Whetstone
Whetstone
As children we used to be taken to visit our grandparents in Enfield, North London, but not very often as it was quite a long way to travel back in the 60s. Grandad was a bit of a scary figure, having once thrown his dinner across the room in a fit of temper, so not really the affectionate sort! But he was the only grandad we had, and I do have one fond memory of him.
In the lean-to shed
Squeezed into the space between backdoor
And tiny paved square of garden
My grandad had his workshop.
Most times we visited he sat in the back room,
Ensconced on his corner next to the telly,
Shouting at us to be quiet -
Football or darts more important than us kids.
But once, unexpectedly allowed into his sanctuary
I breathed in the smell of curled wood shavings,
Engine oil from his youngest sons' motorbike parts,
Saw shelves with jar lids screwed to the underside
The jars full of screws and nails, in strict size order,
The shelf tops stacked high with green and gold,
Dozens of Golden Virginia Hand Rolling Tobacco tins,
Now used to store mysteries.
Told to stand still, not to touch a thing
I watched as he slowly poured a drop of oil
Onto the curve of a green-grey stone
Then used the edge of a chisel
To spread the oil, drawing it methodically
Back and forth, lubricating the stone,
Grinding the chisel's edge sharp and keen.
Such a delicate motion for this brash man,
A rare and precious glimpse into his softer nature.
© Copyright 2020. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved
As children we used to be taken to visit our grandparents in Enfield, North London, but not very often as it was quite a long way to travel back in the 60s. Grandad was a bit of a scary figure, having once thrown his dinner across the room in a fit of temper, so not really the affectionate sort! But he was the only grandad we had, and I do have one fond memory of him.
In the lean-to shed
Squeezed into the space between backdoor
And tiny paved square of garden
My grandad had his workshop.
Most times we visited he sat in the back room,
Ensconced on his corner next to the telly,
Shouting at us to be quiet -
Football or darts more important than us kids.
But once, unexpectedly allowed into his sanctuary
I breathed in the smell of curled wood shavings,
Engine oil from his youngest sons' motorbike parts,
Saw shelves with jar lids screwed to the underside
The jars full of screws and nails, in strict size order,
The shelf tops stacked high with green and gold,
Dozens of Golden Virginia Hand Rolling Tobacco tins,
Now used to store mysteries.
Told to stand still, not to touch a thing
I watched as he slowly poured a drop of oil
Onto the curve of a green-grey stone
Then used the edge of a chisel
To spread the oil, drawing it methodically
Back and forth, lubricating the stone,
Grinding the chisel's edge sharp and keen.
Such a delicate motion for this brash man,
A rare and precious glimpse into his softer nature.
© Copyright 2020. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved
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