Wooden Boats

My grandfather had a sawmill. It was a large shop under a tin roof. The floor was always covered in piles of sawdust, which smelled of pine and work, and the tables adorned with stacks of wood and projects resting near the large blades. It was a magical place where his strong hands crafted doll houses, tables, chairs, and many other things. I spent my childhood sitting at a table made by him in that shop. It was of pine and cedar and lacquered over with a clear finish to protect if from the messes children make.

My grandfather was a tall, thunderous man, with a knack for a good chuckle. He was just as curious as I was about the world, and he was quick to show me how things worked or let me tag along for a project. I followed him out to the shop all the time, my little brother always in tow. With little more than a year between us, my brother and I stuck together for most things, especially adventures with Grandpa.

We would run through the yard, chasing and giggle, then slow to a walk as we entered any of Grandpa's spaces. He had a separate tin building where he kept tools, chairs, and beer. We would find him there, working on something, and he would take us back through the gate to the mill. One day with some scrap wood, he made us little wooden boats. The base was a flat piece of wood cut like a trapezoid and the top was a small cube centered near the front of the boat. At the very tip of the trapezoid's front, he stapled a long piece of rope.

There were two ponds on the property connected by a creek. He gave us our boats and bid us go sail them. So, up and down the creek we ran, the strings in our hands as our boats floated along in the gentle current. We dashed up to the pond and let them drift out to their end before beginning a half circle around the pond. There were always weeded parts we would turn back at, least we find a snake. He made us those boats more than once, far we always took them home at the end of the day to sail in our own pond or play with in the bedroom floor. They were probably the simplest thing he ever made, yet somehow they were the most special.

There was a lot of work to be done on his large property. At all times. I would eagerly climb up into the back hoe and ride along while he pushed over trees or dug out stumps. One time we moved a giant dirt pile together, one big scoop at at time. Afterwards, my brother and I played on it. The engine was always so loud that Grandpa would have to tilt his head to hear me speak as I shouted over it. We would end the day sweaty and stinky, him smelling like an old man, and me like musty children feet. Neither of us seemed to mind it much. Texas summers are a smelly affair.

I would sit in his lap while we worked, or while we rested when I was small. He had a large belly I liked to lean against and listen to it gurgle. I'd giggle and tell him he was fat in an honest way only children can manage. Sometimes he would pat me on the head or tease me for being ugly or mean. Since my parents called me Laura Kate, he picked up his own knick names for me. Katiedid or Katie Gater, were not uncommon greetings when he saw me or asked what I was getting into with a tug on my ear.

Really, I was getting into whatever he would let me. There was a bamboo forest growing on his property that my brother and I would climb and play in. Several times we talked Grandpa into cutting our favorite stalks down and making them into staffs we would take home. We followed him to the tool shed, excited and eager as he removed clippers and a manchette. Sometimes he would make us stand back the entire, but other times he would let us help dispatch the thin leafy limbs once the trees were cut down. The staffs became my walking sticks or pretend weapons for games and plays. Just like the wooden swords our dad would make in the sawmill.

Near the bamboo forest and all along the creek, wild musky dime vines wrapped the trees. We would march through the dirt, my feet bare, with our sticks in one hand and our others picking the sweet fruit. The musky dimes would pop, warm with the summer, in our mouths. We would spit the seeds and skins at each other, squealing with disgust. Our grandmother would caution us not to eat too many because the skins would cause a rash to form around our lips, but we never listened. Grandpa would give us paper sacks and tell us to fill them, or a big strainer. We would fill it and take what we didn't eat to Grandma so she could make jam from the grapes. That taste and honeysuckle is still what I associate as the taste of summer.

Grandpa drank a lot, and he would keep his cans squashed in a big bin to take and recycle for the money. My brother and I would dump the bin out and pilfer through it, eager to find unsquashed cans we could stomp and throw back in. Or, if Grandpa was finishing a beer, he would hand over the empty can for us. He had a covered area for his RV with tables and seating leftover. After all, with twelve kids and an increasing number of grandkids, he needed a place for everyone to sit during family gatherings.

Even when it was just my family at the house, we spent our time sat outside at those tables playing cards or telling stories. Grandpa had a dog named Liz we would play fetch with in the shade. Grandpa adored her and would often show me the new balls he had gotten for her. She followed him wherever he went, if she wasn't with us watching out for snakes. One day I helped him burn ticks off of her with matches. I thought it was neat he trusted me with fire. We made a whole pile of the dead bodies. Then we dumped them into the June bug bucket to ensure they were dead.

Eventually my grandfather moved out to his property on the river where he bought and placed a house. It was new and exciting, but it did mean we saw him a little less. We still went every weekend we could though. The river, with its changing water level and plethora of creatures, was a mysterious and exciting place. His projects there changed to fish tanks and more goldfish ponds, as well as a spattering of chickens. Since the property was larger and his body older, we rode around together on a golf cart instead of walking. Him, my brother, Liz, and me. All over that property he hung swings and placed benches so there was always a nice place to sit and relax. He even put in a small playset for the continuing cycle of grandkids and great grandkids.

We went on tours of his chickens, how many he had and what types they were. He named a couple, but not all of them. The fish ponds were my favorite part. He would send me home with baby guppies or goldfish or new plants he had gotten to grow. We would feed everything together, just like we used to feed the catfish in the pond at his other place.

On nice afternoons when the river was up, the whole family would take a ride up the river on the pontoon boat. We really never caught any fish this way or saw any of the alligators, but I loved to watch the sandy banks turn to willow trees or see turtles basking on logs at the edge. If the boat was broken or it was too hot, we would sit on the front porch with Grandpa instead and watch the water drift past. After a heavy rain, logs would bob past with incredible speed and we would contemplate how fast they were going. Grandpa would sip his beer, and my brother and me our fruit flavored soda pops he had given us. Liz would sit with us, her docked tail slightly wagging.

We did not always talk a lot with Grandpa when we were little. Mostly he seemed keen on giving us something new to play with or do. But, as I got older, he and I talked more. Mostly fond teasing and bantering with each other. But, sometimes we would have more serious talks about life and about what I wanted with mine. One day, Liz passed away, and we talked more then. He made a beautiful wooden coffin in the saw mill and a cross to mark her grave. When I visited next, one of the first things he did was drive me over to her grave. It lay tucked away by blooming cactus and near a stand of trees. Wild flowers and grass were growing around it. He had nailed a tennis ball to the marker. It was the first time I saw him cry. We agreed it was a lovely spot, and I picked flowers for her.

He said to me, "I figured she would like it here."

I nodded, "She would."

"Burry me out here too with the dog," he added.

And, we did.

Turning back to his golf cart he said, "Now that you know where it is, you can come visit her grave."

I did, several times. And, next time I am back, I will visit his too.