Donald P. Thompson

My Grandpa died last Wednesday, April 1, 2015. I shared this reflection at his service last week. I find myself needing to share it more broadly. Thanks for reading. 

It may seem odd to call a small town mechanic a renaissance man, but the dated term seems to fit my Grandpa. The drive, for me, from Nashville is a little over 6 hours, during that time I my mind flooded with experiences I shared with my Grandpa, and I was shocked at the range of them.

I’ll start with the obvious stuff, his mechanical mind and his nimble, strong hands. He changed the oil and fixed the breaks of many of our cars. He designed and built astounding slate retaining walls by hand, he crafted beautiful stained glass lamps, and constructed intricate model planes. As a child, I spent many summer days and Saturdays watching him from an old office chair as I spun myself in endless circles. I would often ask him questions, and more often than not, he would answer, explaining how spark plugs worked, or how the AMAZING car lift kept the vehicles safely elevated, or why he had to drain thick, dark fluid from the car. I was, still am, astounded at how he knew how to fix each car, no matter the make, model, problem or age. He was my first lesson in understanding that there are a multitude of ways to be intelligent in this world. My favorite days where when I’d get to help, especially if I got to be in a car while it was on the lift. The idea of it still makes me simultaneously nervous and excited, even though those days are over 20 years ago. Occasionally he’d turn to me with a “now, Lyn” (he’s the only person who’s ever really called me Lyn), “Lyn, I need to concentrate, I need quiet.” I learned quickly that he meant it, and I would find ways to occupy myself.

On warm days I would wander around his garden, inspecting sprouting plants, looking for things ready to harvest, and always hoping for a perfect ripe tomato. There are no better tomatoes on this planet than those grown in my Grandpa’s garden. With plants his knowledge stretched even further. It seemed he could grow anything, he knew how to tend the soil to help each plant thrive, how and when to plant each thing, how to harvest seeds and bulbs to share with neighbors and plant the following year. He even knew how to help a 6 year old be patient when things took their natural time, how to get that 6 year old to kneel down on an old blanket and become enthralled with planting beets and carrots, and he knew that four o’clocks, with their magical hours of blooming, could be the secret to teaching a young kid to see wonder and Sacred possibility everywhere in the world around them.

On appearances, one might assume my grandpa to be a rough, tough kind of man, and he certainly had a bit of that side, though I rarely saw it. What I more often saw were tough hands doing gentle things: pointing out the beauty of rolling hills as we drove across the county side; picking me up to sit in his lap as he called me pumpkin; delicately planting iris bulbs; showing me toward the ducks so I could gleefully feed them while he laughed at my joy; and once, rescuing a baby raccoon, and trying to nurse it to health.

He reveled in beauty everywhere: sunsets, story telling, and the train rolling past; lemonade on the back patio, a homemade meal, and the clean flight of a well-crafted miniature plane; a cup of coffee after lunch, live musicals and Laurence Welk, and the companionship and support of the women he loved, his wife Kathleen, and their 4 daughters.

It’s not that he was perfect or always gentle. As we heard at least 10 times yesterday, and hundreds, if not thousands, of times before that, “He was a Thompson.” Meaning he could be hard headed, exacting, and stubborn, and he acted much of that out on those he loved most, those same 5 women.

But he loved deeply, even when he couldn’t name it aloud, and he continually wondered at the world, at its innate beauty, and the possibility it held.

One definition of “renaissance man” highlight’s unquenchable curiosity. It was on the drive up here that I started to realize that my Grandpa is the person who taught me to meet the world with profound wonder, never-ending curiosity, and ongoing willingness to ask questions. To live knowing that there is always more to learn, not in the school sense, but from actively living in and loving the world, and the people around you. He was always teaching me something, but it never felt like a lesson, it was more of an invitation to wonder and explore. I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.  But now, I know I am called to hold on to it, to live with unquenchable curiosity and finding the awe-some beauty in the world everyday. I am called to do this because of my Grandpa.