WOODEN BOWL
When can a grandfather be almost as important as a Mom or Dad? Maybe when he he’s present and loving, when he has interests and skills that he shares with the child, when he tells stories and listens
I was lucky that my mother’s father was invited to spend half the year with us (in the less frigid months he returned to his other children in Milwaukee), lucky that he was willing to share his skills as a wood-worker, lucky that he told great stories and showed curiosity about my little self.
Which recollections are most vivid? I recall him in the basement shop where, for example, we constructed a rowboat together; and over a game table built by him where we played a card game called “66” and talked endlessly; and also on long walks during which we would go alternately into hardware stores and ice-cream parlors, mainly to get shop supplies and root-beer floats. We also went fishing in the boat.
He had craftsman values, and derided what he called “fush-work” (phonetic, probably a term from his German heritage). It was essential to build things right, even the parts that nobody would ever see. It was crucial to be careful with the heavy machinery (power saw, drill press, lathe). It was important to clean up the shop at the end of every day (sawdust, metal shavings).
My Mom would design an item of furniture; and using such woods as cherry and walnut, her Dad would build it, whether a bedframe or a coffee table. It seemed natural to me to fill your house with your own constructions, though all that I ever managed later were redwood bookshelf units.
Grandpa Haase chewed tobacco, a habit more common in his generation than later. Wanting to be like him, I asked for a plug of “backy.” He said I might not like the pressed brown leaves. At the age of ten, I I persisted. He finally gave me a small amount. I nearly gagged on the taste. Neither of us ever mentioned the incident again.
He taught me not only shop-work, but also how to pickle herring, shingle a garage, take long walks, tell a story.
I was sorry every spring when he would head back to Milwaukee, where during his career he had run a factory and had a family with seven kids, plus a couple de facto adopted.
When the maple in front of our house would turn color and start to drop its leaves, Grampa would show up again, welcomed by both of my parents, as well as a growing stable of grandkids. I wasn’t aware what grief he had, with his wife dying, what possible awkwardness living with his kids, what adjustment when he no longer worked at a regular job. What I remember above all is his laugh. Living a simple life, he seemed happy.