My grandfather lived life simply; for him it just wasn’t a complicated affair. But don’t get me wrong, he was not a simple man, he was a common man. He grew up one of six children in a log cabin on a farm in southern Bartholomew County. He spoke German before he knew English. He hauled gravel with his brother by horse and wagon to help build the state road near his boyhood home. He slept under the same wagon while hauling produce into Columbus on roads that looked more like dirt paths. He was confirmed (in German) at St. Peter Lutheran Church in Waymansville, Indiana in 1909, enlisted in the Army in 1918, and shipped to France as part of the American Expeditionary Force in WWI. He returned home to the farm, married, worked a short spell for International Harvester in Indianapolis, and then returned to manage the feed store at the Farm Bureau Co-op in Columbus, before retiring in 1958. After my grandmother had passed away he tried Florida for a season but reported that his idea of relaxation wasn’t sitting on a park bench. He then settled into a very important role, Grandfather, at which he performed above and beyond the call of duty until his death in September 1978.
I entered his life in 1959, and we became fast friends. He lived in a small bungalow on Cherry Street that still holds the fond memories of Friday night sleepovers, CBS News with Walter Kronkite, pancake breakfasts, and the Major League Game of the Week with Curt Gowdy and Tony Kubek. There were fishing trips, washing his 1973 Chevy Impala on the front lawn, planting tomatoes in his backyard garden, the hammock that invited me to lie on my back and stare at the clouds, popcorn and cokes (in the small bottles), bologna sandwiches, Jackson County watermelons, and listening to Joe Nuxhall and Marty Brennaman broadcast Red’s baseball on his Arvin transistor radio. The memories of our times together are so deeply carved into my soul that the weather of time will never be able to erase them.
Within this common life, there was an artist. The hands that held the Heilige Bibel, the reins of a horse, the handles of a plow, the Enfield rifle he carried to France, the wheel of a farm tractor, or the hand of a loved one, also created beautiful cane bottom chairs. I am lucky enough to have two of his chairs, each woven more than 50 years ago. Besides being a common man, for which he truly did deserve the fanfare, his fingers also possessed some magic. He may not have been Rembrandt, Picasso, or Copeland, but he was our artist.
The chairs, made of native woods, have intricate patterns woven into their seats, as taught now as the day they were woven. I remember how he would soak the cane strips in an old metal wash tub and then work the cane in his hands to make it pliable. He carved his own caning pegs from a block of wood, using them to hold the cane in place as he threaded each strip through the holes of the seat as deftly as a dressmaker sewing a fine dress. Knowing how taught to weave the cane was an art form in and of itself; too loose, and the seat would sag, too tight and the cane could warp the chair bottom.
Those hands, oh those hands, weathered from years of honest work, but still able to weave the intricate patterns in the seat of a simple chair. If he were alive today, I would hold those hands in mine and feel their history, the strength and passion he gave to his life, and ultimately he gave to me. His may have been a common life, but it was one beyond measure. They say that the eyes are the window to the soul, I say that the hands of the common man speak more truly.
So this man who lived simply, made art. I often ask myself if I have such talent. I don’t weave cane, although I wish I would have taken the time to let him teach me. I don’t paint or draw. I have no musical ability and I am not a sculptor. I do occasionally weave words together in the hope that they resonate with someone out there. My grandfather didn’t sell his art; he did it for the love of it and I share these words out of love. I often sit in his chairs and when I do, I feel his embrace, the hands, arms, and soul of a common man, and an artist.
