by David Wiggins
The old man winked and reached under his workbench to retrieve a rusty paint can. He whispered, “Your grandma back in the house?” I nodded yes. From the can he extracted a well abused pint of bourbon, took a nip and returned his stash to its hiding place. “Medicine. Whew. Now, let’s curl some wood,” he said, winking again as he lifted a jack plane from its perch. We were about to craft a sword fit for a 6-year-old swashbuckler’s raid on a citadel of garden mulch.
Granddad was a railroad man before two heart attacks retired him to his backyard woodworking shop, a 10′ x 20′ lean-to with cypress shavings for the floor. And not one power tool was on the premises.
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