Grandfather’s Joinery

Clarence Wolfshohl

June 2, 2024

I never saw my father’s father.

A carpenter building whatever he could,

he dropped dead during the Depression

digging postholes for a fence

under the Texas August sun.

The one photo of him

and Grandma Etta

in the house told little.

His eyes were shadowed

by his Stetson’s brim.

Only his lean posture

and sinewy forearms

beneath rolled-up sleeves

caught the light.

When I was twelve my father stopped

at a strange house without a word

but “come.”  It was in an old

but wealthy part of town

and had a realtor’s sign in front.

Once inside with twice wiped feet,

he pointed to the walnut woodwork

and almost whispered, “Your grandfather

built this house.”

                             And he let my eyes

do the rest.  The trim and mold

were seamless, joinings like the curve

of glass as if the craftsman’s hands

had anticipated the seasons, the damp

and dry, the shifts in the caliche earth,

the rumble of automobile traffic.

And even then at twelve, I knew

those eyes under the Stetson’s brim

would have looked deep into me to see

what the years would bring.   

Clarence Wolfshohl is professor emeritus at William Woods University in Fulton, Missouri.  He is a native of San Antonio and has been writing poetry ever since he was a teenager there.  He has been publishing in the small press for over fifty years; his work has appeared most recently in New Texas, San Pedro River Review, Agave, Cape Rock, and New Letters.