This started as a short post about my grandfathers tool collection. But as sat down and began reflecting on our time spent together it became much more than a brief post. I know many may not take the time to read this long entry but I feel that it was necessary to truly express my the relationship between my grandfather and me. I will also link to another thread which is specifically about the tools not the story. http://garagejournal.com/forum/showthread.php?p=2290295#post2290295
"He was a Craftsman man through and through"
My grandfather was a farmer from a small North Carolina town. He believed in hard work and doing your best every chance you get. He served his country proudly in WWII then came home for the life of a farmer. He was great with his hands and was always taking things apart just to see how they worked; often they worked better than before when he put them back together.
He was from a better time when products were made to last. Back when made in U.S.A. was the norm not the exception. It meant you were getting a quality product, able to be used hard but if taken care of would be able to be handed down to future generations.
Some of my fondest memories from my youth are of me staying with him during the summer when I was too young to stay home by myself and helping him in his shop (more like getting in the way). He took the time to show a young boy how to repair things to make them like new again, use tools, and most important of all taught me that no matter what path you take in life it is important never to forget that this nation was built by the hands of men who weren't afraid of hard work and that no man is above manual labor to provide for his family and others.
As I grew older I became distracted by things that looking back didn’t matter. Girls, fishing/hunting, going on trips, hanging out with friends, there was precious little time left to spend with my grandfather. Though I was not around as much as I should have been that bond we had forged when I was a child remained. Often much of the time we spend together was when I was working on projects, be it lifting trucks, working on the boat, or who knows what else. He was always by my side offering advice, showing me how to do something if I didn’t know how, or just plain old talking about the weather. These are the memories I will have forever.
It has taken me a while to finally sit down and reflect on my time spent with my grandfather. His health had been failing for years however every time he would go to the hospital he would bounce back and come home wide open always on the go. Lately as I had been spending more time around him I began to notice that he was slowing down, and he was taking smaller steps than he used to. However, he still had that same mentality he always had of getting out and about and working on small projects.
Friday December, 16, 2011 I was going about my normal routine and headed into work around 10. I was running a little late but had a feeling I thought meant we would be slow so I took a detour and stopped to grab a biscuit before work at a Bojangles. For some reason I decided to walk inside and order instead of going through the drive thru. As I am waiting for my order I look over and see my grandfather and grandmother sitting in a booth eating breakfast as they do many mornings. However, this Bojangles is about 15 minutes further away than the one they typically go to. I walked over and spoke to them but didn’t stay long since I was late to work. I did however tell them that I had something going on Saturday but would be over on Sunday to visit with them.
Sunday morning I went about my usual routine. I knew that my grandfather was going to church as does most Sundays and was planning on heading his way around 2. As I was getting ready to go visit him my phone rang. It was my dad telling me that they had taken my grandfather to the hospital and that he didn’t know much more than that. I soon found out that my grandfather had slipped outside on the frost and broken his femur.
Over the next few weeks I spent much of my time in the hospital. At first it seemed like business as usual as my grandfather seemed to be doing better. However it soon became apparent that this was more serious than I may have hoped. My father and I rode over to see him Christmas morning and he seemed very disoriented. My dad had even tried to persuade me not to go as he was worried my final memory of a man who I had always considered one of the toughest men I have ever known would instead have been a memory of him in a state of confusion. Still, I went knowing that time with him was more precious than ever, I soon saw how serious his condition was. A few days later my dad and I visited him again, this time he was a polar opposite of what he had been Christmas day. He was laughing and joking with us, and I even told him that I had some new woodworking tools to show him when he came home.
My grandfather has never been one to show much emotion. My dad talked before about how he could count on one hand the number of times his father had actually told him that he loved him, and he has made sure to tell me every time we talk because he wants me to never have any doubt. My grandfather was just from a time where these things were not said, it was just known. As we left after talking about something that had always tied us together, tools, he called each of us over as we were about to walk out of his room. He reached out to each of us from his hospital bed to give us a hug and to tell us that he loved us.
My grandfather passed away January 1, 2012
My dad was recently at my grandparents’ house with his sisters cleaning out the house and shop and figuring out what to do with his belongings. My dad asked me if there was anything in particular I would like from the house. I told him that I would like my grandfather’s tool chest. I told him that I did not care if I got the tools but that I would like the chest as I felt that it was a symbol of the bond that my grandfather and I shared. Neither of my aunts wanted the tool box however both thought they may want some of the tools so they all agreed to go through them and each get some tools that they thought they would need.
My girlfriend and I moved into a house with a small 20x30 shop in the back about a year and a half ago. I was so proud when my grandfather rode over with my dad one Sunday afternoon and I got to show him my shop. We talked about my plans for what I wanted to do out there and he gave me many suggestions and I showed him a pegboard I had just added over a workbench I had built in his shop. Never would I have thought during our brief time in the shop that day that one day I would have his tool chest sitting in the spot we decided would be the best location for one. I have sat outside by the fire in my shop recently just looking at the tool chest remembering fondly the times I spent at my grandfather’s working on projects. I quickly organized my meager tool collection in the tool chest leaving my pegboard almost bare, while still hardly taking up any space in the large chest. I have caught myself many times going to the shop and tinkering with things with no rhyme or reason just because I wanted to use the chest. Often when I realize what I am doing I stop and smile and think to myself that this is what my grandfather would be doing if he was still here.
This afternoon I was sitting in the kitchen working on one of my last finals for grad school before I graduate Friday when my dad called. He told me he was in the driveway and wanted me to come outside for a minute. I walked outside and he was standing there smiling and said, “Hey I have something for you in the back of my truck.” We walked over and there were 4 cardboard boxes full of hand tools, my grandfather’s tools. He told me that they had decided that I would get the most use out of them and that they did not need any of them. He said that there were still a lot in the shop but that this should keep me busy going through and organizing for a while.
My dad left and I tried to get back to working on my final, it’s a good thing it’s not due tonight because I couldn’t stop myself from going through those boxes. Piles and piles of wrenches, pliers, screwdrivers, sockets, and many specialty tools I don’t know exactly what they are. These will be the most fun because the little time I spent figuring out what a few of them were I had the same feeling I had in his shop so many summers ago as a child learning about hammers, pliers, and screwdrivers.
The boxes are a hodgepodge of brands, almost entirely made up of tools manufactured in the U.S.A. However the vast majority of his tools are Craftsman, as it was by far his favorite brand. It seemed to me when I was younger that he had every tool Craftsman offered. I still remember standing in his shop one day asking why most of his tools were craftsman. He told me that they were an affordable, quality US made product, the manufacturers guaranteed to work when you needed them too (which I have found to be an exception to the rule these days, what is the saying about only being able to have two of the three).
My grandfather was a hard working American who served his country proudly, lived his life humbly, loved his family, and was always there when anyone needed a helping hand.
He was a Craftsman man through and through.
"He was a Craftsman man through and through"
My grandfather was a farmer from a small North Carolina town. He believed in hard work and doing your best every chance you get. He served his country proudly in WWII then came home for the life of a farmer. He was great with his hands and was always taking things apart just to see how they worked; often they worked better than before when he put them back together.
He was from a better time when products were made to last. Back when made in U.S.A. was the norm not the exception. It meant you were getting a quality product, able to be used hard but if taken care of would be able to be handed down to future generations.
Some of my fondest memories from my youth are of me staying with him during the summer when I was too young to stay home by myself and helping him in his shop (more like getting in the way). He took the time to show a young boy how to repair things to make them like new again, use tools, and most important of all taught me that no matter what path you take in life it is important never to forget that this nation was built by the hands of men who weren't afraid of hard work and that no man is above manual labor to provide for his family and others.
As I grew older I became distracted by things that looking back didn’t matter. Girls, fishing/hunting, going on trips, hanging out with friends, there was precious little time left to spend with my grandfather. Though I was not around as much as I should have been that bond we had forged when I was a child remained. Often much of the time we spend together was when I was working on projects, be it lifting trucks, working on the boat, or who knows what else. He was always by my side offering advice, showing me how to do something if I didn’t know how, or just plain old talking about the weather. These are the memories I will have forever.
It has taken me a while to finally sit down and reflect on my time spent with my grandfather. His health had been failing for years however every time he would go to the hospital he would bounce back and come home wide open always on the go. Lately as I had been spending more time around him I began to notice that he was slowing down, and he was taking smaller steps than he used to. However, he still had that same mentality he always had of getting out and about and working on small projects.
Friday December, 16, 2011 I was going about my normal routine and headed into work around 10. I was running a little late but had a feeling I thought meant we would be slow so I took a detour and stopped to grab a biscuit before work at a Bojangles. For some reason I decided to walk inside and order instead of going through the drive thru. As I am waiting for my order I look over and see my grandfather and grandmother sitting in a booth eating breakfast as they do many mornings. However, this Bojangles is about 15 minutes further away than the one they typically go to. I walked over and spoke to them but didn’t stay long since I was late to work. I did however tell them that I had something going on Saturday but would be over on Sunday to visit with them.
Sunday morning I went about my usual routine. I knew that my grandfather was going to church as does most Sundays and was planning on heading his way around 2. As I was getting ready to go visit him my phone rang. It was my dad telling me that they had taken my grandfather to the hospital and that he didn’t know much more than that. I soon found out that my grandfather had slipped outside on the frost and broken his femur.
Over the next few weeks I spent much of my time in the hospital. At first it seemed like business as usual as my grandfather seemed to be doing better. However it soon became apparent that this was more serious than I may have hoped. My father and I rode over to see him Christmas morning and he seemed very disoriented. My dad had even tried to persuade me not to go as he was worried my final memory of a man who I had always considered one of the toughest men I have ever known would instead have been a memory of him in a state of confusion. Still, I went knowing that time with him was more precious than ever, I soon saw how serious his condition was. A few days later my dad and I visited him again, this time he was a polar opposite of what he had been Christmas day. He was laughing and joking with us, and I even told him that I had some new woodworking tools to show him when he came home.
My grandfather has never been one to show much emotion. My dad talked before about how he could count on one hand the number of times his father had actually told him that he loved him, and he has made sure to tell me every time we talk because he wants me to never have any doubt. My grandfather was just from a time where these things were not said, it was just known. As we left after talking about something that had always tied us together, tools, he called each of us over as we were about to walk out of his room. He reached out to each of us from his hospital bed to give us a hug and to tell us that he loved us.
My grandfather passed away January 1, 2012
My dad was recently at my grandparents’ house with his sisters cleaning out the house and shop and figuring out what to do with his belongings. My dad asked me if there was anything in particular I would like from the house. I told him that I would like my grandfather’s tool chest. I told him that I did not care if I got the tools but that I would like the chest as I felt that it was a symbol of the bond that my grandfather and I shared. Neither of my aunts wanted the tool box however both thought they may want some of the tools so they all agreed to go through them and each get some tools that they thought they would need.
My girlfriend and I moved into a house with a small 20x30 shop in the back about a year and a half ago. I was so proud when my grandfather rode over with my dad one Sunday afternoon and I got to show him my shop. We talked about my plans for what I wanted to do out there and he gave me many suggestions and I showed him a pegboard I had just added over a workbench I had built in his shop. Never would I have thought during our brief time in the shop that day that one day I would have his tool chest sitting in the spot we decided would be the best location for one. I have sat outside by the fire in my shop recently just looking at the tool chest remembering fondly the times I spent at my grandfather’s working on projects. I quickly organized my meager tool collection in the tool chest leaving my pegboard almost bare, while still hardly taking up any space in the large chest. I have caught myself many times going to the shop and tinkering with things with no rhyme or reason just because I wanted to use the chest. Often when I realize what I am doing I stop and smile and think to myself that this is what my grandfather would be doing if he was still here.
This afternoon I was sitting in the kitchen working on one of my last finals for grad school before I graduate Friday when my dad called. He told me he was in the driveway and wanted me to come outside for a minute. I walked outside and he was standing there smiling and said, “Hey I have something for you in the back of my truck.” We walked over and there were 4 cardboard boxes full of hand tools, my grandfather’s tools. He told me that they had decided that I would get the most use out of them and that they did not need any of them. He said that there were still a lot in the shop but that this should keep me busy going through and organizing for a while.
My dad left and I tried to get back to working on my final, it’s a good thing it’s not due tonight because I couldn’t stop myself from going through those boxes. Piles and piles of wrenches, pliers, screwdrivers, sockets, and many specialty tools I don’t know exactly what they are. These will be the most fun because the little time I spent figuring out what a few of them were I had the same feeling I had in his shop so many summers ago as a child learning about hammers, pliers, and screwdrivers.
The boxes are a hodgepodge of brands, almost entirely made up of tools manufactured in the U.S.A. However the vast majority of his tools are Craftsman, as it was by far his favorite brand. It seemed to me when I was younger that he had every tool Craftsman offered. I still remember standing in his shop one day asking why most of his tools were craftsman. He told me that they were an affordable, quality US made product, the manufacturers guaranteed to work when you needed them too (which I have found to be an exception to the rule these days, what is the saying about only being able to have two of the three).
My grandfather was a hard working American who served his country proudly, lived his life humbly, loved his family, and was always there when anyone needed a helping hand.
He was a Craftsman man through and through.
Last edited:
