Legacy

Little kids often get asked, “What do you want to be when you grow-up?” Men my age ask themselves a different question. “What do I want to leave behind, what do I want to be remembered for? What will be my legacy? Something that is uniquely mine, that which will outlive me.”

I first became aware of this strong desire after watching a “Little House on the Prairie,” episode. I know, not exactly “Masterpiece Theater,” but I learned a lot from it. Charles Ingalls, having become aware of his own mortality, wanted desperately to leave something behind, something that would tell people he had lived – something that would last. He had watched his friend die, and then two weeks later there was no evidence that his friend had ever walked the earth.

“My God, I don’t want that to happen to me,” Charles said to his wife, Caroline.

No man wants that. Charles built tables and burnt his initials on them. He hoped they would be his legacy. In the end, it was his children who fulfilled that dream. He lives on in his daughter’s books.

One measure of a legacy left behind is how a man is looked upon when he’s gone. A good place to witness this first hand is at a wake or funeral. I am not trying to turn the grieving process into a side-show, but this is where society and culture has deemed we demonstrate our love, affection and respect for the departed and their family. We owe them at least that much, so we pay our respects.

A couple weeks ago I said good-bye to Dick Mullin. I was deeply moved by what I saw at his wake. Dick had owned a trucking company – black Peterbilts pulling end-dump trailers. Almost fifty years ago he had started with one dump truck. During its peak the company had amassed 65 truck and trailer units. Dick built his company with hard-work and determination in a style that was his own. He expected everyone to work as hard he did.

In front of the funeral home were two Peterbilt tractors which had been polished and shined to perfection by his drivers. These trucks had been backed in and angled towards each other. They were parked as an honor guard – sentinels to the man whose name they displayed on their doors.

If stationary trucks can be moving – moving in a way that stops a man to look – then these were. As I stood outside admiring them a lone truck cutting through the darkness on the highway sounded its air horn several times in salute.

When I regained my composure I stepped inside the funeral home. The visitation line wound and stretched the length of the building. I felt a little out of place, for standing in line were dozens of men wearing the uniform of a truck driver: boots, jeans and big belt-buckles. These men, tough guys by any definition, were patiently standing in line to say good-bye. Depending upon the man, Dick had been their employer, their competitor, their contractor or their customer. But to all of them, he had been their friend.

I don’t know if there are any tables with Dick’s initials stamped on them, but you don’t have to look too hard for the Big M on his tractors and trailers. Dick Mullin’s legacy is his company, his reputation and his family. Dick built a company that is now run by his son Joe, and may one day be run by Joe’s sons. That’s a legacy that will last.

All men should be so lucky.