Day 12 - Granddaddy's Shoes

As a young girl, I spent many holidays and breaks from school visiting my maternal grandparents. They lived in the Midwest and I loved going there. Firstly, because I was the only kid from my family going. None of my siblings went along. With 5 other kids in the house this was a real treat. Also, we flew. I loved the airport and the adventure. Just me and my mom trekking across the states. I thought it was special. And it was.

My grandparents were special, too. My grandmother was only to be referred to as such. None of this nanny, granny, grandma shenanigans! Grandmother only, and she was every bit what this implies. Stuffy and rigid, everything in it's right place and every rule followed to a T. She loved us, but had responded differently to the different grandchildren. I was a well-behaved youngster so this was easy enough to adhere to. I was the most well-behaved of all my siblings, thus the reason I was the only one who went along. I was the only one that Grandmother could control, thus the only one she could bare. She loved us all, but liked me best.

Now, Granddaddy was different. He was what you think of when you think of a grand father. He was quiet and sweet. The most loving and patient man. He was accepting of all of his grandchildren, as that they were children and they loved to play and run and laugh. He loved these things, as well.

He was truly a Jack of all trades. He loved crafting and making things with his hands. He carved items out of wood. I remember sitting on the back porch with him, in the middle of November, watching squirrels eat corn right off the cob, from a feeder he had made. All the while he was making something else. He had a workshop in the garage with drawers of nuts, bolts, tools, beads, leather, hooks, fasteners. A mini-hardware store. He had a native American background and loved to make beaded jewelry. He would mail me small items like this. He also knew how to crochet. Toward the end of his life, his hands worked less and less, but he still managed to make me a crocheted blanket for my high school graduation. I keep it in a hope chest he made for me when I was a baby and it still smells like him.

He loved puzzles of any kind and love math and numbers. He always had a puzzle going in his office and books of word and number puzzles with pencils marking his place. He loved any card game on the computer. He was an accountant for years. Of all my grandparents I'm most like him. Except for the math thing, all the others are a description of me.

My favorite memory of him, although they are all sweet to me, was his use of photography. As an amateur photographer he became the family historian, a role with which I can relate.  While learning his camera and the film, he noticed he accidentally took pictures of his feet at the beginning of each roll. As his inquisitive personality suggests, he loved the thought of the implied humor here and continued this tradition. Every roll of film started with a picture of his shoes. Sometimes he got creative and changed the setting. As I started fiddling with a film camera, I followed his tradition. 

At times or on certain trips, I'd photograph my feet, over people's feet, shoes, socks. Now, it's an opportunity to remember, to pay tribute. To immortalize where I've been and how I got there. Some pictures are just feet, and some tell memorable stories.