A Man in a Boat
Looking at my grandfather, I’m reminded of how much of a successful life is about swimming with the current,wherever that takes you.
A black-and-white image. It had been tucked away in an album for years before I snuck it out of our familycamp on an island in a lake in Maine. “Megunticook” is the name of the venture capital firm I started andran for a decade before shutting our doors last week. It’s also the name of that lake in Camden. When I firststarted Megunticook Management, a secretary blew up the image to an 8 x 10 and put it in a silver frame.I’ve brought the picture with me as we moved offices over the years. Saturday morning, a truck deliveredboxes of files to my home office—a garret in the third-floor corner of our home in Brookline,Massachusetts—and the picture was the first thing I unpacked.The man in the picture is wearing a fedora, dress slacks, and a collared windbreaker. It’s my grandfather, just after the Second World War, when he bought the postage-stamp-sized property for a few thousand
dollars. His legs are spread, left foot forward, and knees bent, almost in a sprinter’s stance. His right arm iscaught in motion as if he were trying to propel the wooden boat forward. A thicket of branches graze thewater behind him and jagged rocks protrude from the surface in front of him. The bow of the boat is caughton a sand spit. Grandfather Bob’s body is lit up in bright sunshine but his face is stuck in the shadow of hishat. In my mind’s eye, I can just make out the look of intense concentration as he drops his head slightly tostare at that bow.What he might do if he got the boat free of dry land, I don’t know. There are no oars in the craft. But itdoesn’t much matter, since he isn’t going anywhere. Perhaps the reason I have carried this picture around isto continually ask myself how much different I am than my grandfather. While I don’t know the exact dateof the picture, I think the man in the boat is roughly the same age I am now (46).
♦
◊
♦
Robert Matlack was first involved in the paint industry at George D. Wetherill & Co. in Moorestown, NewJersey, and then as the president of the Federation of Societies for Coatings Technology. He had three kids,lived in a large house, and didn’t seem to have much use for people. He spent a lot of time in his study byhimself, reading the paper, watching sports, and smoking his pipe. He also smoked cigarettes and drank Scotch. My sense, though I could be wrong, was that he was fighting his demons and that his study waswhere he went to soothe himself. My most vivid memories of him as a small boy were of him yelling at mygrandmother when she interrupted his peace and quiet.Grandpa lived longer than he probably should have, given all the drinking and smoking. He refused to go tothe doctor, I imagine because he knew the news wouldn’t be good, and he died of lung cancer at age 79 in1990. In my 30s, I judged my grandfather harshly; I judged myself harshly, too. I had helped run a bigmedia company, drank too much, and found myself shattered. I had had two kids whom I barely knew; Ihad made the mistake of infidelity. When I was younger, I was told that my grandfather had once becomeinfatuated with a secretary, but stayed with my grandmother to the very end, despite what could best bedescribed as a challenging marriage.Since my grandfather bought that little piece of land in Camden, Maine, his three sons, nine grandchildren,and gaggle of great-grandchildren have all grown deeply attached to the area. One son moved to Portlandand then retired to Owl’s Head, the next town over. A grandson went to the Maine Maritime Academy tobecome a ship captain and built a house nearby. Another grandson moved into downtown Camden. Acouple of years ago, my parents moved to within a few miles of the island.Grandfather left the property to the nine grandchildren, of which I am one, in a trust that mandates that if we ever can’t reach consensus (my family is Quaker), the property goes to the State of Maine. Every otheryear, we get together as an extended family, some 40 strong now, to discuss the upkeep of the island inMaine. It’s not about the water glasses or the need for a new box spring, but about renewing the humanconnections that bond all of us together as descendants of the man in the boat. In the years since I first putthat picture on my desk, my perspective on my grandfather has changed. At first, I thought, I would dobetter and be better than him. I’d get sober and dedicate myself to being a fully present father. I’d get out of my bad marriage and dedicate myself to a new one. I’d write and think about being a good man.But now I am staring at that picture, the determined look on my grandfather’s face as he tried to get thatflat-bottomed boat off that sand bar and wondering: To what extent have I outrun my genetic heritage? Istill suffer from a variety of forms of obsessive behavior. My study is my sanctuary. I joke that I don’t likepeople. I do hope that I have a substantive relationship with my now three kids and am a good husband, butthat is a day-to-day challenge. The demons are still there, as is the desire to control the uncontrollable.
♦
◊
♦
A friend once said that he feels like a kid in the back seat of a car with a plastic steering wheel, thinkingthat he is driving, when in actuality all he is turning is a toy wheel while the world zooms by. Looking atmy grandfather, I’m reminded of how much of a successful life is about swimming with the current,wherever that takes you. I still have a bad habit of thrashing upstream, tiring myself out before I finally letgo and float downstream.Gratitude also is something I try to remember. I am lucky to be sober, to have three healthy kids, a lovingwife, and good health. Like my grandfather, too often I take all that for granted, as if those are just thethings I am owed by the universe, and snarl at those I care about most when they come to my study door toask me for help with even the most mundane household task. None of this is meant to diminish theimportance of the question, discussed daily at the
Good Men Project Magazine
among men and women Irespect, and which I ask myself in the dark of night: What does it mean to be a good man? I am admittinghere, for my grandfather’s sake, that the answer is not as straightforward as I’d once imagined.It requires admitting what I don’t know, can’t change, and likely never will.We’re all men standing in a boat, trying in vain to slip it off a sand bar. None of us can know today theimpact of the simplest of actions 50 years in the future, when our grandchildren stare at a picture andwonder how it was for us to try to be good.
About Tom Matlack
Tom Matlack is just foolish enough to believe he is a decent man. He has a 16-year-old daughter and 14-and 5-year-old sons. His wife, Elena, is the love of his life.
Comments
1.
says:February 28, 2011 at 10:55 am What a read…! I don’t know what else to say. Thank you for posting it. Like you, I guess inrunning http://www.onlydads.org I am blessed with meeting loads of good dads. Dads who know
their failings and shortcomings, but just want to be that bit better.warm regards TomBobReply
2.
Carla Smith
says:
Search History:
Result 00 of 00
00 results for result for
p.
A Man in a Boat
Looking at my grandfather, I’m reminded of how much of a successful life is about swimming with the current, wherever that takes you.
1.7K
Reads
1
Readcasts
0
Embed Views
More From This User
Notes
Load more
