My Grandfather

was an old man before I was born. He died without setting eyes on me, yet he lives on within genes.

Will was a hardworking man who helped raise seventeen kids. Almost every picture I have of him also possesses his pipe (seen in this photo). On his right hand is a homemade glove he wore because of eczema. His hands would dry out so much that they would often crack and bleed–as mine do in the winter. I am familiar with winter wraps because I wore them often in my teens. Now because of diet and soap change, I only have mild cases of eczema.

The night before my father died, he spoke to his father’s spirit. Because of this, he was buried beside him in a small graveyard on the Eastern Shore.

Looking at the picture below, I can’t help but smile. It was taken in a time when things were real, where hard work actually meant something, and food was good and healthy.

Roots-Paper Trail Pop