Yesterday I attended the funeral for my grandfather, Eugene Gunn Fawcett. I wanted to take this opportunity to record and share some of my thoughts and memories of him. He was born in 1931 in Hoytsville, Utah to Leo Fawcett and Clairene Gunn Fawcett. He was educated at Utah State University and was sealed to his wife Lois Renee Palmer in the Logan temple.
He was a Boeing engineer and father of four, including my mother Janet. He loved his work and his family and is easily the best example of manhood I’ve had in the course of my life.
He was a Boeing engineer and father of four, including my mother Janet. He loved his work and his family and is easily the best example of manhood I’ve had in the course of my life.
Most of what I know about him I know second-hand or from pure example. When his children were young, I’m told, he was the one who could be there when they got home from school. He always took his responsibilities as a father most seriously. He was quiet and rarely got angry except when his sons needed scolding, or when any of the children had disrespected their mother.
My personal memories of him go back to his wood shop. His degree was in industrial arts education and his love for creating things followed him to the end of his life. Even now there are projects on his work bench left unfinished.
I remember vividly the smell of the sawdust, the well-worn work stools, the mind-bending array of tools hanging on peg board, and the old wood-burning stove he used to have in there. Most of all I remember the big chest freezer that always had popsicles, vanilla ice cream, and chips ahoy cookies.
My grandfather used to say “Life is too short. Eat dessert first.”
In that shop he made beautiful things, from small toys to major pieces of furniture. Their home is filled with his creations, and each of his children have more than one item that passed through his shop. The toys he made for us were well-finished, intricately made, and always entertaining. A few that stand out in my mind are the rubber-band guns, a dinosaur bank, and a dog that walks its hind legs and sniffs the ground as you pull it along. One of my most prized posessions is a cylindrical box he made for me out of the wood from an ancient plum tree that I loved to climb and swing on as a kid.
He absolutely loved his work as a Boeing engineer, and always had an enthusiasm for aviation. He was a kid during World War II. At the funeral I learned that he hung models of fighter planes from the ceiling of his room--something I can identify with since I was hanging spaceships from my ceiling when I was the same age.
He was the first to take me to the Boeing museum of flight, one of the many experiences that’s made me fond of aviation to this day. Later this year I plan on becoming a member of the Museum of Flight so I can go as much as I want.
He loved history, particularly World War II, the Civil War, and the American revolution. I got a fascination for these subjects myself, maybe through pure osmosis. I was always amazed at the number of history books he had, and the collection of National Geographics he had collected over the years. Perusing these as a kid fueled my appetite for learning and stoked my curiosity about the world around me.
Since he was a young man he carried a handkerchief in his pocket, a practice I’ve tried to keep myself since my missionary days.
I remember his truck. It was Ford Ranger from the late 70s or early 80s. There’s something distinctive about a vehicle when a man puts personal time and effort into maintaining it. I think a bit of his personality can’t help but get into it. That truck helped neighbors in times of need, took us on rides at the beach, went on camping trips, and even served as a loaner vehicle when I was a young adult and my car was in the shop.
That truck inspired me to want a truck of my own. I once thought I wanted a Ranger like my grandpa, but since then I’ve found that my personal taste tends toward the Jeep Wrangler. I haven’t got it yet, but hardly a day goes by that I don’t look forward owning it and putting it to as much good use as grandpa did with his truck. I plan on doing as much of the maintenance myself as I possibly can.
Camping was something approaching religion in his family. In the Pacific Northwest camping means Man vs. Rain. He fabricated his own tarps back before plastic tarps were commercially available. He used army surplus and things he scrounged together to keep out the rain and keep everyone comfortable. In many ways he was “MacGyvering” stuff long before the term was invented.
He grew up in the midst of the great depression. He truly lived by the old Mormon pioneer maxim “Eat it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.” I’ve been learning the hard way the need to do this myself.
Another thing that helped me identify with my grandfather was his leg problems. His hip was injured when he was a boy and it impacted his health and mobility throughout his life. For most of my life he used a cane, something I joined him in off and on through my teens since I had serious leg injuries of my own.
My grandfather was one of the primary influences that showed me what it is to be a good man. I was fortunate to have been able to move up here to Seattle almost exactly a year before he died. Towards the end, when Amy I would stop by to visit, he almost never failed to tell us that our apartment building was built on the site of the old Boeing mock-up building, which was dedicated to building wood mock-ups of aircraft before computer aided drafting made that method obsolete. He loved local history and passed on things that he thought I would be interested in learning about. I love the fact that I live so close to the home he raised his kids in, and in which I had so many good memories of my own.
Shortly after I turned 18 years old I changed my last name from Higginson to Gunn. My mother was against it because she thought I was just lashing out at my dad. I had a lot of reasons for changing my name, and one of them was that I wanted to follow my grandfather’s example in my life.
On the day I wanted to go to the courthouse my car was in the shop, so my grandfather drove me. At the funeral my mother reminded me of that and told me that he defended my decision to her whenever the subject came up.
“Why not?” he said. “It’s a good name!”
I agree.
Now that he’s gone and I have a chance to review what he meant to me, I see how much he’s quietly influenced my life. He’s set a high standard for me to reach for. And while the challenge to live up to his example is daunting, I’m encouraged by the fact that he and I had so much in common. I’m proud to carry a name from his family, and I’ll try to think of him every time I speak it.
-Tom
No comments:
Post a Comment