Something I read on the web this morning made me think about this short piece I wrote several years ago for a woodworking website. So I dusted it off, did a little editing and posted it here.

You don’t meet many people named Harry anymore. I don’t know if it was ever a common name but it’s certainly less so now than it used to be. It was my maternal grandfather’s name. I was named after him and though Harry is my first name, I don’t go by it – even my parents have never used it. But it fit my grandfather – it’s a salt-of-the-earth name and he was a salt-of-the-earth man.

My grandfather died very suddenly at the age of 64. It was 1982 and I was in college, just a kid. I didn’t realize the things we had, or would have, in common. We’ve lived very different lives, my grandfather and me. He came of age during the depression. I listened often to his stories of trying to find work after graduating in 1935, of working for 25 cents/hour and being glad to get it. A job to him, and many of his generation, was nearly sacred. I grew up during a time of prosperity and due to the hard work of my grandparents and parents, never knew real hardship.

In his time, few young men continued their educations beyond high school. Neither did he. He attended a trade school where he learned how to do everything. I’ve never known anyone who could do so many different things. I went to college and then grad school and then taught at a university. I never learned how to do anything, until I began woodworking many years after he died. When I was young, I had a vague notion that he’d done a little woodworking. But that was just another of the things he did, I never gave it any thought. I had no idea that someday it would be important to me. I had no idea that he’d be gone far too soon.


Harry accepts the Yachtsman of the Year award from the Delaware River Yachtsmen Association (1960 or 1961). In two separate incidents, he rescued those aboard a sinking boat that had struck a jetty and he towed a large yacht that had become disabled in a shipping channel.

My grandparents lived the American dream. In 34 years at Sun Oil, my grandfather never missed a day. Through hard work, they overcame the difficulties of the Depression and saw their children do better than they had. They lived in a comfortable home. They travelled throughout the US, visiting every state but Alaska. They owned a series of boats which were my grandfather's passion. Through hard work and saving, they were able to create a happy and secure life. Many today would do well to heed their example.

Several years ago, my parents moved from the house they had lived in since I was 15. The last time I visited they were preparing for the move. From a closet my mother had pulled a small chest her father had made about 40 years before. He designed and made it to store papers on his boat, a cabin-cruiser he named Loco. For nearly as long as I can remember it’s been full of mementos. My mother and I spent some time going through the contents: miscellaneous papers and photos, his letter for running track in high school (into my teenage years he could still outrun me), the original Marilyn Monroe Playboy centerfold. I enjoyed reading his high school graduation program. Even my mother hadn’t known that he had won his school’s carpentry award. But what captured my attention was the chest itself.

An unremarkable design, this small piece is handsome, well proportioned and very functional. Constructed of mahogany it has a hinged lid and brass handles on each end with a brass clasp on front. I discovered details that I never would have noticed before I began woodworking. What I saw was impressive. After 40 years of use, many spent stuffed to the gills, the well-executed joinery is still tight. The surfaces are still flat. The original finish is still intact. The look is still pleasing. Without a shop-full of tools, without a shelf-full of books, magazines and DVDs and without Norm, he achieved exactly what all woodworkers strive for: he made a cherished heirloom. My mother gave me the chest, despite the fact that it is very important to her. She knew that I’d like to have it around, that it is symbolic of a connection between me and my grandfather. A connection that he never got the chance to experience. If I do my job as a father, someday my two boys, now aged ten and eight, will also feel that connection and they’ll both want to have this small treasure made by a man who died two decades before they were born. I think Harry would have liked that.