Heritage

Tonight I did a home repair project entirely with my Grandfather's tools. It wasn't a complicated project, just re-grouting some of the tub. The tools were straightforward, just two small paint scrapers. At least I thought they were both paint scrapers. As I worked diligently at removing the old layer of caulk, I pushed hard against the flat metal tool and promptly sliced my finger open. Brilliant. As I scanned the blade, I realized it was sharp on one side, but blunt on the other. (Wish I had noticed that from the outset.) It wasn't a scraper, at least not a paint scraper. My Grandfather (Armand) had a shoe repair shop for more than 50 years. It didn't take much to imagine him leaning over his worn wooden work bench stripping a worn soul of a loafer. I like to think that he might have knicked his finger with the blade too. Misery loves company. My Grandpa has been gone for more than 20 years. Not much connects me to him anymore. I aspire to have the work ethic he had, but my box full of cobbler's tools has brought me more joy than I would ever have imagined. It makes me feel connected somehow. Across the decades, we strived to use our hands to make things better. Maybe its a guy thing. I know I don't have many male relatives around, so the testosterone reaching across the generations is comforting. As we all learn eventually, we never truly recover from the loss of a loved one. (I'm a little misty as I right this.). Memories ambush us at the strangest times. Tonight I connected with my grandpa while fixing the bathtub. Like is amazing.