Of Shug...

I’m sitting here looking at this thin strip of metal, a military dog tag issued some time before June the 6th, 1944. There are five lines of text stamped on it. These five lines only represent a few years of the life of the man whose name appears upon this scrap of tin, but to me it is so much more. Some say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, which I would not contest. For any who may come by this, it may seem as nothing more than refuse, except for the truly curious who may try to find out who this man was. Even then, they could learn nothing more than base facts like who and when. This tag is a mere brush stroke in the masterpiece of a life, to which the artist signed his name shortly before 2am on December the 27th, 2009.

I thought I’d be more heartbroken when I got the news that George Machuga had died. I expected quite assuredly that I’d be overwhelmed with sadness, and without doubt my heart has ached continuously since I got that call at 2:01am on Sunday morning. But the grief has failed to well up. Though I never saw him cry, I expect he’d tell me that tears were a gift from God to help when the hurt got to be too much. And as much as I feel at this moment that I could cry for him, I’m instead filled with pride that I got to be his grandson. Not many people had that honor, and it is not one that I take lightly.

At first, I thought I’d have trouble remembering the things I loved most about him. In fact, my mind was blank most of Sunday following the news. But I found him again in the grocery store. I felt like a zombie when I walked into the Safeway on Chandler Blvd, aware that I was there for a purpose, even knowing what it was, but I lacked the conviction of a person whose need was pressing. I was there for eggs to make potato pancakes, and in that store, the eggs are in the same aisle as ice cream. I grabbed a dozen Grade AA Large eggs, and for no reason that I can define, I turned around. And there he was, smiling at me from the label of a half gallon of Butter Pecan… his favorite ice cream.

I smiled back at him.

Then more and more things came back to me, and the richness of the way he touched my life was again tangible. In the produce section, I saw naval oranges the size of softballs, just like the ones he had stacked in a bowl on the kitchen table. I remember breakfast at that table on more mornings than I can count; scrambled eggs, and toast from a single slice of bread cut down the middle, with orange juice served in an impossibly small glass that had odd little flowers on it. On the far side of the table, the small square weather radio that I’d sometimes click on barely brushed against the lace curtains of the kitchen window. I’d look out into the tree, into the fork of which he had wedged a piece of board that had two long nails driven through it. Upon those nails were corn cobs that he collected every year from the harvested field that backed up to his property. And there, the birds and squirrels feasted every morning, and I with them.

Further along, in the cereal aisle, I found the single serving variety packs of General Mills products. It was almost foregone to know that he would have one of these packs sitting on the counter next to the microwave and the small tree of hooks that held his coffee cups, including the one with the picture of a Model T, under which his name was printed. When I ate from those single serving boxes, I’d go to the fridge and get the milk decanter, which he jokingly called moo-juice, and there at the back of the icebox was the unfinished bottle of Old Granddad Whiskey. I’m sure the bottle was older than I was at the time, and perhaps the bottle I found in the spirits aisle will last a similarly long time.

Perhaps not.

A lot of times, I’d wake up to find a box of donuts and a poppy seed pastry already in the kitchen. I’d never wake early enough to go to the bakery with him, but I once caught him returning and he gave me no more than a grin that showed me the joy he took in bringing home treats like these with all the stealth of the tooth fairy. I still can’t find poppy seed pastries like the ones he got. It was a cultural thing, brought down by his immigrant parents, and one I’d be eager to continue if I could just find someone that does it right.

George was a humble man. Everything he did, he did without explanation or justification, and yet nothing he ever did in my lifetime was objectionable. Who could find fault with eating huge slices of watermelon with your siblings and grandpa while sitting on the swing and spitting the seeds in the yard? Who could find fault with driving around in that old Dodge pickup truck and going down to the river to haul back buckets of sand for the brick patio he was fixing? Who could find fault with wheat germ milkshakes? Who could find fault with shagging golf balls into a fallow corn field, only to go out and collect the balls and any fallen ears of corn that would help feed the squirrels that gathered outside the kitchen window on snowy winter days for an easy meal?

Everything I ever saw him do had the capacity to make someone else smile. His love was endless, his labor selfless, and his guidance was righteous. My favorite days were ones spent riding his Snapper lawn mower around their large yard, shooting arrows into the hay bales he brought home for me, and endless evenings throwing Frisbees with him and the rest of the men in my family.

I can’t define what he means to me because you would have had to be there through all of the thirty years I knew him. I can no more tell you about the incredible man he was through these examples than I can describe Starry Night by telling you about each brush stroke. Each thing he did was so small, possibly even unnoticeable, but one action built upon another added up to a life that was awe inspiring in its simplicity, punctuated by a heart that was humbling in its sincerity.

Perhaps one day I’ll stand on the shore of Lake Michigan with my grandson and start chucking rocks into the water. I’ll make the same claim George did about filling the lake in or running out of rocks, whichever came first. And I’ll make the claim because I can think of nothing better, or more memorable. When he said it, it certainly stuck with me, and there can be nothing greater than providing someone with memories on which they can look back and endlessly smile. If he only knew that everything he did, with no intent on his part, gave me an example of everything I wanted to be, from his humor to his humility, it still wouldn’t have changed him. I can never be a better man that he was. But I certainly am a better man because of him.

I won’t feel his bear hug again. I won’t hear his raspy laugh. I won’t smell that aftershave, hear him call me Ichabod, or ever have him apply Prid to another cut. Watermelon will never be just a fruit. Butter Pecan will never be just because I like it. Ketchup on everything will never seem weird. Norman Rockwell paintings will never seem old. Even zipper neck ties will never seem cheesy. These are all things I will miss, but they will never be far from me.

For such an unassuming man, there may not be much to say, or much of which to have taken notice. And for this reason I’m glad that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, because he was beautiful to me.