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Every time there's a holiday in which we honor our nation's flag, I think of my grandfather, Cal Carnahan. I don't know why my mind always turns to him. Perhaps it's because every Sunday when my family gathered around the dinner table after church, he would begin by saying, "Did I ever tell you about the time I was in the Navy?"
Always the same stories, done intentionally. He was an amazing story teller. If only I could remember those stories. He joined at 17. Served for four years, four months, four days. He made it seem as if being in the Navy during World War II was the best time ever. Always funny. Always captivating. He never once mentioned the unbearable things he must have seen. He never once discussed war.
Instead, he talked about being out on a brand new ship -- so new that they hadn't even installed the stops which prevent the big guns from turning further than they should. Well, they ended up shooting the front of the ship off.
Or the time when he was doing duty as a flagman. One day he was late getting back to his ship. He noticed another ship's flagman signaling to him, "The admiral is coming aboard!"
Well my grandfather went to his ship's captain and told him that the admiral was coming aboard and panic ensued. Everyone, everywhere started cleaning up things as fast as humanly possible for the admiral. It turns out in his hurry to get back to the ship he missed the first part of that message telling him the admiral was coming aboard the other ship. Not theirs.
From then on, whenever his Captain wanted something like a cigarette butt picked up, he would yell for my grandfather to do it.
My mother only remembers one time my grandfather told a sad story about the Navy. He had told her about a friend of his who had become very sick while out at sea. He said his friend's name and paused for a minute. He said, "He died as we were going under the Golden Gate Bridge."
How I wish his life during those years was as wonderful as he made them out to be.
I miss him dearly.
I once wrote a column for the Toronto Scene about my life's greatest influence. It was 2006. He was still with us. But he would only live to see another year. I then wrote a column paying tribute to this special man. The one who still crosses my mind every day. The one I especially think about on those holidays when we honor that flag.
Here is that column...
"I am dedicating this week's column to my grandfather, Calvin C. Carnahan who was not only my source about the Gem City's past -- but more importantly, was the primary source of my laughter and my heart.
Unfortunately, because of an early newspaper deadline, I am given only a few hours to pay tribute to the only man who was consistently there for me from the moment I was born. So how am I supposed to convey in a couple of fleeting moments a lifetime of precious memories?
The truth is, I can't. And quite honestly, I don't think I ever could. Had I a hundred years to compose the most eloquent piece of writing ever put to paper, even those words would still not be enough. For I can not tell you in a couple of brief paragraphs the momentous impact my Pappap had -- not only on my life, but on the life of each and every person whom he encountered throughout his 83 years on Earth.
His generosity was endless.
His stories -- captivating. (Even when it was the hundreth time you'd heard them.) I miss them already.
His humor surpassed that of anyone I've ever known.
His family was his heart.
His wife was his world.
I wrote once about the love which he and my grandma had shared. One which endured faithfully for 66 years. A love that began when a 12-year-old boy pulling his vegetable wagon of horseradish down the street stopped to hold the ladder for a 10-year-old girl washing windows. A love which continued growing until her very last breath five years ago.
Theirs was a love unlike any other I have known. And it was one in which he literally could not live without. For half a decade, she was where he had truly wanted to be. And unfortunately for us, (but fortunately for him) he has now returned to the only place he has ever considered 'home.'
I believe with all my heart that he returned to my grandma again. And that in seeing her, he has regained the priceless sparkle in his eyes which was lost to this world long ago when she died.
And if anyone ever deserved such happiness, it is he.
Together they are one again, and heaven is now blessed.
I wish for them a million more anniversaries together. I wish for them endless joy. I wish for them smiles and laughter as they entertain heaven's children with their amazing games. (Who knew throwing rolled-up socks into a paper sack for countless hours could be fun?) And I wish for him a Preakness Stakes and Kentucky Derby in the sky.
Believe me, I know the words written on this page do not come close to doing his life the justice it truly deserves. And I am certain there are thousands of stories which family members could offer that would greatly outweigh anything I have said here today.
But there is one final thought I would like to share. And it is something that I realized during his funeral service when we sang the hymn, 'What a Friend We Have in Jesus.'
It is so true that we all have a friend in our Lord, Jesus. But I know without a doubt that now, Jesus has found a phenomenal friend in Cal Carnahan.
And I wonder to myself how many times He has heard, 'Did I ever tell you about the time I was in the Navy?'"