But the feeling grows slowly bittersweet. My heart begins to break. There is something I must do, please don't let it be too late. Grandpa, there are so many things I want to tell you.
I no longer want to hate you. I can remember so many good things now. You were a real craftsman and taught your sons how to work with wood, and paint, and do wiring, plumbing, barbering. Your daughters speak with fondness of the table, chairs and doll furniture you made for them as children. When I was a child, I used to sit and watch you work; fascinated by your technique and precision. And the family still uses the sausage press you fashioned out of an old Hoover vacuum cleaner.
Those were good days for me. I'm glad you could find it in your heart to recall accomplishments.
I wouldn't want to be remembered for only my mistakes and weaknesses.
We all have them.
Yes, I know. When I could not forgive myself, I could not forgive you either. I think that refusing to forgive myself was really an act of denial and of pride. I wanted to be perfect and could not accept the fact I wasn't.
I know about perfection also. When I made drawers for a cabinet, even though no one would see the inside corners, they had to be so smooth they felt like one piece of wood.
The things you made were absolutely beautiful, without flaw.
Unlike me.
Unlike me too, Grandpa. I guess we're alike in many ways. I also work my craft so that people can glimpse the seamless perfection that runs background to my own imperfect life.
Perfection. Yes, life was so good. I felt like a rich man. I was the head of a happy, growing family, the owner of a successful business, a king! Then in a flash the Depression took everything. Everything except Mama; she stayed by me, loved me, respected me.
Yes, Grandpa, I know. In her eyes you were still a king! I understand now what all that means.