Over the weekend I was working in the garage, and I came across an old tool box that I inherited from my grandfather.
We called him Papa. I remember him often working on some engine or other, for his boat, or his lawn mower, or his truck. His hands were often a little greasy as I remember him.
I set about sorting through the contents of this old, rusted tool box. There were his old Craftsman wrenches, including one he had snapped in half somehow. His pliers. A couple spark plugs, a light bulb, and a variety of hardware from whatever his last project was. All of this had a slight coating of grease, which got on my hands as I worked through the box.
In the bottom of the box were some old pine needles. Papa and Meme (which is what we called my grandmother) had lived on a lot surrounded by many pines with long needles. I imagine these must have fallen in and gotten left under the tools during some project. There were always a lot of pine needles on the ground there.
It had been some time since I thought about Papa, and going through his tools, and accepting them as mine, and getting his grease on my hands… It was emotional.
Now, my children call me “Papa”.
I put the useful tools in my big red tool chest, and the hardware in my parts box. And after a while, I wiped the grease off my hands.
I left the pine needles in the tool box.