Tuesday, February 24, 2004
The other night I had a dream about my paternal grandfather, who died nearly 17 years ago (I can remember roughly when it was because the funeral was on my 19th birthday). I don't, in all honesty, remember him especially well though I do think of him whenever I'm doing an injustice to his chosen trade of carpentry. Whenever I butcher some innocent piece of wood to botch together a shelf I offer up a quiet apology to his memory. He took a pride in doing things right and the highest accolade that could be given to a thing in our family was for it to be described as having been made "to Grandad's standard".
As a child my brothers and I would sometimes be farmed out to one or other set of grandparents for babysitting duties (Nanna and Grandad in Croft on my father's side, Grandma and Grandad in Huncote on my mother's) and if we were at Croft we would sometimes get to attempt some bit of amateur woodwork in Grandad's workshop. I don't recall ever making anything of any note - I think most times I would make a boat that was little more than a block of wood sawn to a point at one end and with a pathetically shallow dip gouged out of the middle - but I remember it with fondness and the smell of sawdust always takes me back there.
I can't remember a thing about the dream I had, only that Grandad was there and I was pleased to see him.
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