Ties that Bind

George Machuga: No middle name, son of immigrant parents, graduate of the 8th grade, World War 2 veteran, Union Electric retiree, one of Jehovah's Witnesses, and my grandfather. I've discussed his impact on my life in some detail before, but honestly, an encyclopedia of volumes wouldn't really be enough to cover everything worth discussing. I had a pretty good run of thirty or so years in which to be a grandson. That time was precious to me in a way that I can barely describe, and in that time, I came to know a man who was utterly reliable and predictable, but never boring. There were, in fact, some things so defining of George that I cannot associate them with anyone else. At least not with that level of certitude. All others are just poseurs. Pretenders to the throne.

So, my little sis sends me a picture she took in a Walmart the other day. No caption or explanation was necessary. It was a neck tie. Not just any neck tie. It was a zipper neck tie.

Now, a lot of people have never seen these little contraptions, and most give me those confused puppy head turns when I try to explain it. Consider it the dickey collar of business accessories. For the discerning man who doesn't have time or wherewithal to tie a traditional neck tie, consider the zipper tie. When cinched, it looks no different from any other tie, but the neck band is literally a zipper. Yes, for $10, you too can have the ease and convenience of a zipper, but the class and sophistication of a top CEO.

It was also the only kind of tie that George ever wore. Since the advent of the zipper tie, I don't think he ever saw a need to use anything more complicated. I rather doubt that he knew how to tie a Half-Windsor, which then makes me wonder how he managed his dress uniform while in the Army. I saw his wedding photo and he was wearing a tie. Grandma may have tied it for him...

So, when this picture downloaded to my phone, I laughed heartily. Not only was it a zipper tie, but it hung on a tag that said 'George'. It, quite literally, was George's Zipper Tie. And for a moment, I thought back to all of the times that I associated with those ties.

Throughout my youth, I spent countless weeks with my grandparents. Those weeks included events of religious fealty. Three times in any given week, we would end up driving from the town of Livingston, Illinois, to a neighboring town of Gillespie. That is where the Kingdom Hall was located. When we left my grandparent's house, we'd head in a northerly direction, often with a quick detour to pick up Joan Lilley. Joan was the matriarch of her clan, and as sweet a woman as one could hope to meet. Her persistently positive attitude could unravel just about any bad mood you could have. And being a grandmother, she always had a couple of dollars and some candy to spread around.

Joan was also the mother of Lorraine 'Rainy' Mathenia (nee Lilley), my mother's sister-in-law. As it would turn out, I was related to more than half of the Gillespie congregation of Jehovah's Witnesses. Last names were in such short supply that congregation elders took to simply using a member's first name with a prefix of 'sister' or 'brother' as gender would dictate. It made identifying people during audience participation much easier.

Saturdays were almost always relegated to public ministry. This is where readers roll their eyes at the 10am wake up call they get from the local congregation, while they try to distribute the Watchtower and Awake magazines. Believe me when I say that anyone who has ever claimed to have had their doorbell rung at 8am or earlier by a Witness is just lying. Witnesses don't even conduct their morning meeting prior to 9am, and they don't ring any doorbells until after.

Having their congregation spread out over such a large portion of southern Illinois, George (being an elder) often conducted  the Saturday morning meeting with only the people who would be venturing out with him. Other elders would do the same with their own local groups. So our particular car group was seldom more than the grandparents, my aunt and uncle, one or more grandchildren, including myself. The remainder of the day was spent driving from one farm to the next. In the rural confines of Macoupin County, an entire day of public ministry could entail visiting only three houses.

On one particular Saturday in early summer, we drove along the roads northwest of a town called Staunton. Sometime before lunch, George suddenly pulled over to the shoulder of a road that was nestled in the valley of some heavily wooded hills. We got out of the car walked through the weeds in the ditch. Out of the long hill that stretched up from that ditch, a simple pipe jutted, trickling a steady stream of water. I stood carefully so as not to get my new dress shoes wet. They were Polish leather (had no idea Pols made leather shoes), and a nail from the sole was poking through into my foot. They were uncomfortable, but looked nice.

George told me that the water was from a natural spring. Who had plumbed this little spigot was unknown, but the water was fresh and delicious in my cupped hands. I drank my fill and stepped away, flinging water from my hands. George stooped to fill his cupped hands in the same way I did. The whole time he drank, his otherwise laughable zipper tie flapped in the breeze against his grey suit.

The ties were cheesy and inexpensive, but they were utterly him. As much as his faith was part of his life, there is very little of it that I got to share that didn't include those ties. In truth, much of the context of my youth incorporated those ties, including extended family. I find it strangely comforting that such a ridiculous object can make so many people think of him. I suppose that's because I miss him so much, and the thought that he still lives on in the people that mattered to him is soothing.