty in rolling hills and a cloud-filled sky. And he saw the value in spending his lunch hour shaving the face of an old man who had lost his legs, much of his dexterity and almost all of his dignity to a disease that had ravaged his body. But a clean-shaven face brought a smile to his father-in-law, so it happened each and every day.
The holidays were another time when dad worked with the eye of an artist. Each Christmas tree was a creation, a Clyde original, and he worked diligently to get the lights, the ornaments and finally the tinsel just so. And his gifts were wrapped with equal attention to detail and care. Folds and corners were always perfect, and the bows were placed precisely to create the perfect presentation. Years later I came to see that these festivities and trimming were never a part of his childhood, but he was going to be certain that his children didn’t miss out on these childhood memories.
So these bits and pieces of my memories of my dad might all seem random until I give you this next piece of information. Clyde was totally colorblind. He saw the world in nothing but black and white. Color’s to him were variations and shades of grey, but there was no bright blue sky or deep green of a pine tree. The sunset wasn’t a radiant golden that faded to soft pinks and oranges. And the Christmas tree was just a dark mass with grey splotches where the lights were. So how did he do it? I asked myself that very question for many years and didn’t discover the answer until somewhat recently. Clyde didn’t see the beauty with his eyes, he saw it with his heart.
My dad was one of the most honorable and fiercely loyal people you could ever meet. His word was his bond because, for the first few decades of his life that’s all he had, that and his love. He grew up without parents and proudly told the story of his good fortune, getting a wife, a ma, and a pop all on the same day. When many people said in-law with a grimace, he couldn’t fathom that disrespect. And in return, those parents loved him as a son, their son.
I often wonder if seeing the world simplified as he did with no distraction of colors had an impact on his outlook, or if he was just that wise from the day he was born. But deep down I now understand that to see the world through Clyde’s eyes, I need to learn to see with my heart and not just my eyes.