Gone John Galt
My most valuable treasure
This is a roll around box my Grandfather made from scratch, when he worked at Ford automotive manufacturing in the fifties and sixties to haul around his tools with. He was a maintinance man and before that he was a rock mason. He was a huge man who died of Cancer when I was small kid. His parents were Irish/Scottish immigrants who came to America to work during the Industrial revolution. They had a lot of kids, more than I will ever know, they couldn't afford to raise all of the kids, so they dropped my Grandfather and some of his siblings off at an Catholic orphanage to be raised, never to return.
I'm sure my Grandfather was a hand full. I'm sure the Nun's faith was tested. He was a bigwhiteknucklin'headbangingshitstirring man until the day he died. He also was the hardest working person I ever met. He drank Pabst Blue Ribbon and smoked Pall Malls until the day he died. The last years of life was pure misery as he was eaten alive by cancer and mis-diagnosed as have TB...He like all people his age had contracted TB when they were kids and it always showed up in blood test, the entire family had to get painful TB shots, but he had cancer and while the Doctors wasted time with thinking he had TB, the cancer speead to his entire body. I'm sure the smoking did not help, and I'm sure the air quality in the Ford factory was not near what it is today.
But none the less he left the orphanage at an early age, sometime around the age of twelve and went to work and raised a half dozen or more of his siblings. He never recieved a proper education and was ashamed of this fact, as I heard him preach the virtues of it to my Uncles and mother, though in vain. I wish he were alive just so I could tell him that even though he did not recieve a formal education, that he did fine without it. Every year he grew a huge garden and hand deliver truck loads of fresh vegatables to the orphange that he grew up in. I went with him a few times to the orphanage. It was the only time I remember him being humble, he feared the nuns and God.
I think a lot of this man. I grew up in foster care and when things were really bad for me, he tried in vain to help me. I only saw this man cry once in my life and that was when he was sick and dying of cancer, and was holding me after trying to rescue me from hell, as they took me back to foster hell. He was the only one who knew and cared and tried. (My grandmother, god rest her soul, was wore out from taking care of my grandfather's health, she was a good woman.)
When Grandpa died, all the sons came and pick thru his stuff. Grandma put this tool cart aside for me because Grandpa always let me stand on it when it was in his garage where the pool table was so I could watch everybody play. I used the tool cart as an early skateboard and always admired it. It meant a lot to Grandpa and it means a lot to me. I have used it my whole adult working life. It was my first roll around box that held my tools and now it holds my porta power. I will keep it and pass it on to my kids.
I need to go visit his grave, but I have such a hang up about graveyards and why anyone should be remembered in a grassy field full of other dead people is beyond me. I think I'll just go find some PBR and cuss alot instead!
My most valuable treasure
This is a roll around box my Grandfather made from scratch, when he worked at Ford automotive manufacturing in the fifties and sixties to haul around his tools with. He was a maintinance man and before that he was a rock mason. He was a huge man who died of Cancer when I was small kid. His parents were Irish/Scottish immigrants who came to America to work during the Industrial revolution. They had a lot of kids, more than I will ever know, they couldn't afford to raise all of the kids, so they dropped my Grandfather and some of his siblings off at an Catholic orphanage to be raised, never to return.
I'm sure my Grandfather was a hand full. I'm sure the Nun's faith was tested. He was a bigwhiteknucklin'headbangingshitstirring man until the day he died. He also was the hardest working person I ever met. He drank Pabst Blue Ribbon and smoked Pall Malls until the day he died. The last years of life was pure misery as he was eaten alive by cancer and mis-diagnosed as have TB...He like all people his age had contracted TB when they were kids and it always showed up in blood test, the entire family had to get painful TB shots, but he had cancer and while the Doctors wasted time with thinking he had TB, the cancer speead to his entire body. I'm sure the smoking did not help, and I'm sure the air quality in the Ford factory was not near what it is today.
But none the less he left the orphanage at an early age, sometime around the age of twelve and went to work and raised a half dozen or more of his siblings. He never recieved a proper education and was ashamed of this fact, as I heard him preach the virtues of it to my Uncles and mother, though in vain. I wish he were alive just so I could tell him that even though he did not recieve a formal education, that he did fine without it. Every year he grew a huge garden and hand deliver truck loads of fresh vegatables to the orphange that he grew up in. I went with him a few times to the orphanage. It was the only time I remember him being humble, he feared the nuns and God.
I think a lot of this man. I grew up in foster care and when things were really bad for me, he tried in vain to help me. I only saw this man cry once in my life and that was when he was sick and dying of cancer, and was holding me after trying to rescue me from hell, as they took me back to foster hell. He was the only one who knew and cared and tried. (My grandmother, god rest her soul, was wore out from taking care of my grandfather's health, she was a good woman.)
When Grandpa died, all the sons came and pick thru his stuff. Grandma put this tool cart aside for me because Grandpa always let me stand on it when it was in his garage where the pool table was so I could watch everybody play. I used the tool cart as an early skateboard and always admired it. It meant a lot to Grandpa and it means a lot to me. I have used it my whole adult working life. It was my first roll around box that held my tools and now it holds my porta power. I will keep it and pass it on to my kids.
I need to go visit his grave, but I have such a hang up about graveyards and why anyone should be remembered in a grassy field full of other dead people is beyond me. I think I'll just go find some PBR and cuss alot instead!