Treachery and Perception

    Some time ago, I was introduced to the Treachery of Images by Rene Magritte in what I assume was a British Lit class under Dr. Grasso (I became a Dad between then and now so everything's a little foggy), we learned about the idea that just because something like this pipe appears to be a certain way to me, it doesn't mean that it will look the same way to you. He explained how the pipe is not literally a physical pipe because it's a painting, but beyond that, it's a representation of a thousand different things depending on who was looking at the painting. To Dr. Grasso, it was a reminder of his childhood and a grandfather who smoked a pipe. To me it was a reminder of my teenage years when my hobby was restoring old pipes.
   This began my interest in what everyday objects in my personal life represented to me. To an extent, this specific class forced me to appraise my own mental real-estate and ask what & why certain objects or people bear more cognitive weight than they "should".
   Every week or so, I go to Dr. McMahon's office and we talk, sometimes for hours. Our discussions range from the deeply philosophical, to the purely topical. And it's great, possibly one of my favorite things about my life this far. A large part of who I am as an adult came from sitting on that orange vinyl couch. I mentioned that I was struggling with this post and she reminded me of Hume's opinion that everyone's personalities are made up of objective perceptions. Hume thought that no one is purely "themselves", but rather a conglomeration of past experiences and perceptive associations. As he put it, "I never can catch myself at any time without a perception, and never can observe anything but the perception” (Treatise, 1.4.6.3). I'm still not sure if I completely buy in to his assertion, but for the sake of mental food I like where this takes us. For me, it goes hand-in-hand with the Margritte. This is not a pipe then becomes, this is not a person. This is a personality made up of experiences and objective perceptions.
   Recently I've spent a lot of time thinking about the larger implications which come with the passing of a friend and surrogate Granddad. I call him that because both of my Granddads were either dead or senile by the time I was old enough to really know them, and David (or PaPa, as I knew him) treated me like his own from the first time I met him. David was the Paternal Grandfather of my Fiancee, Lindsay, and the person I would consider as my first real friend in her family. He had a reputation for being a little crass, and for being someone who wasn't scared to let you know exactly what he thought of you. But for some reason, he liked me. I still don't know why he cared for me, he had no reason to, in my opinion. After all- when he first met me I was the twenty year old frat boy that knocked up his Granddaughter. But David never saw me as that. He always gave me the benefit of the doubt. This isn't to say that he didn't rib me or call me out when I was out of line, but he always had a good reason for it. At times he could be a little rough around the edges, but he was never malicious.
   Last December, he called while Lindsay's family and I were building a fence and asked if Lindsay and I would come over. When we got to his house, we traded pleasantries and then he cut to the point. He wanted me to have his Carhartt overalls. This worn in canvass jacket and overalls were his protection for decades while he built his dream working on the pipelines in the hard winters of the American North. The collar is made of once rigid corduroy, now worn loose by years of rubbing against a consistently sun-burned neck. The elbows and knees are thinner than the rest of the canvass, and a little darker due to oil and dirt. The front right jacket pocket is now permanently gaped from the repeated retrieval of cigarettes.  This simple gesture has resonated through me countless times since that weekend. This man who was the figurehead of the family that not only raised the love of my life, but also accepted me at my worst, was giving me what might as well have been his suit of armor. To most anyone who isn't aware of the legacy that Carhartt holds in the working class, this probably seems like a kind, albeit unremarkable gesture.
  But for David this was his blessing. It was his life's work, documented in the form of a pair of overalls. It was his work of art. It's my seal of approval.
   For me, this was the sign that I was changing as an individual. It was my first physical proof of my evolution into fatherhood and adulthood. I was on my way, and for once it seemed like someone other than me could see it.
  Every time I see his Carhartts I'm reminded to take a step back. To once again reappraise my mental real estate and take note of what's important. Take note of what things shouldn't be as important as they are, and what things should be the most important. These overalls remind me of how far I have to go, but at the same time, they remind me that the man who I will forever be trying to live up to, thought I was good enough for his only Granddaughter.
  Now that David is gone, there's an obvious transition taking place in our lives. The home he built for his wife, Linda, has ceased to be a source of comfort for her and has become a glaring reminder to the absence of the man she spent fifty years with. The walls of their simple, but beautiful home are both a testament to the determination of a poor kid form Arkansas, and a mausoleum containing the memories of over half a century. It's the epicenter of joys beyond measure, and sorrows that only those who have truly been broken can understand. As Linda has moved out, the question of what to do with the home has been at the back of all our minds. For a time it seemed like she was just going to sell it. Cut the ties and let the memories be memories. Somehow walk away and start again. As time has passed we've all realized that she, and the rest of us, aren't ready to see the home go.
   As luck (or David) would have it, Lindsay and I have a lease ending in August. The dream of living in our own place and having room for Hallie to explore is for now becoming a reality. While we won't own it, we'll get to live in David's dream while we save up to start on ours.
   If you ask me, I don't think I'm qualified for all this. I still see myself as that twenty year old frat boy and I have a hard time believing that I can grow out of him. But once again David has stepped in when I needed him. My surrogate Grandfather has given me the opportunity to incubate the spark he saw in me. While moving and starting my final year of undergrad is stressful, I can't shake the feeling that as hard as I try, I could never orchestrate any of these circumstances to turn out as well as they have. I know that there is always something greater going on that I cannot begin to fathom. I know that I'm grateful. Grateful for a healthy Daughter and Fiancee. Grateful for two Professors (among many) who push me to investigate the things that make me uncomfortable. And for an old man, who refused to see me the way that I was, but insisted on treating me like the man I need to be.

P.S.
  I was blessed to know David for a little under a year. I'm sure he's up there rolling his eyes at me for writing "Sappy Shit" about him, but this is something that for whatever reason I needed to write. I'm not sure who the intended audience for this is, or what the point of this even is, but if you've stuck around this far I'm honored to have had the opportunity to tell you about a funny old man I knew.