Life, Lessons & Love

All The Men I Have Loved

January 16, 2021

“I’ve heard people say that too much of anything is not good for you, baby.” — Barry White, Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe

Of course, I started with a father. I loved, and was loved by, my father. For all my childhood, and even a good portion of my adult life, I took him for granted—he was all I ever knew. But with time, experience, and a matured view of the men of the world, I came to see how fortunate I was to be loved by a man who stood among the world’s greatest fathers. I was lucky to realize that before it was too late, and to thank him in person. The letters that poured in after his death affirmed what I already knew: he was a great man, and was loved and admired by all who had been fortunate to share their lives with him.

I had only one biological brother. We got along as well as most siblings—better than many, perhaps. I don’t recall being a particularly great older brother. But Eric’s thoughtfulness, which our mother mentioned regularly, now suggests to me that he held me in high esteem. I suppose the feeling was mutual.

Still, despite my bond with my father, I’ve found my feelings for men often muted. Perhaps, in the culture of the late 20th century, we lost sight of the distinctions between love, intimacy, romance, sex, and attachment. Feeling seems to make the truth of love easier to see.

Through my work with the military, and extended family and friends in uniform, I’ve been privileged to be an honorary member of that brotherhood. The experiences were varied, but over time, the nature of our bonds became clear.

Over the years, I’ve gained brothers-in-law—slowly at first—then, more quickly.

Two marriages brought not only wives, but fathers-in-law. In both cases, these men respected their daughter’s decision, and respected me. I regret not speaking with them before proposing—not to ask permission, but out of respect for their role and love for their daughters. Even so, they knew I respected them. I think my love for each man was simply eclipsed by my love for his daughter.

It’s ironic how death, in all its forms, promotes growth. The death of a loved one will force a profound shift. For those of us fortunate to be able to accept that transition with grace, that shift can alter our perspective, and enable us to see more broadly and far more clearly. With the death of my first marriage, and the loss of our family of four, I experienced that shift and the resulting growth profoundly.

That shift is how I came to realize the depth of my love for another man—a love that still brings me to tears. Chuck and I met through meetup.com; we were motorcycle buddies. After the group we formed disbanded, we stayed close. As his health declined, we stopped riding, but stayed connected. I would drive (or ride) to his home just to walk a mile with him. In 2015, he and his wife moved to Texas. The day Joanne and I said goodbye, he kissed me on the cheek. I was surprised—and touched. He died the next year. That kiss was both an “I love you” and a final goodbye.

Chuck and my father were not my first losses. My grandfathers had died years before. My dad’s father died when my dad was just fourteen. I only know of him only through my father’s memoirs. And, both my step-grandfather and my mom’s dad lived across the country from us—so I didn’t know them as well as I would have liked.

But, my mother’s parents lived with us in Atlanta for nearly a year. During that period, as I approached my teen years, I got to know them better. My mom’s father was a great man—Tom was a talented musician, accomplished artist, and a professional sign-painter. I know more about him than I experienced directly, but I was lucky to know him at all.

My dad’s mom and step-dad visited us in Atlanta from time to time, and we visited them in California on a couple of occasions. It was my step-grandfather, Grandpa Vince, who taught me the love language of gifts. Whenever we saw him, he always wanted to do something special for us.

I still remember the olive green Army men he bought for me during one visit to their home in California. And I fondly recall several trips to the candy store in Atlanta. Interestingly, it’s the trip with Vince that I remember most clearly—not the candy itself. I have no recollection of what I picked out or ate. What has stayed with me is the time we spent together. Even then, I sensed that he wanted to express something.

At the time, I lacked the context and the words to describe it. But now, it’s obvious: love, expressed as gifts. That was his language.

He was gruff—a man of few words, more formal than warm. But in hindsight, his primary love language is unmistakable. Every small act, every gift, every detour to the store… was him saying, in the only way he knew how: I love you.

In Virginia, in my late teen years, Vince and I had a curious final encounter. He showed me a brilliant, and apparently valuable silver dollar. I think he was expecting me to say “can I have it!?” But I didn’t work that way, and waited for him to offer the gift. I knew that all I had to do was ask… but something held me back. There’s a deeper lesson there—one that belongs among the topics in chapter 8—something about faith.

And then, there have been the boys who would become men. My sons, one biological, one via “exchange” and one via “adoption.” Each, very unique relationships. Nick, Jonas and Gabe also now number among the men I have loved.

So, Barry White was right, you really can’t get enough love. Never too much love.