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A quote: “You have to do your own growing no matter how tall your grandfather was.” ~~ Abraham Lincoln
I’ll start with a story …
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My earliest memory of my grandfather is of an ancient old man. Standing in front of him, I was closer to his knees than his face and the sight of his gnarled hands, covered in blue veins and liver spots frightened me.
“Do they hurt, sir?” I whispered.
“Not at all, boy. They don’t look like much, but they bring me joy.”
Now as I shape the wood as he taught me, with the tools of his own father, I quietly bless him with each new spot on my hands.
“No,” I say to my grandson, “My hands don’t hurt.”
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Now, it’s your turn.
And a Happy Fathers Day to you all.
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.featured image, Adobe Stock, standard license.
Lloyd says: Grandfathers teach us much. Your readers might appreciate/enjoy this little piece of mine:
JUST WONDERING
I always wondered
Why my Grandfather wore his long-handled
Underwear so late into the Spring or early summer.
I wondered why he struggled with tying on a fish hook
Or, starting a small nut on a small bolt
Or, on rare occasions, tying a neck tie.
I always wondered why he struggled with a coat;
Why his second sleeve went on
With such great difficulty…..
I wondered why it was that he so enjoyed
Rocking a grandchild or great grandchild on his lap,
Particularly when the child was sleeping.
I wondered how he could so love
His grandchildren and great grandchildren
Even when they screwed up and disappointed him.
I wondered how he could possibly
Love and fondly remember a daughter
Who had committed suicide.
I wondered how little things in the natural world:
Birds, animals, wildflowers and trees
Could mean so much to him.
I wondered why he wouldn’t go fishing in the rain,
Why he only liked to fish in low, warm water,
Or, why he delighted in my catching the fish.
I wondered how he could tell his stories
And work me into them, even when
Many took place long before I was born.
I wondered how he grew old so gracefully;
How his posture remained ramrod straight as he aged
And how he faced death so fearlessly.
But, now as I approach the age at which he died,
I wonder no more….
Now, I know….!!!!
Cameron says: Other kids were out playing football and tag. I stayed indoors because the guitar fascinated me. The way he could make such sounds come out from it with little effort.
I struggled for years and listened intently to his corrections. He attended my shows even when my parents couldn’t. He taught me about the business and how to make a living.
It never occurred to me that this was anything special. I never knew who he really was until I took the stage and the world learned that I was his grandson. He was setting things up for his replacement.
Fletch says: As for me, I would just bang on the strings: pulling, strumming, frizzing with jangle and blare into an outburst of sound strangled from mutilated strings. Grandfather took the instrument from me, putting his hand against the strings to quiet them.
“No,” he said. Just that one word, “no.”
Then he showed me the notes on the page. Someone had painted them there in order and precision: black notes and white notes stair-stepping up and down the page.
“It’s right there,” he said. “Ain’t no good come from plucking at random and rioting across the strings. Ain’t no good from breaking or tearing up. You sit there and you learn them notes. Once you know the order of things then maybe you can dream of revolution. You won’t never do better than them until you understand the why of them.”
That was my granddad. He believed in things. He believed in music. Looking back, I guess I wish there were more folk like him.
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