“Oh, that my words were recorded..."
Jul. 28th, 2012 07:40 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cosmolinguist"There is a tradition in Minnesota..." the pastor started, when the Bible readings had been done, and I knew I was going to like this guy. He was talking about going "up north," of course, to "the cabin," by "the lake," and going fishing, which is something my grandpa always loved.
He talked about the slightly spiritual element of fishing, and was more like something from Garrison Keillor than the Eddie-Izzard vicar shoehorning in "and that reminds me rather of our Lord Jesus!" to the litany of lipstick colors from a magazine found in a hedge. And when he moved on to other things, like making things out of wood, he said that even though this is a solitary hobby, he made things mostly to give to his family, and that he wasn't really alone because the person he was making it for was with him while he was doing it.
This probably made me cry more than any other particular thing, because one of my dearest childhood memories is of Christmas Eve when I was about seven, and there was a box under the tree that seemed about as big as I was. Of course my brother and I were at an age where the size of a present was directly related to how good it was, and we ran right to it to see who it was for. I was stunned to see my name on the tag; I had no idea what could be in such a big box, but I was still so excited about it that I couldn't take a nap that afternoon (I remember lying on my grandparents' bed, just a few feet from the Christmas tree and thus the box, just lying awake as if I were having some kind of spiritual experience with it myself).
It turned out to be a dollhouse, that my grandpa had made for me. My grandma bought dolls and furniture for it, and even crocheted a little bathroom mat, so her skills helped create it too. It was a marvelous thing, and I'm not sure I'll ever get a better Christmas present. I don't know if he had a pattern for it -- he often made up his own, getting ideas from things he saw in stores and wasn't going to pay money for -- but I know it was the first of several he went on to make. And while later ones were perhaps fancier (I have seen pictures of an adorable Tudor-style one) or perhaps more skillfully made with practice, mine was the first. So I'm sure he was thinking of me when he made it, and I was grateful to have been given that perspective yesterday.
It's hard to believe he isn't "here" any more, partly because, for all he was old and ill, it was a shock to lose him...but partly because he had such a strong and vivid personality that I can well imagine how he'd talk about the Twins game I watched on TV last night, or the behavior of his daughters yesterday, or the weather... but also because this house is full of stuff he made, some of it having been here so long that I don't even notice or think of it as such. It is wonderful that he could make these things and share them, because in them he is still here and still making my life better.
He talked about the slightly spiritual element of fishing, and was more like something from Garrison Keillor than the Eddie-Izzard vicar shoehorning in "and that reminds me rather of our Lord Jesus!" to the litany of lipstick colors from a magazine found in a hedge. And when he moved on to other things, like making things out of wood, he said that even though this is a solitary hobby, he made things mostly to give to his family, and that he wasn't really alone because the person he was making it for was with him while he was doing it.
This probably made me cry more than any other particular thing, because one of my dearest childhood memories is of Christmas Eve when I was about seven, and there was a box under the tree that seemed about as big as I was. Of course my brother and I were at an age where the size of a present was directly related to how good it was, and we ran right to it to see who it was for. I was stunned to see my name on the tag; I had no idea what could be in such a big box, but I was still so excited about it that I couldn't take a nap that afternoon (I remember lying on my grandparents' bed, just a few feet from the Christmas tree and thus the box, just lying awake as if I were having some kind of spiritual experience with it myself).
It turned out to be a dollhouse, that my grandpa had made for me. My grandma bought dolls and furniture for it, and even crocheted a little bathroom mat, so her skills helped create it too. It was a marvelous thing, and I'm not sure I'll ever get a better Christmas present. I don't know if he had a pattern for it -- he often made up his own, getting ideas from things he saw in stores and wasn't going to pay money for -- but I know it was the first of several he went on to make. And while later ones were perhaps fancier (I have seen pictures of an adorable Tudor-style one) or perhaps more skillfully made with practice, mine was the first. So I'm sure he was thinking of me when he made it, and I was grateful to have been given that perspective yesterday.
It's hard to believe he isn't "here" any more, partly because, for all he was old and ill, it was a shock to lose him...but partly because he had such a strong and vivid personality that I can well imagine how he'd talk about the Twins game I watched on TV last night, or the behavior of his daughters yesterday, or the weather... but also because this house is full of stuff he made, some of it having been here so long that I don't even notice or think of it as such. It is wonderful that he could make these things and share them, because in them he is still here and still making my life better.