Prompt 65 - His Clues Are His Creations

How can you know a man you never met? Read about him? Ask his friends? Details about a mans life are easy to come by. But to truly know someone, to not only know the details about them, but know how they see themselves, is something entirely different. Men, unlike women, don't readily open the doors and let you into their world. They are often reclusive and mysterious in their emotions, keeping to themselves and rarely showing their true selves. A man gives clues however. And these clues are the secret to knowing who he truly is, no matter how small.

I didn't really know my great grandfather Sweet. He was my mother's grandfather and lived in Blue Hill for much of his life, if not all of it, on a dozen acre piece of property out on the secluded Parker Point. For the few years that he and I were alive on this earth together, I remember visiting his house and seeing all of his creations. Clues. There were all kinds of fun and fascinating things to look at and play with. As a child, visiting grandparents, let alone great grandparents, can often be boring, and smelly. But not grandfather Sweet's. I specifically remember a zig-zagging wooden trough that carried marbles from the top where you dropped them to the bottom where they shot out across the floor. Him and his wife lived a simple, early twentieth century lifestyle that was quite independent and self sustaining. A garden with many different vegetables. Clue. A few animals; some pets and others for harvest and eating. Clue. And a large barn full of wood and tools. Clue.

His wife passed a few years before he did. So often is it that a man or women advanced in years dies a short time after their spouse. Very much unlike my grandmother, who lived decades after her husband, and my mother's father, had passed. They all left behind their property to my mother and her sisters, and that included the myriad trinkets and tools that my great grandfather Sweet had made so long ago.

We made our way into the old, snow covered barn and uncovered much of the tossed wood and furniture that great grandfather Sweet had crafted. My family had come together for Christmas, this year without great grandfather Sweat. On every inch of the ancient looking gray walls hung interesting odds and ends. The dusty, old windows let in little light. Wooden dolls, tables and chairs, armoires, animal carvings, oil paintings, and even instruments. Racks and drawers full of chisels and saws. Metal parts and pieces everywhere. Larger machines like band saws and drills. It was akin to a very disheveled Santa's workshop.

Clues as to who he really was were everywhere.

It was clear that he valued hard work. It was part of life; waking up early and getting a little grease on your clothes. He owned nothing but blue jeans and overalls. And all the tons of lumber that lay ripped on the floor of his workshop had been hewn by him. He was independent. He grew his own food and made his own furniture; not wanting to rely on others, but to be a real man who provided and sustained his family, come what may. He was creative. He wanted to contribute something to the world he lived in. The piles of art and toys were evidence enough of that. He loved his family. Many of his artwork and carvings were made for his children. Owls, bears, the forests. He carved all kinds of things they could play with and enjoy. And now they were in my hands.

I have in my home many of those same clues that sat dusty and dark in his barn. A bureau. Just as fine as any you might find in a store, yet so much more personal, his name burned into its drawers. A chest. Large with brass fittings like the ones you see on the back of stage coaches. My TV now sits on its tattered lid. A violin. One of dozens he expertly crafted. I still cant play a lick, but know that great grand father sweet made it makes me want to learn more than ever. A tiny little nativity set, hand carved and natural. The little baby Jesus, much like myself when I used to visit the home of great grandfather Sweet, a man I now know well.