Fishing for Gramps

Grandfather drank. Trussell was his name, Tut for short. His life was hard,
hard as the Maine coastline and the spine of Mt. Battie. His stance was rigid;
rigid as his Protestant predestined you’re-on-the-list-or-you’re-not faith.
Bone thin, and angular in a way you knew; there was no comfort there. From
the jut of his nose to the thrust of his chin, he was a hard man. Only the hunt
seemed to bring him joy. He dressed in a red and black checked wool cap,
which covered the steel gray fringe of his pate, and a jacket of the same
hunter’s plaid. The jacket hung from the sparse scaffolding of his life-
rounded shoulders. His piercing eyes were the blue of the ice on Lake
Megunticook. His hands were as cold as the fish he pulled from beneath the
lake in winter. There were no lashes on this Englishman’s eyes. A stare from
those agates would send any grandchild caterwauling for Gram.

a razor strap
hangs by a gilded mirror –
the baby cries

His granddaughters tried to cajole hugs from him on any occasion when
Gramps was in a good mood. They squirreled away each gift of affection. I
remember how he smelled of cherry pipe tobacco and Old Spice. I remember
being five and having him take me fishing, reeling in the yellow perch and
bass. We strung the fish on a rope as wide as my outspread arms. That once,
I made Gramps proud and happy.

gun oil
on weathered hands –
venison frying

In general, he was a surly old coot. He left for his shed when we arrived.
There he sat with his racks of antlers, beer in hand. He was a beaten man,
who beat his wife, and kids. He sat rocking, watching, as we arrived once a
year bubbling over with happiness to be at Grandma’s house.