The old man I knew.
Today, sixty years later, that’s all I can really remember him as: The old man. I’m sure I knew his name at that time, and it was probably “Mr.” Something or other. He was likely just as old as I remember him. About 60 or so. (Ten years less than my age now) And though his name now eludes my memory, I can recall almost every detail of his appearance, and of the little garage workshop where he spent most of his days.
Our three or four year-long relationship began with just an occasional nod, as we neighborhood kids would ride our bikes past the open door of his woodshop. Before long, I would stop every now and then, leaning on my handlebars… watching. I don’t recall any of the other kids finding that open door very interesting. But I became enthralled with the world inside. There were sights and sounds so intriguing that I couldn’t have stayed away if my life depended upon it.
And Smells! The sweet aroma generated by the beautiful table saw… the dozens of different smells so biting, emanating from the mysterious shelves of varnishes, lacquers, and paints. The ever present cup of coffee at his elbow. They all drew me like a magnet.
Who knows what finally got me to muster enough courage to actually move beyond the threshold, and begin asking questions. But I did, and, one step at a time, the old man let me share a little of his special place. At first, I just stood by the workbench, scurrying to get out of the way when he would move to a power tool to work yet another bit of magic on the piece of wood in his hands. Then, he would ask me to maybe hand him something that was a bit out of his reach… a screw perhaps, or maybe even a tool!
Before long, I was helping a little more effectively. He let me sweep up. Boy was that ever a thrill to me. With that broom in my hand, I got to move all around that shop, savoring the discoveries of so many neat things in all the dark corners and recesses. Then, he let me actually sand on some of the pieces. How cool!
You’d think that one of my best memories would have been of him showing me how to feed a piece of wood into the saw… or how to drill a hole without splitting out the opposite side… or learning to appreciate the subtleties found within the grain of a select piece of hardwood. But, exciting as all that was, it was something else that remained with me for many years thereafter.
One day, the phone rang at our house, and my mother told me that Mr. “?” wanted me to come down to his house. This was a first. I didn’t know he even knew where I lived. Well, I ran the block or so to his garage door, and could hardly believe my eyes when I got there. Just inside the door was the most beautiful wagon I had ever laid eyes on. Except for the tire treads, it was made entirely of wood. And not just ANY wood. All sorts of different types and stains of contrasting woods made up this masterpiece. And it had high rails along the sides. They were removable!
Somehow, the old man had managed to work on this gift for weeks without me ever knowing it. Probably burned a lot of midnight oil when I was long past asleep in my bed. I never felt so special.
Well, the months and years passed, and I guess I grew up. Going to see the old man became less and less of a priority in my life. The wagon I had treasured so dearly became just another toy discarded for the “cooler” trappings of approaching teen years. I’d stop in every so often, but my visits became less and less frequent, and they were seldom very long.
Then one day my mother got another phone call.
“No!” I ran to the little garage. I don’t know why. I knew he wouldn’t be there. It was shut and locked, and I don’t remember ever seeing it open again. I wanted, in the worst way, for that old man to come back. But of course he never would.
But, just like so many “Grandfathers”, he left something behind that became a part of me. Yeah, a love of woodworking, but more than that. I can’t help wanting to teach and help young people whenever they show an interest in something I’m capable of sharing with them.
I hope each of you had an old man in their lives, a “Grandfather”. They’re a very unique and special breed of men, and the world is a sadder place at each of their passings.[/QUOTE
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((((thanks for all the shares)))),
Beautifully written, Willie..
