| Biographical Poetry posted November 17, 2008 |
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Memories of my Grandpa Nelsen
Grandpa's Hands
by adewpearl
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The faint scent of brandy upon his breath, his thick accent born of a foreign land - some memories live after an old man's death, what best I remember are Grandpa's hands. From plain newspaper I'd watch him fashion with few deft folds, a sailor's hat. These nimble fingers that worked with such passion once tied sailor's knots - my mom told me that. I didn't know him, of course, when he sailed - I only heard tales of his times at sea. The strong sailor's hands that had never failed were withered and wrinkled when they held me. The wallpaper books Grandpa gave to me became my treasures beyond compare. The beauty within them that he could see caused me to find beauty everywhere. His artist's hands never guided fine strokes that critics would praise and rich patrons buy, but the walls he painted for just plain folks gave warmth to their houses and pleased the eye. In his final years his fingers trembled when he'd touch my cheeks to "see" my face. His eyes now dark, his hands he relied on, for in those hands he had never lost faith. My feelings for him are hard to define, but this much I've grown to understand. Of the myriad images flooding my mind, what best I remember are Grandpa's hands. |
 Recognized |
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Thorlief Nelsen from Norway came to the United States at the turn of the century after serving in the merchant marine in his homeland. In Brooklyn and later on Long Island he supported his family of six children by working as a wallpaper and house painter.
Since my mother was 42 when I was born, Grandpa was already in his 70's when I met him. His face and especially his hands were extremely wrinkled, far more wrinkled than the picture illustrating my poem. He smelled of cigar smoke and blackberry brandy, and his smile lit up his frail face.
The wallpaper books he gave me, filled with hundreds of samples of beautiful colors and designs, were probably the first "art" I ever fell in love with. The same year my mother died, Grandpa went blind. From then on, when Daddy and I would visit him, he would explore my face with his thin, wrinkled fingers. I don't know if he was happier to see me or the bottle of blackberry brandy my father always gave him on our visits.
When Grandpa died the year I turned 19, he left each of his six children $54. Since my mother had died, my two sisters and I each received $18 of her share. With that money, I, a newlywed, bought my first Christmas tree and decorations. This tree along with my memories of him, made my inheritance one of great wealth.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Since my mother was 42 when I was born, Grandpa was already in his 70's when I met him. His face and especially his hands were extremely wrinkled, far more wrinkled than the picture illustrating my poem. He smelled of cigar smoke and blackberry brandy, and his smile lit up his frail face.
The wallpaper books he gave me, filled with hundreds of samples of beautiful colors and designs, were probably the first "art" I ever fell in love with. The same year my mother died, Grandpa went blind. From then on, when Daddy and I would visit him, he would explore my face with his thin, wrinkled fingers. I don't know if he was happier to see me or the bottle of blackberry brandy my father always gave him on our visits.
When Grandpa died the year I turned 19, he left each of his six children $54. Since my mother had died, my two sisters and I each received $18 of her share. With that money, I, a newlywed, bought my first Christmas tree and decorations. This tree along with my memories of him, made my inheritance one of great wealth.
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