Sunday Night With John: It's Been Twenty Years and It Still Matters

As I unpacked from my vacation, my thoughts were still firmly planted in the previous 11 exciting and fun days. I was so happy after our trip. Putting our life back together led to the realization that we were about to enter back into our normal routine. While I love our normal routine, ideas of shoe-shoeing, living up north full-time, and hiking beautiful trails and landscapes were in full bloom. As the unpacking of our luggage came to a close, it dawned on me I was missing an item. The trickle of panic started with just one bead of sweat. I rechecked my bag, the car, and my wife, Anne's, luggage. I rechecked everything again and again, but could not find the item. I calmly asked Anne if she had seen my brown leather shaving kit bag. When her answer came back with a no, I mentally pressed the full-on panic mode in my head.

I texted the friends we stayed with, asking them to check their house for the bag. I texted the in-laws to see if I had left it there. Both texted back that they did not see it. Now I was frantic. I rechecked my house, luggage, car, and anywhere else I could have lost it. I got so frantic, that I checked places I knew it couldn’t be, or, thought it might reappear in places I had already checked four times. My dad’s brown leather shaving kit bag was missing. My dad’s kit is not much to look at. About seven percent of the teeth on the zipper are missing. Heck, the zipper doesn’t work fully anymore as it only zips about 75 percent of the way open. The bag is so old that the leather is stiff and doesn’t fold down the way it should. Even leather conditioner can only bring it back to 50 percent of its former glory.  But I love that bag. It was the bag my dad allowed me to play with as a child and that we used to soap him up for a fake shave. It was the bag he used when he taught me how to shave. It was one of only a handful of lessons of how to be a man, in the lesson book my dad got to give me before his passing when I was 14. I remember him telling me my peach fuzz was enough of an eyesore that it was finally time to handle it.

I sat down in our chair and talked to my wife about my worries. She reassured me we would find it. My thoughts turned to how stupid I was acting. My dad has been gone for 20 years. I should not be this attached to an old, decaying, leather shaving kit. How could I be this emotional over a bag I do not even use for its intended purpose. I do not shave. I have grown a  beard for the last 10 years of my life for two reasons: one , I have a great fabulous red beard, and two, I do not like shaving. As I sat in the chair, worried that I had lost such an irreplaceable item, thoughts of my father reminding me "It’s just stuff, let it go", passed through my head.

Relief came about 20 minutes later, when a text message from my mother-in-law said she had rechecked the room we stayed in at their place and found it way under the bed. I was able to breathe again, knowing I had dodged a bullet. My dad was right. It is just stuff. However, that shaving kit, which I use just about every day, is a constant reminder of the man who raised me. It reminds me that he is not gone, not forgotten, and continues, to borrow a phrase, to play a few hands in my life. While it may be only my thinking versus what I remember of my dad’s thinking, there is no denying, from time to time my dad proves me wrong even 20 years after his death.

It’s not stupid to be attached to these memorable items that carry such emotional weight for us. They become a part of our story, not because of what they are, but because of the stories of our past they carry. I want my kids to pretend to shave me out of that shaving bag. I want my son or daughter to eventually have this bag, and not just have memories of me, but also of my father. It might be the only way my dad gets to be a grandparent and pass along his knowledge to his grandkids. It’s not an old, decaying leather bag. It has character, my dad’s character, and that is important to me, my family, friends, and anyone I help. Because, long before that glorious leather shaving bag needed conditioning, my dad took the time to condition me.