Today I think of my grandfather, who was an ornamental woodworker and fisherman. Out of a hulk of wood, he could make something useful and beautiful like a chest of drawers, a desk, or a hutch. He loved the sea and all of its inhabitants, from the mighty barracuda he boasted to have caught (jury pending), to the tiny shore birds who every year would stop by and refuel in front of the house he built on the Delaware Bay.
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I cannot build a house. I cannot build a chest of drawers. I cannot haul a swordfish out of the sea. The best I can do is write. I worked on the stories of Safe as Houses for nine years every night at my table. Every early morning before my “real” job. On lunch breaks, on the subway. On minimized screens at my day job. I used paid vacations to camp at friends’ houses, to write while they were at work.
I spent hours sanding. The mast. The stern. The rudder. I failed. I tried again. I failed. Years went by.
Every night and every morning, I went back to the table. I went back to the table. Through every sadness and happiness.
Slowly, the hull revealed itself to me, and eight strong sails. Free Ham, Sometimes you Break Their Hearts, Sometimes They Break Yours, The Idea of Marcel, North Of, This is Your Will to Live, Great, Wondrous, Safe as Houses, and Carry Me Home, Sisters of Saint Joseph. They carried me through.
My grandfather didn’t go beyond the 8th grade, but every time he and my grandmother traveled, he wrote me letters. Dear Cookie, he wrote, we are in California, I heard you got snow. Dear Cookie, you will be a great artist. However much of the page was left he filled with xs and os. Every afternoon the sun set into the Delaware Bay in front of his house, I sat on his lap and counted until its entire body slipped below the water line.
I believe that writing is a craft. Maybe this is why I write by hand. I believe that what rewards close reading requires vigorous revision. Maybe this is why I blanche when I hear of someone “composing” their “works” on an iPhone. I believe that the best way to learn a craft is to apprentice, like my grandfather did, by the side of a veteran woodworker.
Today, I launch my little ship. No one will know its flaws better than me. I wish it safe passage, but I have no scores to settle. It is enough to have spent ten years making it. It connects me to my past, to my ancestors who made things with their hands, and my future, whatever shape it may take.
Today, one of my dreams comes true.
I think of my grandfather, who taught me to love the sea.
