Wisdom Through My Stepfather’s Metaphors

The Man Behind the Lessons

My stepfather was a straightforward man. He didn’t dress things up, he didn’t pretend, and he didn’t waste words. He wasn’t the type to sit you down for long speeches, but he paid attention, and he cared in his own steady way. He showed his love through what he taught, what he repeated, and what he refused to ignore. A lot of what he gave me didn’t sound like wisdom at the time, but it settled in me and grew as I did.

Metaphors That Grew With Me

He had a way of dropping metaphors that didn’t always make sense to me back then. I would hear them, tuck them away, and keep moving. As the years passed, those sayings started to unfold. They weren’t jokes. They weren’t just country talk. They were warnings, reminders, and little pieces of wisdom he handed me without making a big deal out of it.

“I Calls ’Em Like I See ’Em”

The one that explains him best was always, “I call’s ’em like I see’s ’em.” That taught me to be honest in my words, not harsh, not cruel, just honest. I learned that people don’t always like the truth, but lying teaches nothing, not to them, and not to me. He showed me that if I bend the truth, I lose myself in the process. If I stand in it, I stay whole. That saying wasn’t just about him. It became a reminder for me to stay true to myself, even when honesty is uncomfortable.

“I Call a Spade a Spade”

He also used to say, “I call a spade a spade.” That one always made me laugh, and for a long time, I didn’t understand why. Maybe it’s because the meaning was the same as “I call’s ’em like I see’s ’em,” and he was making sure it stuck. He wanted me to see life as it really was, not through rose colored glasses. He wasn’t trying to make the world prettier than it is. He was teaching me that pretending doesn’t change anything. Calling things what they are, even when it is uncomfortable, is the only way to live in truth. That lesson stayed with me.

“If It Walks Like a Duck…”

Another one he used often was, “If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it is a duck.” This was a lesson in the lies people try to camouflage. He was teaching me to look past the performance and pay attention to the person, who they are on the inside and the outside. He wanted me to see people clearly, not through excuses or wishful thinking. He was showing me that patterns don’t lie, behavior doesn’t lie, and a person will always reveal themselves if I am willing to look with honest eyes.

“Don’t Let Anybody Tinkle on Your Head…”

And then there was the one that stuck with me the longest. “Don’t let anybody tinkle on your head and tell you it’s raining.” My first thought when he said it was, Yuck, that is gross. I understood the surface of it right away, but the depth came later. Back then, it was just a wild thing to hear. As I got older, I realized he was teaching me not to let anyone insult my intelligence. Not to let people lie to me with a straight face. Not to let charm or excuses cover up the truth. What started out sounding ridiculous became one of the clearest lessons of my life.

The Wisdom That Stayed

The older I get, the more I realize how much of him lives through me. Not in loud or dramatic ways, but in the quiet strength I carry and the steadiness I stand on. I move through life with my eyes open and my heart honest because of him. He gave me what he had, and what he had was knowledge. Knowledge that grew with me, shaped me, and carried me through life. I didn’t understand all of it back then, but I understand it now, and I am grateful for the part of him that helped form the woman I became.

A Tribute That Lasts

He wasn’t perfect, and he didn’t have to be. What he gave me was enough. Enough to guide me. Enough to steady me. Enough to stay with me long after he was gone. This tribute is for him, for the man who taught me truth, for the man who taught me discernment, for the man who taught me to stand in who I am and not apologize for seeing life clearly. I carry his lessons with gratitude. I carry his voice with love. And I carry his wisdom forward for myself, for my children, and for everyone who comes after me.