I was in my workshop. I squatted low so I could see beneath; looking for something I had not needed for years. I saw the old rectangular box, and lifted it out, and onto the workbench. It was about 16” long, by 8”deep and equally as high. I hand brushed it free of saw dust and cobwebs. It was likely constructed of cedar although the years had robbed it of its fragrance.
I needed the contents of that box for the first time in years. You see, my father made that box… He made it for himself, and he shared it with me.
It was intended to be functional, not ornate; no embrasures or insets adorned it. It was not made by a master, but by capable hands. During my years with him, Dad hand hand-carved a sail boat, made bunk beds, among other things. But they would not serve me as this box was about to.
For the first time in years, I had gone target shooting; Sabrina and I had joined the Izzak Walton Club and had availed ourselves of their shooting range today. As mentioned, although I had shot at targets for years, my competence had not waned a bit: I was still lousy. Bad news? I still stunk. Good news? I could re-use all my targets as none of them had been touched by my bullets. So I gathered my intact papers, and all Sabrina’s [hers shredded by her marksmanship,] and we made our way home.
After shooting, it is wise to clean your firearms. That’s what Dad had made this box for. As I opened it, the long-unused hinges creaked in a mild protest, like a cranky child wrested from deep sleep. Within I saw partitions of different sizes containing the brushes and solvents I needed for my upcoming task. I touched the wood reverently knowing my father had once set these sections into place with a cautious, craftsman’s hand. “Measure twice, cut once” he intoned. He used careful saw strokes, held the piece up to eye-level, then sanded down any irregularities, and tapped the various parts of his puzzle into place with a rubber-shod hammer so as not to create any ‘dings’ – or marks – on their surface.
I recalled that I retain ownership of a ‘pirate’s chest’ made for me by my grandfather: 4’x 12’’ high and as deep. It has brass fittings, handles of manila cordage, and the words atop confirmed my property, ‘Lucky Garvin, his chest,’ and beside it the silhouette of a swashbuckler, cutlass fully drawn and boldly brandished as if ready, yea eager, to take on the entire British Fleet alone.
Strange to say, I have no independent memory – save faded pictures – of this man, my grandfather who painstakingly had crafted this for me.
My mind moved back to my father, such a complicated man; hard for me now to unpack; how much more difficult for the teen who was raised in his angry ambit. My feelings baffle me even yet.
Did I love him? Maybe so. Did I respect him? Same answer. But what I do know is as he fought the demons who surrounded him day by day, he nevertheless took time out for an occasional and unexpected kindness. Like the old rectangular box.
Thanks, Dad…
– Lucky Garvin
