Four years, that seems to be the magical age when each of my boys released their grasp around my leg and began the constant run-along behind their dad. With my first two boys a bit of jealousy overtook me at this sudden shunning, but soon I realized mom was still needed...just in a different way.
Over the weekend I watched my husband and our three younger sons rummage through years of tool collecting, a definite male bonding moment. Trying to respect their special time, I did not eaves drop, but simply went about my chores. I did overhear enough to understand how precious was their time together. The chunks of my husband's voice reaching my ears clued me that family stories were being shared...
Cutter Mac used this tire gage at his service station. It was a Pure Oil station and he owned it for many years. He would always have this tire gage clipped inside the pocket of his grease-stained uniform shirt as he greeted the regulars with a smile and a story. I learned a lot from Cutter Mac when I was a young boy. I did not have the chance to spend many years with him because he died at quite a young age for a grandfather...
As his voice continues with delightful stories, my thought was he may not have had many years with Cutter Mac, but the character of his maternal grandfather thrives within my husband. Oddly enough, the spirited character of Cutter Mac lives within our son, Mac, who was aptly named after him yet bears no biological connection...but is certainly connected.
Then come the stories of my husband's paternal grandfather...always known as Granddad...
He spent most of his life working in a cotton mill, but was happiest at home in his woodworking shop. He built furniture, some pieces which we now have in our home. This wood plane and hammer were his. He passed the woodworking and building skill to my dad and my dad to me. Granddad was always full of big tales which were exaggerated a little more each time he told them. Granddad lived into his nineties, and Lee, you met him but were too small to remember...
Once again his voice continues as I realize he has passed the love for building, creating to our sons. Strangely enough Lee and Wil, who are both named after Granddad, are our teller of tales which grow a little further from the truth each time they are spoken. Again, the boys bear no biological connection to Granddad...but are definitely connected.
Indeed, there is much more in that rusty old tool box than a hoard of smelly, greasy tools. There is family history...generations of love and afternoons sharing stories. I can picture "C" with his dad as the stories were passed, good times reminisced. Thanks to a rusty old box of tools and afternoons between fathers and sons...the stories live.
Each of our four sons is named for a grandfather, great grandfather, great great grandfather and further back it goes...I am so pleased to have given them such precious connections.
How does your family share stories? Stay connected through the generations? Over rusty tool boxes, baking family recipes, during long walks...I'd love to hear about it.
