L. Albert

Those Old Mayonnaise Jars

My grandfather was a rock.

I used to think that everyone’s grandparents were. I know better now. Living has taught me that.

As I open the door and head downstairs, my nostrils are filled with the aroma of freshly cut pine. I make my way to the bottom and find my seat on the bottom stair, amid the the loud screaming sound of a circular saw spewing sawdust everywhere from its perch in the middle of the workshop. There are two more large saws and a lathe occupying space around the room. Above me in the ceiling, are many mayonnaise jars nailed to the ceiling holding assorted items of his trade. Eyeing the bottoms of the glass jars, he knew exactly which screws, nails or bolts he needed for the job. It was one of his little ways to organize his ‘underworld’. There were always pieces of unfinished furniture stacked against the back wall waiting to be completed. Off to the left, is his finishing bench, where he does his final varnishing, shellacking and painting. Most days he works with over an inch of cut sawdust at his feet. It smells so sweet to me. Hanging on the wall, his Eastern Tractor calendar helps to keep this workshop in monthly time. It is a world away from the world I know, but I sit fascinated by this master cabinetmaker and the the pieces of furniture he turns out

When not working on furniture or some toy for a loving grandchild, my grandfather, Albert could be found in his overstuffed, yellow, leather chair. He was a quiet man. He seemed to be able to occupy a conversation, quietly from aside in his flannel shirt and red suspenders. He had a full head of white hair well into his 80’s with glasses framing his face. Encircling his head seemed to be an endless swirl of pipe tobacco.

I was the oldest grandchild and was special to this man, at least in my world I was. He spoiled me rotten!  A surprise car ride to the countryside, a quarter stuffed deep in my hollowed hand, away from Mom’s eyes, or just time spent in his lap keeping time to fiddling music were magic moments for me. 

Once I asked, no begged him, to take me on my first fishing trip and to my delight he said, “Yes, let’s go!”  

So off we went, in his black Chevy coupe, heading towards Portland. We stopped at water, that I know now as the Stroudwater Village dam, near the waterfall that is still there today. Grampa brought out his tackle box and spread feathery lures and dirty worms out across the grass. He showed me how to attach a worm to the sharp hook and all the other little nuances to the game of fishing. It was a fun afternoon, and we even sat back and enjoyed a picnic lunch packed by Nana. As the afternoon waned, I finally got my ‘bite’. As I reeled in my catch in, I was some excited. Sunfish? Perch? What would it be? However, disappointment soon ruled. My ‘fish’ broke the surface and was unbelievably just an old, black buckled boot, filled with disgusting slimy, yellow mud. Yuk! But it was a day! Etched in my memory forever. I’m lucky. I have a lot of these.

Whether it was sitting on the bottom steps of the workshop, staring at those mayonnaise jars in the ceiling, on a summer afternoon fishing trip, or just sitting back and taking in the aroma of his Prince Albert in a can, this man was a rock in my life.
 If he only knew that I think of him almost everyday... 
Maybe he does.