Jack Sr. was a man about town—but not in the worldly sense. Everyone knew Jack. His parents raised him there in Ely, and he married a hometown girl. They didn’t fit the mold in the least. As a boy, Jack was a ruffian, an outdoorsman of the original sort, born with a canoe paddle in his hand. He held various jobs: worked on city maintenance, served as a fireman, ran the farm raising mink, and all sorts of other things. As old-timers would say, he could turn his hand to just about anything. And he was quite the character.

Once, as told by my father (who was also named Jack), Jack Sr. was confronted by a city-slicking young buck in front of the fire station. Jack told him to move his vehicle, and the Gatsby-wannabe called him an old-timer. From what I’ve pieced together from my father, who was apparently an eyewitness, Jack Sr.—who was probably in his sixties at the time— took one swing with his gorilla-length arms, and let’s just say that the young man was not going to be able to kiss a young lass for quite a while.

When the younger Jack (my dad) returned from the war, he made the mistake of announcing he was ready to take on his father, the senior Jack. Dad, who had taken a particular interest in developing his pugilist skills during military training, brought out some boxing gloves. As the story unfolded, he began to dance around Gramps like boxers do, landing a number of quick left jabs to the chin. The elder Jack took each one like a fly landing on his face. Gramps was a veteran of insect combat—the critters were quite abundant in Ely, Minnesota, and they liked the taste of human blood. His way of dealing with them, when the landed on his face, was for the most part to ignore them, with an occasional swing of his hand to shoo them away.

Well, after a while of ignoring Junior’s jabs, Jack Sr. wound up his arm from way behind him, let it fly in a sweeping roundhouse, and landed his fist squarely up side of my dad’s jaw, knocking him on his keister. At that point, Junior jumped to his feet, threw down his gloves, and stormed off. “Your arms are too long, that’s no fair!” That was the last time Junior challenged Senior.

Lest you think I am being critical of my father, he laughed heartily when he told me the story. The “old-timer” was no pushover. Dad said Gramps had arms the length of an ape and could scratch his knees without bending over. I can attest to that from my observations!

Junior had great respect for Jack Sr., but there was angst at times. I remember one time at Shaller Bay, for an outing at Mike and Gert’s (Dad’s cousin) cabin, our family was enjoying a day of water fun and lots to eat. Gramps had brought along the old outboard boat and motor (an eighteen-horsepower Evinrude) and some skis. Gramps was in the boat, steering from the back with his hand on the motor handle. Dad was sitting on the end of the dock with skis on and the ski-rope slack between him and the boat. Simple enough, right?

Well, everyone knew the motor was barely powerful enough to pull a skier, but my dad was somewhat slim and in relatively good shape, so they were going to give it a try. It was the old father-son bonding experience, with us younger generation watching and hoping for our turn. It took so long for my dad to get ready and situated that the boat had drifted with the mild wind backwards toward the dock. So when Jack Sr. noticed he was getting too close to where Junior’s ski-clad feet were dangling in the water, he hurriedly shifted the motor out of neutral—only to mistakenly put it into reverse.

My dad had years trimmed off his life at that moment, as he lurched out of the way to save his legs from being trimmed off. He jumped up on the dock and stormed off, muttering what we recognized as Italian swear words. (Dad only used Italian for one or two swear words, whose meaning he never explained to us.) Grandpa was sitting back at the now-stalled boat and said something like, “You don’t have to get so mad.” Dad’s legs were intact, all was soon forgotten, and we all went and enjoyed hamburgers. (This story is true, as I was sitting on the dock watching the episode unfold).

Every family has its squabbles, but life goes on. We live in community with others, whether family, church, neighborhoods, or various other associations. Whether it’s the Italian side of the family or the Irish, we can’t take ourselves or other too seriously. Stuff happens and we cover it over with love and grace.

While my family didn’t read the Bible in those days, there was a principle at work that came (with varying degree) with the family territory: “Above all, keep fervent in your love for one another, because love covers a multitude of sins” (1 Peter 4:8).