Until today, I thought I had nothing in common with my father's father.
My printer cartridge died this afternoon and I thought I had a backup downstairs in the basement. I never found it, but I did find this, a carving of a deer (or elk?) made by my grandfather in 1969. He was born in Norway in 1899 and died in Canada in 1978. I didn't know him well. He was a quiet, reclusive man (at least, that was my impression). Often when we visited, he'd spend most of his time in his little workroom, carving a variety of pieces like this one, singularly focused as he soldered metal antlers and such for each of them. He was polite. He'd say hello and ask how we were, but it was only when I snuck a look into his workroom later (when he thought he was alone) that I'd see his eyes light up with passion as he whittled and carved -- not unlike how mine do when I'm at my desk, surrounded by my 'things', deep into the creation of a story.