In training men to be mentors, we often ask, "Who were the men, other than your father, who had impact on your life as a young man? While a loving and engaged father is the most powerful man-making force on the planet, even that good dad can't give his son everything his son needs as he moves towards manhood. Then there are all those young men who don't have that engaged, available father, or any father at all in their lives. In those cases, the "other men" become critically important, sometimes lifesaving.
When the stories about other men are told, we often hear rich stories of good men who stepped up, sometimes for literal moments, hours, or as lifetime allies. Men who were neighbors, coaches, relatives, from their faith community, show up and without too much effort, make important differences in a life. Sometimes there are tears in the telling of the stories.
We invite the men to remember these guys in their lives because they too as intentional mentors are stepping into that "other man" role. Because men new to mentoring are always a little unsure, we like to remind them that the other men who showed up for them didn't have any mentor training. We remind them that who they are, right now is sufficient. That they in fact are already in the man-making business because whether they are intentional or not, they are being watched by the adolescent males in their world . . . they are, for better and worse, the book on manhood for the young men around them. It has been that way for thousands of years, and still today, boys and men are hardwired for this way of being together.
What follows is a story from a dear Tucson friend of mine, Lee. In his story about the other men, he describes exactly how these forms of natural mentoring work:
There were men in my father’s circle who taught me much just by being who they were:
Sid B., with posture as straight as his words, looked as if he had taken some punches but had won most of his fights. He always took the time to acknowledge me, a kid, as someone real.
Joe L., who stood by my dad when my mother died. He had lost his daughter in a horrible manner, so knew the pain of loss. He was comfortable showing concern in loyal silence. Even the lines in his face knew the value of presence.
But most of all there was Pat M. Learning his practical, slow approach to problem solving served me well in life. He even drove slowly. Okay, the speed limit, but that made me restless back then. Yet, he was quick to tell a story, to buy or accept a beer, preferably Old Style.
I remember Pat's big Irish alcohol-reddened nose, his sparkling leprechaun eyes, and his quiet deliberate movements. His long and heavy head, at least two sizes too large for his body — was always tilted one way or the other, always ready to smile, or walk away.
He was a tile setter for my father’s company, Acorn Tile. He was a craftsman from an earlier age, an era that was disappearing even as I was first being exposed to it. Post World War II expansion and development demanded fast repetitive work, not craft. At some point, Pat began to drive the company truck, delivering and picking up supplies, and keeping an eye on the jobs in progress. I often rode with him. He took the back roads, not the interstates, his right hand on the stick shift, left foot riding the clutch, smoking Parliaments. It wasn’t my place to say anything.
On one trip, he unexpectedly stopped the truck
and said, “You drive.”
He wore flannel shirts, carried a dull iron green lunchbox and thermos, was comfortable on bar stools or on an overturned bucket talking about hunting, fishing, ballgames, and cooking with onions. He had seven daughters. I might have been like a son to him. On one trip, he unexpectedly stopped the truck and said, “You drive.” I was sixteen with a license but had never driven a manual transmission nor a truck. There was no place for no. I eventually managed to get it in gear and moving while Pat drank his coffee unconcerned. He would only give me a look if my jerky shifting caused him to spill. He didn’t just let me drive just because I was the boss’s son, he just decided to give me a taste of responsibility. He also showed me how to think about work before doing it and taught me that conversation was the real centerpiece of each day. He didn’t trust a man who complained too much or drank too little.
Pat never forgot the things I did, right or wrong. An elevator breaking down on a job site because I had overloaded it. The broken window on the truck that I resisted revealing the truth about for years. Me bringing the wrong materials for a job. He always seemed to know what I was struggling with and what my accomplishments were. He even told stories about me, bringing me into a world of men I would not have known otherwise.
Over many years, I watched Pat gradually get older, less able, and saw the effects of too much drinking on him. Eventually I left the business and headed to Tucson. Before Pat died, I wrote him a letter of appreciation thanking him for all the gifts he'd given me. I'm told he carried that letter with him and one day he read to my father. I remember the day my dad called to tell me about Pat's passing. He told me about how much my letter had meant to Pat and we both got a little teary talking about the important role he had played in both our lives.
So, who were the "other men" in your life?
If you could speak to one of those men today,
what would you say?
How can you honor the impact these "other men"
had on the man you are today?
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