In the fall of 1966,my Grandfather Davis came to our place for an extended visit. I can't say for certain if he'd come just to help my father with all of the work he'd wanted to get done, or if he'd fallen on some misfortune and needed a place to stay, or perhaps both. My grandfather was not a stranger to me, I knew he lived around,or in Springhill, but I never really could recall being to his home,a place where I knew for certain that he lived,until some years later. We always seemed to meet him in town, or in some other persons house, or he would come along on some road trip or another, then get dropped off someplace. But I never really knew for sure where he lived. It could well have been that he was a bit nomadic even then,and moved from place to place,like he came to do in his last years. But during that fall, he came to live with us.
My grandfather was a carpenter.That was a big part of the reason for his presence in our house at this time.My father was competent at working wood, and doing general construction, but my grandfather was an expert.Over the period of a few weeks, together they built the forms for paving the driveway, and added a full sized bedroom to one corner of our basement.The driveway was not to be paved over in blacktop like most people did, but was to consist of two parallel concrete tracks running up the driveway,from the street to our garden, spaced at roughly the width of a car,or,more accurately,our car's tires. Along with this,they built a walkway running from the driveway,along the front of the house, up to the front door. It was not really a huge project, but my father still worked revolving shifts,and with all the commuting, it would not get done quickly.So my grandfather and father worked on it together. I thought that all that need for cement might mean a visit from a cement mixer,and that was a rather exciting thought,but it turned out they didn't need nearly as much as a cement truck carried, so they just went out to the hardware store and bought the cement in bags,which they mixed in a big tub, batch by batch,as they were ready to use it. It was very labor intensive to do it that way, but foot by foot, the job got done over a few days. What I remember most about my grandfather was how he would work for what seemed like hours seeing that the forms were set level and square.He seemed to spent most of his time with the level, or a t-square, much more than the time he spent actually sawing and nailing boards together. As far as I could tell, he had a good, meticulous eye.
When the driveway was complete, my father and grandfather started hauling lumber into the basement.Most of it went in through one of the small basement windows, as there was very little in the basement to worry about hitting, and it was a lot easier than taking boards through the house. At some point, my father went downtown and got a building permit, which he nailed up tp one of the support beams that was to form one of the corners of the room. Then the two of them got busy framing in the far back corner of the basement, preparing it for walls to be erected. Again,my grandfather was exacting in his work, and seemed to take a long time setting each board into place.
Meanwhile,my mother's cherry wine had finally aged to the time called for in her recipe and was ready to be bottled. So she strained it out one final time into these large pickle jar like bottles.We sometimes played in the basement,and this was no real concern while the wine was in the heavy crock. But once it was in glass bottles, it wouldn't do for it to be sitting on the floor. There was really no room for it upstairs either, and I think my mother had ion mind allowing it to age some more.So she needed a place to store a few large bottles, where they would be safe. That place turned out to be between two of the floor joists- in the back corner of the basement. She just set it up on the foundation and didn't give it a further thought. She never even though to tell anyone about it. Until a few weeks later, when a whole new bedroom had been built around the bottles. They might well be there to this day, for all I know, and most likely that is the reason I can't recall anyone drinking that wine.
My grandfather was a carpenter.That was a big part of the reason for his presence in our house at this time.My father was competent at working wood, and doing general construction, but my grandfather was an expert.Over the period of a few weeks, together they built the forms for paving the driveway, and added a full sized bedroom to one corner of our basement.The driveway was not to be paved over in blacktop like most people did, but was to consist of two parallel concrete tracks running up the driveway,from the street to our garden, spaced at roughly the width of a car,or,more accurately,our car's tires. Along with this,they built a walkway running from the driveway,along the front of the house, up to the front door. It was not really a huge project, but my father still worked revolving shifts,and with all the commuting, it would not get done quickly.So my grandfather and father worked on it together. I thought that all that need for cement might mean a visit from a cement mixer,and that was a rather exciting thought,but it turned out they didn't need nearly as much as a cement truck carried, so they just went out to the hardware store and bought the cement in bags,which they mixed in a big tub, batch by batch,as they were ready to use it. It was very labor intensive to do it that way, but foot by foot, the job got done over a few days. What I remember most about my grandfather was how he would work for what seemed like hours seeing that the forms were set level and square.He seemed to spent most of his time with the level, or a t-square, much more than the time he spent actually sawing and nailing boards together. As far as I could tell, he had a good, meticulous eye.
When the driveway was complete, my father and grandfather started hauling lumber into the basement.Most of it went in through one of the small basement windows, as there was very little in the basement to worry about hitting, and it was a lot easier than taking boards through the house. At some point, my father went downtown and got a building permit, which he nailed up tp one of the support beams that was to form one of the corners of the room. Then the two of them got busy framing in the far back corner of the basement, preparing it for walls to be erected. Again,my grandfather was exacting in his work, and seemed to take a long time setting each board into place.
Meanwhile,my mother's cherry wine had finally aged to the time called for in her recipe and was ready to be bottled. So she strained it out one final time into these large pickle jar like bottles.We sometimes played in the basement,and this was no real concern while the wine was in the heavy crock. But once it was in glass bottles, it wouldn't do for it to be sitting on the floor. There was really no room for it upstairs either, and I think my mother had ion mind allowing it to age some more.So she needed a place to store a few large bottles, where they would be safe. That place turned out to be between two of the floor joists- in the back corner of the basement. She just set it up on the foundation and didn't give it a further thought. She never even though to tell anyone about it. Until a few weeks later, when a whole new bedroom had been built around the bottles. They might well be there to this day, for all I know, and most likely that is the reason I can't recall anyone drinking that wine.
No comments:
Post a Comment