My grandfather is a craftsman. Instead of wasting his time with activities like T.V. or the Internet, he makes things with his hands. If you visit his house, he will more than likely be out back in his workshop working on one project or another, whether it be making knives or a table. He is a quiet character, saying only what needs to be said, never showing much emotion, and has always been that way. Since I was little he impressed me with the way he could show his love and fortitude with few words. His solitary nature led him to teach himself how to make knives before I was born, working for years making them as a hobby to give to his family; cutlery for the women, and hunting or utility knives for the men. Once I was old enough to understand the craftsmanship involved in his work, I was attracted to the idea of making something with my hands. For me, seeing him make something and doing it by himself made me love the idea of wanting to be truly alone with my thoughts in a way different than normal. His work and attitude exuded mental strength as I started working with him and learning how to make the beautiful knives that he so carefully crafted. We didn’t say much, just instructions now and then and small talk about baseball, but I gained more about myself in those hot summer sessions in his shed than I ever had before. Something about only focusing on grinding steel or wood and being alone with my thoughts and the hum of the machinery freed me from whatever was causing stress in my life. As school started and I was not able to make the drive to his house, I almost forgot about making these knives and started only seeing my granddad and grandmother at holiday occasions or rare times when they came over for dinner.


My grandmother who had battled with health problems for years, passed away in the fall of 2012, about a week after one final dinner with my family. At her funeral, the man who had always shown unbelievable strength of mind and never showed any sort of weakness, cried over the loss of his wife. This rocked my world, the man who had shown the most strength of anyone I’d ever met, openly wept with my dad over the loss of someone they loved. Seeing this made me realize that being strong doesn’t necessarily mean hiding emotion, but instead being quietly confident about what you do, and openly passionate about people you love. His actions, not his words, have helped shape me into a better man. He had never told me how to learn more about myself just by working with my hands, and he has never told me to show my love for my family, but I’ve learned them from his example.

When we talk now, we never mention anything about grandmother dying, or anything about finding escapes in our work. We never talk about our feelings, or what we mean to each other. We might only talk about the type of wood we’re going to use for our next project, or other materials we might need, but I’m okay with that, because even though he hasn’t ever given me one piece of verbal advice, I know I’ve learned more about who I am and who I want to be from the way my granddad lives his life than I’ll learn from anything else in my lifetime.