Grandpa Was a Carpenter

Oh, grandpa wore his suit to dinner nearly every day No particular reason, he just dressed that way Brown necktie with a matching vest and both his wingtip shoes He built a closet on our back porch and put a penny in a burned-out fuse

[Chorus] Grandpa was a carpenter, he built houses, stores and banks Chain-smoked Camel cigarettes, and hammered nails in planks He would level on the level, he shaved even every door And voted for Eisenhower, cause Lincoln won the war

- Grandpa Was a Carpenter, John Prine (1973)

Two weeks ago I reflected on John Prine’s passing (see below). I am still reflecting and listening to his music. I now know why – I have neglected important memories. I dug them out, apologized, and spent some time with them.

You see – one of Prine’s popular songs is “Grandpa Was a Carpenter.” And, my step-grandfather – my father’s step-father - was a Carpenter. He built the blue two-story house my father grew up in on South Street in Vicksburg, Mississippi.

Like Prine’s grandfather, Grandpa Branan wore a three-piece suit “nearly every day” - I don’t recall ever seeing him in anything but a suit with “matching vest” and the shiny silver chain that led to his pocket watch. A pocket watch! I’m not sure about the winged tip shoes...

He was one of 2 people I knew that was born in the last century, the other was my mother’s mother Grandma Ervin. Ah…, sorry, the century before last. He was born in 1881 and she in 1899. By the 1960s, Grandpa had earned the right to proudly wear a three piece suit every day. Grandpa Branan died in 1967.

Growing up, every year my mother, father, and I drove to Mississippi to visit family. Upon arrival at South Street, I would burst into the house and leap into Grandpa’s lap. Seemed he was always in that ivory flowered easy chair just inside the door. The easy chair was a rocker and it seemed we spent hours in that chair – talking, reading, and sleeping.

One year in the mid 1960’s I burst through the door and landed in Grandpa Branan’s lap and was met by groans and admonishments from everyone not to do that anymore. It was my first memory of aging – I had not realized old people grow older. Even though I was reaching a size that it was probably not wise to leap into anyone’s lap, it was my first brush with mortality.

After Grandpa Branan passed, the hours I had spent in his lap were now spent in his workshop. In the South Street back yard he had built a workshop - it could not have been bigger than 6x10 – tiny. He painted it blue to match the house.

It smelled old – that old wood smell – not musty – a good smell -familiar, friendly, welcoming - like Grandpa’s lap. I spent hours with old wood surrounded by coffee cans –cans with nails, cans with screws, cans with anything and everything - including doodads.

I don’t recall ever building anything – just “hammered nails in planks.” I picked up the ancient tools and ran my right hand along a surface worn smooth by years of labor. Drills, saws, hammers, planes (“he shaved even every door”), and folding rulers. These were hand tools, carpenters were “handy.” These tools are now electric and rechargeable – carpenters now come with battery packs. Their tools don’t smell or feel like Grandpa’s.

Above is Grandpa Branan’s pocket watch and below are his tool box and hand tools. If you could hold them you might find what I found - precious memories.

How about you? What are you family memories? Share a Story!

Taste the Food – Second Helping.