I have a unique sense of style. Before it was "cool" I was mixing industrial with traditional as well as using items for purposes other than they were originally intended. Some people called me "eclectic" others called me "crafty" (which makes me break into hives). I just knew I liked to do something a little different with what I already had. It made sense to me. What I hadn't wondered about is where this inspiration stemmed. What moulded me to break the proverbial mold and do something new?
There are times in life when it's good to stop and think about how you became you. I've been doing a little bit of that lately with the illness and subsequent loss of my Grandfather or PopPop as we always called him.
PopPop was born in 1919. He was for sure a "Man's Man" with his knack for keeping his words short and presence large. PopPop was retired from my earliest memories, but that by no means meant he stopped working. He would find older office chairs (think aluminum 1940's swivel models), repair, and resell them. He also dabbled in sandpaper belts amongst other things. All of this handicraft was sold at a local "Flea Market" in Lebanon, Tennessee. I would watch my PopPop work Monday thru Friday in his basement putting together this and that, filling large orders for sandpaper belts, working his large garden on their farm and preparing some of those produce items for sale as well. I loved my PopPop.
PopPop wore one item of clothing: the coverall. He had about ten of them hanging in the basement above a line of identical shoes which were freshly polished and ready to be worn. We never set off in the car without first retrieving a bottle of frozen water from the freezer. He was nothing if not prepared. Sorry - I was getting lost in memory there for a minute. You know how it is when you start thinking about a person? All those other memories creep in to give you a little hug.
For about a month every summer, I would go to Tennessee to visit my Grandparents. I relished walking down into the basement - it's mustiness hitting my senses at once, but it wasn't unpleasant - it was a dusty, rusty, semi-oily memory-laden scent that was at once comforting. Recently I was back at my Grandparents while my PopPop was in the hospital. Sorrow laden, I crept down into the basement. I witnessed the well organized produce boxes filled to the brim with various and sundry items: nuts and bolts, pens, washers, files, etc. I glanced at the cane poles we would take to the pond fishing, the shoes, the desk he would sit at while paying bills or "figuring". I was surrounded by all I remembered of my PopPop. I felt who he was in his happy place - his escape from the world.
While in the depths of memory and consolation, it occurred to me where my eclecticism spawned. I saw display cases, tiny antique tables, metal office furniture, and scads of organizational implements from file cabinets to small organizers for hardware. I smiled inwardly as I reflected on the impact all that the basement was upon a very young Glenda. I gained an appreciation for my PopPop that I'd never recognized. I remembered all those scruffy hugs and kisses from a man who was more comfortable on a tractor than holding the hand of a little girl ... and I loved my PopPop just a little more.
