My grandfather was a man of his generation.  He swore to serve the Navy on a farm, where shortly after he swore to love my grandmother forever.  He fought valiantly and returned to work in the refinery and raise 5 kids.  Like others in his generation, he did not talk much, but when he did, his words were compact, direct and weighty.

My experience of him was undoubtedly different than my uncles'.   I can see the tension on the faces of his children as we convey the same stories over and over, each time with greater romanticism.  They man they knew was fond of a garden hoe and socket wrench, not flight logs and Navy heirlooms.

After his death, my grandmother passed on the tools that were important to him or important to us as his legacy.  She passed out military uniforms, tools and pocket knives.  We each got some things that we wanted, some things that he wanted us to have and some things that she deemed necessary. The lot she gave me is important to me.  She granted me some of the artifacts I asked for and tossed in a little extra (“lagniappe” she would call it).

My grandfather was fond of his coffee.  Thick, black, burnt.  Despite owning automatic drip makers, he made his coffee in a camp pot.  These are fantastic tools on a cold morning, yet create by almost all standards, terrible coffee.  My grandmother endowed me with a spare.

Over years of Fathers Days and Grandparents Days his 5 kids and 10 grandkids helped him amass quite the collection of coffee mugs, each with a note of intentionality.

I inherited the ironic mug.  Around the outside of the cup were pictures of men of another era in top hats and tails.  Each man sported a beard or goatee or handlebar mustache.  Fantastic.  The kicker was the ‘mustache protector’ on top, a part of the mug intended to keep a man’s Mo clean.  Thoughtful and useful.

The irony is that my grandfather didn’t have a mustache. Or a beard. Or a goatee.  I guess as grandkids we thought we were funny.

My children love drinking their hot chocolate and whipped cream out of this mug.  It’s practical.

The other night my 10-year old son walks into my room, rubbing his bare upper lip with great aplomb, noting that his mustache is coming in nicely.  Soon he’ll have need for Papaw’s mug. I sent him back to bed, teddy bear in hand.  Not yet, son.  Not yet.

He shared more that a joke with me that night.  He showed me his model of a man.  He knows he’s not a man, yet he knows he’s becoming one. Maybe he’ll wear a mustache one day or maybe he won’t, but there is more to being a man than facial hair.  He knows this because we talk about it.

The irony was fantastic: the beardless old man passes an ironic mug to a hairless boy and in the process bestows masculinity.  Such is the passing of manhood, I suppose.