by Donna Poole
“George, I’m leaving you a cup of soup on your work bench. Don’t let it get cold, honey.”
“Thank you, Forty-eight,” he murmured as he held the tape measure against the length of wood he was cutting.
Florence leaned against the door frame of his workshop and grinned. So today my name is Forty-eight. Yesterday, when his mouth was full of nails, I do believe he called me Hammer.
She never knew what name he might call her when he was preoccupied. Her least favorite was Sandpaper. For a few minutes, Florence watched her husband of fifty years. White curls, once blond, tumbled on his forehead. He had deep crinkles around his blue eyes from squinting at his work, and smile lines because he was seldom without a smile. And sure enough, a stub of a pencil was tucked behind his left ear. A piece of wood was never just a piece of wood to him. Had ever a man loved his work more or put more of himself into it? She doubted it. The one thing she did know was this. The soup was going to get cold.
She closed the door between the workshop and the kitchen and shivered. She’d take George a jacket, but she knew he wouldn’t wear it. He insisted he was never cold, though just the last few months she’d noticed he’d liked going to bed earlier than normal and he’d sighed deeply when he’d pulled up the thick quilt.
George never complained, but she knew his back and neck hurt constantly. Because of fifty years spent hunched over his workbench, he could no longer stand up straight. And his hands, once young and strong, were gnarled and twisted with arthritis. But still he kept working, and she understood why, perhaps better than he did himself. His work was a part of himself, and it was how he gave love. Sometimes she wished he’d retire, but she doubted he ever would.
Florence had known from the first year she’d married him that George was a genius. His original designs were breathtaking and his finished wood products flawless. But after a few years she’d given up trying to get him to climb higher in his craft. He was content to stay in their little town, working in his tiny shop, sharing his beautiful creations with friends, and barely eking out a living.
The door between the shop and the kitchen opened and that boyish grin, somehow not out of place on the wrinkled face, still managed to make her day.
“Florence, your soup is delicious, but it’s cold.”
“So, you do know my name isn’t Forty-eight?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Sit here at the table while I warm up your soup.”
George talked while he ate, almost letting his soup get cold again, as he waved his hands and drew with his pencil on his napkin showing her what the bookcase for Margaret and Vance was going to look like.
Florence raised an eyebrow and whistled when he told her the three kinds of wood he was using. “Pricy! Won’t that go over the estimate you gave them?”
He chuckled. “Way over, but I’ll never tell them. You know what good friends they are. And I bet they’ve got a piece of my furniture in every room of their house. I want this to be something extra special for them. Margaret didn’t seem too enthusiastic about the last piece they commissioned me to make. She acted, I don’t know, almost indifferent.”
And she’s seemed a little indifferent about our friendship lately too, but maybe I’m just imagining things. I’m not going to say that to George. It would break his heart.
“I don’t suppose she’ll ever guess how much time and love you put into your work, honey, or how much sleep you miss, or how you work through pain. Speaking of pain, how’s your thumb feeling?”
There was that boyish grin again. “Don’t know how I ever managed to saw my own thumb half-off.” He held up the thickly bandaged thumb and shook his head at it. “Well, can’t say as it feels good, yet, Florence, but it’s not going to stop me from getting this bookcase finished by the date I promised.”
He stood to go back to work, cleared his throat, and hesitated. “I don’t just do my jobs for people, you know.”
Florence nodded and smiled. This was hard for George. He expressed his feelings with actions, not words.
“I work for Jesus. I like it that he was a carpenter. Sometimes it feels like he’s working in the shop with me. I think I hear him say I did good. Silly, isn’t it?”
Flornce hugged him. “It’s not silly at all. I think it’s one of the sweetest things you’ve ever said.”
When the delivery day arrived, George acted like a kid going to a birthday party. He slicked back his white curls, not that they’d stay that way, and put on his best overalls, the ones with blue and white pin stripes. He asked Florence to step into his woodshop for a final inspection before Mike, the teenager from next door, helped him load the bookcase into his truck.
The maple, cherry, and mahogany gleamed with their simple finish, and the teak trim work at the top of each shelf was exquisite. Florence caught her breath, stood on tip toe, and kissed his cheek. “George, this might be your best work yet. I think it’s your masterpiece.”
He blushed. “I can’t wait to see their faces, especially Margaret’s. I expect she’ll have a long list of projects for me to work on next. Well, you ready, Mike?”
An hour later they returned, and George spoke barely above a whisper. “I think I’m getting sick, Florence. I gotta go to bed.”
She started to follow him, but Mike stopped her. “Wait. What should I do with the bookcase?”
“Didn’t you leave it with Margaret and Vance?”
“Naw, it was awful. That Margaret lady? She said she’s tired of George’s style of work, and she’s found a new carpenter she likes better. She met us out at the truck. Wouldn’t even let us onload the bookcase. I felt so bad for George. He didn’t say a word all the way home. I know his stuff is kind of old fashioned, but it’s beautiful. I don’t think there’s many people left who can do stuff with wood the way he does. When we got back here, he told me to leave the bookshelf in the truck, but we’re supposed to get freezing rain.”
Florence grabbed a jacket. “Come on. I’ll help you carry it inside.”
“You? Aren’t you kind of…sorry. But aren’t you kind of old? That thing is heavy!”
“I’m stronger than I look,” Florence said. She patted Mike’s arm. “Love gives you strength to do what you have to do. You remember that.”
Florence was so upset she thought her adrenaline could have helped her carry the truck inside, but fortunately she didn’t have to put it to the test. Mike’s dad was in the driveway and helped his son unload the bookcase. He snorted when Mike told him the story.
“You get more gratitude and loyalty from dogs than you do some people. Hey, I just thought of something. You people are religious, right?”
“I wouldn’t call us religious, exactly,” Florence said, “but yes, we love Jesus.”
“Jesus was a carpenter. Probably not everyone liked his stuff either. They sure didn’t all like his preaching! You tell George that for me, okay? Might help him feel better.”
Florence told George that and a lot more, but nothing helped. He locked the door to the workshop.
“I’m done,” he said. “I gave my best. I gave more than I had to give, and it wasn’t enough.” And then he cried. Florence hadn’t seen him cry since early in their marriage when their only child, a son, had been stillborn. Florence held him. She prayed for him. Nothing helped. He prowled the house at night and slept most of the day. He ate sometimes but not enough. He listed his tools for sale, but no one bought them. The door to the workshop stayed locked.
At five o’clock one morning Florence woke to a terrible racket. She ran to the kitchen, and the door to the workshop was open. George was attacking the bookcase with a Sawzall. Wood was falling to the floor; the beautiful bookcase was destroyed.
“George!” She hardly recognized the terrified scream as her own. Trembling, she leaned against the door frame and covered her mouth with her hands.
He turned and looked at her. He was wearing his best overalls, the blue and white pin striped ones. His white curls had tumbled down on his forehead, and he was smiling. A pencil was tucked behind his left ear.
“What’s wrong with you, Thirty inches?” he asked. He gestured at a neatly stacked pile of boards he’d already sawed from the former bookcase. “I’m kind of busy out here. I’m making something for my new client.”
“Your new client?”
“Harry, the undertaker, called me late last night. A young couple lost a baby boy, stillborn, and they can’t afford a casket. He asked what I’d charge to make one. I told him nothing. I’m making as many little caskets as I can out of this wood. He said they can be thirty inches, and some as small as ten inches.”
He swiped at the tears in his eyes with the back of his gnarled hand.
“George,” Florence said softly, “I think the other Carpenter missed you working out here.”
“I missed him too,” he said. “I hope when I finish making these, he’ll say I did good. But right now, I’m kinda hungry. You suppose we could have soup for breakfast?”
“If you chop the vegetables.”
“Me?”
“Yes. Your thumb is healed now, isn’t it?”
George held it up and grinned at it. “Guess it is. And my stomach is growling. Let’s go.”
The end
***
These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:
Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.
Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author
