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I grew up in a house living with my grandpa. He was one cool guy. He wore navy blue or black trousers (because that’s what you called them) and a white button-down collared shirt every day. Every day. I think he got his first pair of blue jeans (that he almost never wore) when he was about 80 years old, and that was just to wear occasionally while working on his tomato plants in the garden. He rarely sat anywhere but at the kitchen table or in his Lazy Boy chair in his own room, and the davenport (he never referred to it as a “couch”) was reserved for very special occasions. He drank a shot of whiskey and water every day like clockwork and he drank his coffee with a splash of half and half. His father “came over on the boat from the old country” through Ellis Island and my grandpa had a memorial plaque put up on the Island in honor of him. I remember him speaking Polish around the kitchen table with his siblings when they would come for a visit. I never learned a lick of it, other than a few phrases, but boy did I wish I could get what they were saying…because it was damn funny by the sounds of their laughter. (Or maybe it was all the vodka they were knockin’ back. Na Zdrowie!) Whatever it was, it made for some interesting evesdropping, even though I couldn’t understand any of it.
He was blue collar through and through. This tough bird was one of the early guys who worked on the production line at Dodge Brothers. You know Chrysler-Dodge, the car company? I’m talking 1923, people! During the time of flappers, Prohibition and bootlegging my grandpa was building all-American cars the old-fashioned way. By hand. With ropes and pullies and hard-earned sweat. Talk about old school. He was the original “old school.” My grandpa was the oldest of six children. At the ripe old age of 13, his father made him quit school and get a job to help support the family. When he finally married, he only had one son, my dad. So, my father, sire of six crazy kids, was raised as an only child, in the heart of downtown Detroit, attended Catholic school and graduated from U of D College. My grandpa was determined to give my dad everything he never had. The other thing about my grandpa: he was a kickass carpenter! (He’s probably scolding me from somewhere in heaven right now for using the word “kickass” but really – that’s what he was!) He could do amazing things with wood. A simple craftsman, nothing was too fancy, but it was always functional and sturdy in its final form. Craftsmanship. Hard work. Those are the two words that come to mind when I think of my grandpa. He was the perfect person to help me create my art school masterpiece. Now, you’re probably wondering what masterpiece I’m talking about… It was a project I was assigned to build for my three-dimensional design class. Assignment: build a bird house. (Yip.)
I had never really worked side-by-side with my grandpa on a project like this before. I didn’t know if he’d understand my drawing plans, or how it’d all come together. Oh sure, he’d let me hang around his workshop and pound nails into boards. He’d have me clean out the sawdust from the box under his 1960s table saw (which worked perfectly fine, so why replace it?) And my grandpa and I, we hung out a lot while I grew up. Sure, he was stern, but he was generous with hugs and hand-holding, and chocolate – the key to any kid’s heart. For almost 22 years, he was there for me every single day of my life, and as the youngest girl in a house full of eight other people, his attention made me feel special. He secretly always told me that I was his favorite. (Shhh! Don’t tell my brothers and sisters!) And deep down, I knew he meant it. I think he always shared a special affinity towards me because I was born just four months after his wife (my grandma) died. I never knew her, my grandma, Jane. But he talked of her often to me, and told me how much she would’ve loved me and how much I was like her. I would go with him and my dad (and sometimes by little brother) to the cemetery to clean up her gravestone and lay flowers. He already had his own grave marker on the ground next to hers but the death date wasn’t engraved on it yet. I thought it was creepy. But I loved my grandpa, so I went.
I think me coming into the world when I did brought a little joy into my Grandpa’s heart while he was dealing with the loss of his beloved Jane. He loved all of us grandkids, and we all shared a special bond with him. But he and I, we were tight. Tough. Conservative. But a softie at heart. He loved us generously.
So, working side by side with Grandpa was going to be interesting. He was 87 years old and a man of few words. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. I showed him the plans. He took them out of my hand, looked them over thoughtfully, nodded his head once and said, “I’ll turn on the saw.” He took his measuring tape out of his pocket and measured the wood. Marked it with a pencil. Measured again. He glanced up and said, “Always measure twice.” (Thanks Gramps! I’ve heard that about 20 times a semester throughout art school) and started to cut the first few pieces. He waved me over to the saw to direct me how to do it and said something like, “Don’t get your fingers too close.” (No problem! I like all my fingers and seeing that crazy sharp blade spinning faster than the speed of light was scary enough.)
After I cut a few pieces, he took over wielding the saw, as I think he got a little impatient at my fear of the blade. He handed the pieces over to me and I started sanding. Yay. I love sanding wood. GACK. That’s like saying I love scratching my fingernails down a chalkboard. It ruins your nails, you get covered in a fine dust of wood and there’s powdery, grainy stuff all over your hands and clothes. Not to mention little tiny splinters that liked to get wedged into my non-calloused hands.
But really, it was cool working with my Grandpa. He helped me glue and nail all the pieces together; then we used clamps on his work tables to hold things in place; and then we let it set so the glue would dry. The next day, he attached the hinges to the doors (Again, I was afraid of wielding the power tool) and I painted it up. Bright canary yellow and black. It was a series of triangles and vertical lines that kind of resembled a large abstract bird and could be hung in a tree or mounted on a pole. It was awesome.
It was also the last project I would ever work on with my Grandpa.
I got an A.
Thanks, Grandpa.
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Craftsmanship and hardwork… Two things I learned from my grandpa that have stuck with me my entire life. Pride in your work, whatever it may be, can bring insurmountable joy to your life. It’s also been proven over and over to me, that the harder I have to work for something, the greater the reward is. Painting. Writing. Running and even personal relationships... sometimes, they all require hard, focused, attention-to-detail work. What will your next great reward be?
*Next blog post: Part 2 of one of the best men I have ever had the privilege of knowing...my grandpa.