The Last of the McGowans

The Legacy of My Namesake

As iron sharpens iron, so does one man sharpen another.
~ Proverbs 27:17

The three of us sat around the table, the TV turned on to the CNBC morning market show: my grandfather slowly eating his huge bowl of oatmeal, prepared by his caregiver and big enough to feed all of us; my father slicing up an orange, having already eaten his smaller bowl of oatmeal; and me, dipping my spoon into my strawberry yogurt topped with granola and a sliced banana. Grandfather, father, son – three generations of McGowans.

The Three Generations of Male McGowans

The scene repeated in the afternoon, as it often did, but with a different meal and TV channel. Now we were watching Family Feud. It was all fun and games in Steve Harvey’s show, but here in Houston, there had been some fiery family feuds amongst terrible tragedy. Years ago, one of my father’s younger sisters had died shortly after birth. Another sister died much later as a young woman in a car crash, right before my own birth. I would never meet my aunts, yet I could always feel their presence in the unstated grief of their untimely departures.

Ironclad in grief, I don’t remember my grandparents speaking of their daughters nor my father of his sisters. My father’s relationship with his parents would never be the same after such sorrow. One day he cut ties with his parents and left town. Years later we would learn my family has a history of thrombophilia, where our blood clots too easily. It wasn’t just blood coagulating in our veins: grief, too, had also become stuck in our hearts.

As a way of processing her grief and to keep the blood flowing, my grandmother established a foundation for education in honor of her daughters. My grandmother is now gone, and my younger sisters and I are now on the board, birthed in the same order as her children. We lead different lives and do not have children of our own, yet we continue the legacy of our family, one grant at a time.

My sister Mary and Grandpa look at a slideshow before Grandma’s memorial service

My grandfather told lots of stories: riding a horse to school in Minnesota, meeting Bill Gates and investing early on in Microsoft, and researching our ancestors who fought in the American Revolution and Civil War. Some tales were perhaps much taller than his 5-foot 6-inch frame, but he ensured we had our own true fantastical stories to tell by taking us on family trips to Arizona, Costa Rica, and Ireland. 

Those trips occurred when my grandfather still flew, before he became blind in one eye and blamed it on flying, despite a lack of any corroborating evidence. Although one of the kindest people I have known, he could also be the most stubborn. Once he set his mind to something, there was no turning back. His pullouts on freeways were legendary for giving us all heart attacks while my grandmother cried out from the backseat, “John! JOHN!” to little avail.

Much to the chagrin of my grandmother, he bought a ranch outside of town and paid a cowboy named Carlos to take care of it, including his own horse, Lucky 7. Hours outside of town and with no building to stay in, the ranch required him to rent an RV and take us there to play in the dry creekbeds and under the dusty oak trees. When we moved far away to Delaware, he sold the ranch, much to my grandmother’s relief, but kept the underlying mineral rights in case oil was ever found; none was.

Grandpa gives me a hug at his ranch

My grandparents were inseparable unless my grandfather was at the office or taking us to the grocery store to rent a movie. She would always be telling him what to do or not do. Once he had an idea to fix a problem, there was little stopping him until he had tried out his idea, despite my grandmother’s protests to stop. He was forever pleasant and practically oblivious to any inconvenience, even and especially ones he might be causing. He had an assuredness of what could or could not be done, or how the world worked. His love was like his focus: quiet, persistent, stubborn. 

Grandpa combing Grandma’s hair

Despite his unyielding nature, I never saw my grandfather lose his temper. Perhaps this is what enraged my father at times, who also inherited his own unyielding nature and may have led to the rift in their relationship. Sometimes iron can strike too hot or become too sharp, I suppose. Yet many years later, after my grandfather could not get my grandmother up after another recent fall, the man who could fix anything with his patient persistence was at a loss with how to care for the love of his life. So he made a call.

“Son, I need you.” 

“Dad, I’ll be there.” 

If iron sharpens iron, then maybe a helping hand can soften a hardened heart. The road was not smooth. There were heated arguments that almost came to blows: how to care for my grandmother, when to take away the car keys from my grandfather, and whether or not to bring in professional help – all while living together in a high-rise condo not meant for senior care. As the years progressed, my father took on more decision-making as my grandfather’s faculties diminished. Father became son,  and son became father, in a strange role reversal brought on by dementia and caring for an aging parent. 

I also witnessed moments of levity when I would visit. While watching my father and me play on the same team in the video game Call of Duty: Modern Warfare, my grandfather asked, “Are you two sure you’re not shooting each other?” In the afternoons if it wasn’t too hot, he would sometimes join us at the pool, as I swam laps and my father did his post hip surgery exercises. My grandfather enjoyed conversations until the dementia interrupted his thought process. He always enjoyed eating until the pain and morphine took his appetite. 

My sister Lea with Grandpa in the pool

One day, my grandfather asked me my name. When I said, “Evans,” he said, “That’s my middle name.” That’s right, Grandpa. I’m Evans Ledbetter McGowan. You’re John Evans McGowan. I was named after you. And you were named after your grandfather. There has been an Evans in our family for 15 generations since we first arrived in North America in the 1620s. We’ve been around a long time. Evans is Welsh, meaning “young warrior.” Ledbetter is Anglo-Saxon, meaning “beater of lead” and is my mother’s family name. And finally, McGowan is Scottish, meaning “son of iron worker.” In more ways than one, we have plenty of iron in our blood. 

My grandfather died this past weekend. He was 90 years old, had severe dementia, and could not recover from a fall he had sustained the week before. This time it was my father who needed to call for help. I am grateful that his pain and confusion have now ended. By the time he left this world, he had largely forgotten who he was: a loving husband, father, and grandfather. Yet as the last of the McGowan men, I will not forget him, nor the legacy he and my grandmother leave behind.