Grandpa's Hands. [for Jake] (Updated with 9 more photos.)

One of my earliest memories was being completely horrified by the ugly, bluntness of the fingers on my grandfather's large, hairy hands. They seemed so horrible, rough, and careless. I compared them to the beautiful, delicate fingers of my own thin, smooth hands. It seemed impossible that genetics could differ so greatly in just two generations. That's when I convinced myself that I was not a member of the family unit presented to me. I thought I had uncovered a terrible secret. But as I watched those hands, I discovered another secret - they weren't as careless and useless as I imagined. Those hands could do things I couldn't imagine. They built strong, towering, powerful structures from nothing but wood, blood, and sweat. Those ugly fingers took quick, swift measurements and then cut through beams of timber and slowly, expertly brought all the tiny pieces together to create something new and useful and brilliant. The first thing I remember those hands building was a deck for my aunt and uncle in California. It took days. I was bored before the end of the first. I spent my time mastering the fine art of nintendo entertainment while just outside in the heat of the desert my grandfather was building a foundation and then covering it with diagonal planks that would provide us all with a platform to stand upon. The finished product was massive. We saved the irregular remainders - strange wooden blocks that formed trapezoids, parallelograms, rhombuses - and I played with them for years trying to re-enact the grand scheme I had seen that day. I had missed the construction of it, but I wasn't completely lost on the magnificence of the transformation from absolute nothing to completion of a new presence in the world. I was in awe of the power and knowledge and ability in those ugly, ridiculous hands.

I was also terrified of them. Whenever I misbehaved at my grandparents' house, my grandmother would threaten that grandpa was going to spank me. The very thought of it scared me senseless. I had seen what those hands could do to trees and stone. What chance could something made of mere flesh and bone stand against the immense power of forces like that? I was a very well behaved little boy - most of the time.

I no longer doubted my heritage, either. I found myself wondering if perhaps one day my own hands would grow and mature into the forms I had admired and feared. While they did come to master many things with grace and precision, they did not ever physically change - except in size and hairiness. I still have the thin, delicate, beautiful fingers of an artist. Still, I can't help but imagine what it would be like to control and shape the elements of the world and to re-shape them as I chose.



My grandfather cleaning what appears to be either a chicken or turkey. I remember this photo a little differently. In my mind, it was fish he was cleaning, as I'm sure he did on several occasions - just not on this one.



My grandfather laying the brickwork border of the rear patio of the yellow house. The brickwork kept the swamp of the yard from overtaking the patio, until later tenants broke it up and let it drain back.



Grandpa and grandma renovating the shed behind the yellow house.



Grandpa sewing up the turkey for Thanksgiving dinner.



Grandpa roasting the turkey on the spit, which he also made - of course.



Grandpa helping his neighbour with a massive project.



Happy Birthday, Grandpa.



Grandpa cutting and serving the turkey.



Grandpa and grandma celebrate their wedding anniversary.



Grandpa, younger than I am now.



Grandpa and the boys.