The old men at the table had the same twinkle in their eyes. Their hands, gnarled and dirt stained, gripped the diner mugs filled with cheap black coffee. None of them spoke.
Around them the room roiled with festivity. Streamers and balloons and confetti cluttered the space – a celebration of a grandson’s birth.
Outside evening drew to a close. The men, without speaking, noted the sky, it’s lack of cloud, and they knew the feel of the air without being in it. Tomorrow would be clear.
As if the weather report had been broadcast, a ripple of movement passed around the circle at the table. Tomorrow would be a good day to farm. The men sipped their coffee, already gathering energy for the morning.
Photo by @abduhawab, from the Hive Stock Images community.
Remembering my grandfather
My grandfather was an old farmer like the men in the freewrite above. He drank his coffee black, had a great mischievous twinkle at family gatherings, and he never really quit working, at least not when I knew him, up until his mid-70s.
He died when he was 81 years old, in December 2005. At that point I had broken contact with the family, but he was probably making plans for the spring planting when he passed.
The twinkle in his eyes was there in spite of the darkness he went through. When he was 13 years old, during the Great Depression, his family abandoned him, just moved away one day while he was at school. He fought in Europe during World War II. And, given what I have learned about child abuse and how it is passed down the generations until the cycle is broken, he probably experienced sexual abuse as a child.
I suspect that he was abused because he abused me. I suppose that gives me a reason to hate my grandfather, but I don’t. I respect and remember fondly his work ethic, his sense of humor, and his love for animals and connection to the land. I am thankful for what he provided as a patriarch – his farm supported and provided a home for three generations when I was growing up there.
The darkness does not diminish the light. I think that is true.
My grandfather’s poem
I wrote this poem about my grandfather some twenty years ago, before he died.
Loyal Friend
Grandpa with brown
wrinkled
skin stretched over gnarled
fingers gripping the hammer
beats, pounds, cusses the wood,
plywood sheet, flooring.
In his mind, the sheet fits the corner,
the floor already lies smooth, seamless,
complete, like the floor built after the destruction
of war, for the shiny-eyed
wife, when clean lumber rough-danced
in leaner hands. Now,
quadruple bypassed heart
hammers, hammers, hammers,
the proud-necked board and the friend
who always laughed in the shadows
snickers in his ear.
what a touching tribute to your grandpa 😊😊 thank you for sharing your story..
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