...A Bisanar...
This post comes with an introductory disclaimer: I feel as if what I am about to write is in direct contradiction to the things taught to me by my beloved Women's Studies professor, Dr. Sylvia Hoffert. I will say that I am very closely attached to the maternal figures in my life and find myself frequently in awe of the women in my family - those who are present here on earth and those who have shaken off this mortal coil. However, in a late Father's Day tribute to my grandfathers and an early 49th birthday tribute to my father, I am going to wax prosaic on the patriarchs in my life tonight. In an effort to reassure myself that I am still a feminist and a good Women's Studies minor, I will say that I remember all the things taught to me by Dr. Hoffert, things like berdache and quickening. Disclaimer FIN!
As I was scraping the paint off of my front door tonight (see previous blog posting regarding repainting door), I suddenly began to think about my great-grandfather. Yes, that seems like a bizarre association, I know, but it was not the door itself that got me thinking but rather the meaning behind the layers of paint which I am ever so slowly peeling off. My door is currently a relatively unattractive green color. The previous owners did a shoddy job of painting this putrid color, so, luckily for me, the paint is peeling off without sand paper or a stripping substance. As I peeled the green away, I got to a red layer of paint (which was also applied in a shoddy manner and peels off as easily as the green). And even further behind the red layer is a shiny black surface. While I peeled away, I found myself wondering if black was the original color of the door or if there is yet another layer beneath it. I also began to think about the people who painted the door each of these colors. I know a little bit about the previous owners, but I know nothing about any of the other former owners. The house was built in the fifties, so I imagine there have been many owners to pass in and out of the very front door I was deconstructing. I am fascinated with the idea of those who have come before. When put into perspective, a lifetime is in fact a very short amount of time, so given this fact, we will all soon file into the ranks of "those who came before" as well. Will people think about us? Will they wonder what our lives were like? Or will they scrape the paint off of our old front doors without so much as a moment of curiosity about us?
Much of my curiosity about the legions of people who lived and died before us was probably fostered by my grandparents continually telling me the stories of their childhoods and the lives of those that they themselves had loved and lost throughout the years. While my mother's side of the family is very...genealogically aware, my father's side of the family is genealogically obsessed! We know our direct lineage all the way back to the very first Bisanar who set foot on American soil during the Revolutionary War. We even know where this patriarch is buried and visit his grave from time to time. This is one of the things that I love so dearly about my family: We may not be much, but we know who we are.
I was lucky enough to know four of my eight great-grandparents for a relatively long period of time. The only great-grandfather I ever knew, though, was Papa John. John Asbury Bisanar (aka Papa John) was born on September 20th, 1904. He was a farm boy and had several siblings. He fell in love with the girl next door...literally, although, the concept of "next door" was a neighboring farm a few miles down the road! Papa John married Mary Louise Sigmon, and they eventually moved to the booming metropolis that is Gastonia, NC. The thing I remember most about Papa John is how hard he worked. He was the first licensed electrician in Gastonia and operated John Bisanar, Inc. for the bulk of his life. Whenever people found out I was a Bisanar, they usually told me what a great man Papa John was. His name was synonymous with quality and heart; it did not matter what type of job he was doing, he was going to do it to the utmost of his abilities. He did not retire from JBI until he was ninety-two...NINETY-TWO! Even at this stage in his life, it was not for indulgent purposes that he retired; his health had begun to decline somewhat, so it was decided that retirement would be best for him. Everyone predicted that his health would rapidly deteriorate after he quit doing the thing he loved so dearly, and they were right. Papa John died on November 16th, 1998 at the age of 94.
John's son is Richard Asbury Bisanar, my grandfather. Grandaddy is an interesting mix of intellectual and agricultural. Like his father, he is very loyal to his family; he even lives on the very farm where John was raised. However, unlike his father, Grandaddy is an academic. This previous statement is not meant to detract at all from my great-grandfather, for he had his own attributes. Grandaddy was an engineer who traveled the country for years and was a white collar big wig. Interestingly enough, though, this hoity-toity exec retired to his father's farm where he has happily planted spinach, potatoes, corn, onions, and a veritable plethora of other produce since 1989. Despite the obvious difference between him and his father in the arenas of education and profession, Grandaddy is very much like Papa John in one aspect: he is a hard worker. My grandfather is currently seventy-eight years old and still "farms" every day that he can. When the weather is not conducive to farming, there is usually some other project he is working on, be it physical or mental. Yes, I have never seen such a dichotomy as that which exists in my grandfather: he is infinitely different from yet wholeheartedly similar to his father, Papa John. Quite an odd yet endearing little man.
Last, but not least, is my own father, Todd Asbury Bisanar. (Notice a pattern with the names. If you're interested in even more reading, we are also distantly kin to this fellow.) Oh, Dad. What can I say? He is unequivocally similar to Papa John in almost every way. I consider it in no way derogatory to say that, unlike his father, my father is not what I would consider an academic. Unlike Grandaddy, my father did not go to college; he cannot name-that-jazz-musician upon hearing the first few notes of a song; he does not give a flip about art, nor would he ever be caught dead wearing madras plaid (Grandaddy is a big fan, in case you were wondering where THAT came from). However, my father is THE hardest working person I have ever known. People who knew my great-grandfather repeatedly point out his similarity to my father. Dad is a mechanic who works...as cliche as it may sound...from sun up to sun down...even on the weekends. The odd thing about Dad, though, is that he works so hard without really complaining. He will come home at 9:00 p.m. on a Saturday and proceed to fix a leaky kitchen sink, stopping only to utter a few curse words when he drops a wrench on his face.
In conclusion, I can only hope that if I am blessed with children in the future, they will inherit the Bisanar super-power gene. Bisanar men are, in a word, amazing. None of them have done anything spectacularly notable by today's lofty standard, but they are remarkable. They are remarkable because, in a world suffering from self-obsession, sloth, and greed, they refuse to settle for anything less than their personal best in all that they do.
I have always been and will always be proud to be cut from such earnest cloth.
As I was scraping the paint off of my front door tonight (see previous blog posting regarding repainting door), I suddenly began to think about my great-grandfather. Yes, that seems like a bizarre association, I know, but it was not the door itself that got me thinking but rather the meaning behind the layers of paint which I am ever so slowly peeling off. My door is currently a relatively unattractive green color. The previous owners did a shoddy job of painting this putrid color, so, luckily for me, the paint is peeling off without sand paper or a stripping substance. As I peeled the green away, I got to a red layer of paint (which was also applied in a shoddy manner and peels off as easily as the green). And even further behind the red layer is a shiny black surface. While I peeled away, I found myself wondering if black was the original color of the door or if there is yet another layer beneath it. I also began to think about the people who painted the door each of these colors. I know a little bit about the previous owners, but I know nothing about any of the other former owners. The house was built in the fifties, so I imagine there have been many owners to pass in and out of the very front door I was deconstructing. I am fascinated with the idea of those who have come before. When put into perspective, a lifetime is in fact a very short amount of time, so given this fact, we will all soon file into the ranks of "those who came before" as well. Will people think about us? Will they wonder what our lives were like? Or will they scrape the paint off of our old front doors without so much as a moment of curiosity about us?
Much of my curiosity about the legions of people who lived and died before us was probably fostered by my grandparents continually telling me the stories of their childhoods and the lives of those that they themselves had loved and lost throughout the years. While my mother's side of the family is very...genealogically aware, my father's side of the family is genealogically obsessed! We know our direct lineage all the way back to the very first Bisanar who set foot on American soil during the Revolutionary War. We even know where this patriarch is buried and visit his grave from time to time. This is one of the things that I love so dearly about my family: We may not be much, but we know who we are.
I was lucky enough to know four of my eight great-grandparents for a relatively long period of time. The only great-grandfather I ever knew, though, was Papa John. John Asbury Bisanar (aka Papa John) was born on September 20th, 1904. He was a farm boy and had several siblings. He fell in love with the girl next door...literally, although, the concept of "next door" was a neighboring farm a few miles down the road! Papa John married Mary Louise Sigmon, and they eventually moved to the booming metropolis that is Gastonia, NC. The thing I remember most about Papa John is how hard he worked. He was the first licensed electrician in Gastonia and operated John Bisanar, Inc. for the bulk of his life. Whenever people found out I was a Bisanar, they usually told me what a great man Papa John was. His name was synonymous with quality and heart; it did not matter what type of job he was doing, he was going to do it to the utmost of his abilities. He did not retire from JBI until he was ninety-two...NINETY-TWO! Even at this stage in his life, it was not for indulgent purposes that he retired; his health had begun to decline somewhat, so it was decided that retirement would be best for him. Everyone predicted that his health would rapidly deteriorate after he quit doing the thing he loved so dearly, and they were right. Papa John died on November 16th, 1998 at the age of 94.
John's son is Richard Asbury Bisanar, my grandfather. Grandaddy is an interesting mix of intellectual and agricultural. Like his father, he is very loyal to his family; he even lives on the very farm where John was raised. However, unlike his father, Grandaddy is an academic. This previous statement is not meant to detract at all from my great-grandfather, for he had his own attributes. Grandaddy was an engineer who traveled the country for years and was a white collar big wig. Interestingly enough, though, this hoity-toity exec retired to his father's farm where he has happily planted spinach, potatoes, corn, onions, and a veritable plethora of other produce since 1989. Despite the obvious difference between him and his father in the arenas of education and profession, Grandaddy is very much like Papa John in one aspect: he is a hard worker. My grandfather is currently seventy-eight years old and still "farms" every day that he can. When the weather is not conducive to farming, there is usually some other project he is working on, be it physical or mental. Yes, I have never seen such a dichotomy as that which exists in my grandfather: he is infinitely different from yet wholeheartedly similar to his father, Papa John. Quite an odd yet endearing little man.
Last, but not least, is my own father, Todd Asbury Bisanar. (Notice a pattern with the names. If you're interested in even more reading, we are also distantly kin to this fellow.) Oh, Dad. What can I say? He is unequivocally similar to Papa John in almost every way. I consider it in no way derogatory to say that, unlike his father, my father is not what I would consider an academic. Unlike Grandaddy, my father did not go to college; he cannot name-that-jazz-musician upon hearing the first few notes of a song; he does not give a flip about art, nor would he ever be caught dead wearing madras plaid (Grandaddy is a big fan, in case you were wondering where THAT came from). However, my father is THE hardest working person I have ever known. People who knew my great-grandfather repeatedly point out his similarity to my father. Dad is a mechanic who works...as cliche as it may sound...from sun up to sun down...even on the weekends. The odd thing about Dad, though, is that he works so hard without really complaining. He will come home at 9:00 p.m. on a Saturday and proceed to fix a leaky kitchen sink, stopping only to utter a few curse words when he drops a wrench on his face.
In conclusion, I can only hope that if I am blessed with children in the future, they will inherit the Bisanar super-power gene. Bisanar men are, in a word, amazing. None of them have done anything spectacularly notable by today's lofty standard, but they are remarkable. They are remarkable because, in a world suffering from self-obsession, sloth, and greed, they refuse to settle for anything less than their personal best in all that they do.
I have always been and will always be proud to be cut from such earnest cloth.
Happy 49th Birthday, Dad.
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