BLUESHILO 

7.14.2014

Heroes

Heroes affect who you are, and their influences give you the chance to be a better person in some small way. Because of that, they live on in everyone whose lives they touch. Whether they are people you know, people you admire, or people in certain professions, there are many different types of hero. A hero to some may not be a hero to others.

My first hero was my Grandfather, Lewis Duncan Butler. When he became a Grandfather for the first time, he softened somewhat. I remember him as being the physically strongest person in the world. He always knew what to do. If we saw a snake, he would be the calmest person around and make sure that everyone was OK. When I was about four years old, I was visiting and he had me with him at the farm, and we were pulling two trailers and one got stuck in a ditch. We needed Jessie, one of the other farmhands, to come and help pull us out. My Grandfather asked if I could walk over and tell Jessie that we needed his help - it was about a quarter-mile walk. I told him I could do it, so he let me go. Looking back, I know he probably got on the radio and let him know that I was on the way, but they let me help that day, and he beamed with pride afterward. He'd let me drive (steer) his truck on the farm, and he taught me to fish from Crystal Pier and on the partyboats out of San Diego. He will always be Papa to me. In 1976, his father passed away and we went out for the services and to pay our respects . John Butler (who I referred to as Papa John) left behind his wife Hester and their German Shepherd Lobo. I had played with Lobo many times, and he was a good dog. But with so many people and so many emotions around that night, Lobo as on edge. Someone had put his food bowl down, but I hadn't seen that, I just spotted him and wanted to go over and pet and hug him to give him some love. For whatever reason, he saw it as me trying to take his food. So he defended it by jumping up and me and lunging at my face. I got my right arm up between my face an his head, but he bit it hard and moved it out of the way and bit into my ear. And suddenly, he was flying backwards, because two of my heroes (my Dad and Papa) had arrived and everything was going to be OK. I was scooped up into a truck and we were driver to Good Samaritan Hospital. (Later I was told that this was the best hospital to go to for stitches because they have a lot of stabbings in that area.) I remember looking over and Papa was holding Pam, my very young sister, very still so as not to wake her. His arms were in probably the most uncomfortable position they could be in, but he was not moving, he was going to make sure his granddaughter would not wake up. At the hospital, apparently a question was asked about rabies, I told them that Lobo was a good dog, I'd take on the shots. I remember my Mom and Dad looking at me and trying to convey strength and confidence, and not quite pulling it off. They were stitching up my arm while I watched, it didn't seem to hurt but they may have given me some injections for the pain. My grandfather came over and mustered up the best smile he could, put his hand on my uninjured hand, and told me he was proud of me for being so brave and so strong. Then he excused himself, and they started stitching up my ear, which was barely still attached. Apparently I did a lot of screaming in pain and fear after that, I can't remember. I blacked out and don't remember anything for the next week, which apparently involved a lot of very painful shots. I do remember my Grandfather asking me if I was OK a lot. Looking back, he'd just lost his father, I should have been asking him how he was. But that was his way - he wanted to make sure that everyone else was OK and taken care of. I think that was how he kept himself OK. He was diagnosed with Skin Cancer in the late seventies and was told that he had about six months to live. He'd been a farmer all his life, so he was out in the sun all the time. He kept farming while getting treatment, and he still came to San Diego to visit. I remember one summer day, my cousins were in town too, and my Dad and I, and Uncle Gary and Zach, and Papa met Jimmy Self down at the marina and he took us out fishing. I remember hooking a yellowtail briefly, I was about ten years old and had barely the strength but not close to the skill it would have taken to land that fish that day. We caught bottomfish and had a great time. It was the last time I went fishing with him. The next summer, he came out for a week near the end of June and was going to come and watch me play baseball. He had played baseball and softball while he was younger and wanted to see me play. He was not feeling well at all, and as I was riding my bike up to the field for our playoff game, I was told that he might not be able to make it to the game. I understood, a few years earlier he was invincible, but cancer is relentless. I warmed up before the game, I was going to start on the mound. As we went out to take the field, I saw my parents helping him to the seating area. He must have felt like hell, but he wanted to see me play. I threw harder that day than I ever had before, and the other team never had a chance. I'd look over at him and he'd smile, but he told me not to smile back, so I'd just nod. The next month we went out to visit because he had taken a turn for the worse. I remember visiting him in the hospital, and he gave me several pieces of advice that I didn't understand at the time, but I have leaned on heavily since then. Two days after my birthday, my Mom woke me up early. Her and my Dad had been crying, and they told me that he had passed away earlier that morning. Being only eleven years old, I hadn't ever lost anyone before and it was a new experience for me. I gained some solace in the fact that my birthday wish before blowing out the candles was to have whatever was best for my Grandfather happen. If he could get better, then he would have. But he had fought so hard and for so long, it was time for him to rest and make the journey to the next step in existence. I hope that he found peace easily. I only knew him for my first eleven years, and they were through the eyes of a child. They saw him without his imperfections. Everything that he did was the greatest thing in the world. He grew cotton, wheat, pistachios and pecans. Nobody could make a pecan pie at Thanksgiving without the hard work and sacrifice of my grandfather. He was a world class chef that stayed with the basics: steaks on the grill, pinto beans, fresh salsa, eggnog Christmas morning and Menudo New Years Day. He won awards from one of the clubs he belonged to, the Conquistadors. They'd all camp out up at Table Top mountain and have dutch over biscuits and eggs for breakfast, fresh game animals for lunhc and then steak and green chili for dinner. And apparently they would drink enough beer to make a college frathouse proud. There were stories told with laughs that I was not old enough for yet, but I could surmise they involved having a little too much beer and some scotch, and add the rich food into the equation, and you have the makings of stories of legend. If you gave me a time machine and said that I could go back in times three times, one would be to go back to sometime in the 1960's when he would host the New Years Ever party and then the Menudo the next morning. I know that Menudo has some strange ingredients and would never really be interested in trying it, but I never remember him making it, and just once as a grown man I'd like to go back and hang out with him and help him while he cooked it. I'd like to see him with flaws that an eleven year old would miss. I know he was a good man, one of the last things he told me was to not be afraid of being a good man, to do the right thing especially when it is hard. To help other people get through their day a little easier, whether it is a friendly conversation while getting coffee at the Circle K on the way to the farm, or someone at the Gin that maybe a few extra words would brighten their day up. Its the little things in life that can really help a person turn a corner. Learning all this when I was eleven was just about the right time, because it helped build the framework of my life and my ideas. I could do things beyond what I thought was capable, all the while in my head with the picture of Papa and I at the beach, little hand in big hand, as the waves came in. With him at my side, I wasn't scared. It took time to realize that while I couldn't take his hand, he was always there and has been ever since.

Ed's passing thoughts

The website of Ed Kipp