20. Morgan A

My father-in-law goes by several names. Among these are "Dad", "Dedaddy", "Morgan", "Hun", and my personal dub, "Poppa". Far more than the names he answers to are the hats he wears, which include but are not limited to: husband, father, grandfather, carpenter, should've-gone-pro golfer, electrician, gourmet chef, and salesman. The adventures he holds as memories are too numerous to record in a single biography and it never amazes me when he says, "Oh yeah, we can fix that no problem," for whether the subject at hand is an under-marinated steak or a crashed computer he almost invariably does know what he is talking about.

Last week the family gathered over at Jonathan and Jamie's for one of our now infamous work weekends. We all show up in grubby clothes, every last one of us, but it is always Poppa who really gets his hands dirty. His hands, his knees, his eyebrows, his elbows... he is our ringleader and the one who never quits. This go-round it was laminate flooring among other things, and before we knew it he was off and leading the pack through demolition and refurbishing so that what was once dingy white carpet was rapidly transforming into sleek, almost golden oak flooring. Nevertheless, as none of us can work as fast as he does the weekend turned into a week, and then another weekend, and finally on Saturday two days past Poppa was making the final cut on the table saw. One last cut, and then havoc. His hand went down, the adrenaline of nearly finishing coursed through him, the table saw connected, and five hours later saw him laying in a hospital bed contemplating amputation. No joke.

Of course few of us realized what was actually going on. The call Josh received went something like this:

"Hey Josh, go ahead and start on the front nine. I cut my hand a little bit and I'm just going to run over to the emergency room --"

"The emergency room? Dad, what did you do?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'll try to meet you on the back nine after I get a few stitches. Just go ahead."

As Josh and his uncles headed for the back nine, we all got the call that Poppa was headed for surgery. Not only surgery, but the doctor was also prognosticating a half-way amputation of the left pointer finger. Apparently at that point the doctor and my brother-in-law Jonathan watched as Poppa exhaustively raised his hands end on end and curled them as if clutching two glass tubes.

"Dad," Jonathan asked with a chuckle, "are you checking to see if you can still play golf without it?"

"Yep," he said as his head sank back on the pillow, "I think I'm good."

That, my friends, signaled go time. Poppa did not flail about passionately or pitch a pity pit, but patiently accepted his lot.

Poppa is one of those people who has dogged determination and immortal grit, but no frazzle-your-hair stress in accompaniment. He has endured much and is determined to power through more, but the only time I see him lose his cool is during his daughter's basketball games. Unless threatened by lackluster coaching, he never feels the need to flap his feathers about.

You'll be happy to know that he did not lose his finger, which I suppose is due to some excellent doctoring and the willpower of a golfer combined, but I honestly can't imagine a person who could handle the challenge better than Morgan R Adams III. I mean, he was the one who at the age of approximately six stepped in when his father died of cancer and helped raise his younger twin brothers. Of course, his solution to dirty dishes was to throw them out in the snow and bury them discreetly, but I think that so much of his top notch attitude is due to the way he reacted to this first and very hard responsibility. He took it on, did not look back, and never complains about it... ever.