Workshop Wings

My favorite smells in the world are pipe tobacco, fresh cut grass, and bran new sawdust. They are the perfume of my grandfather and as strong and captivating as the man. If I smell any of them now, in an instant, I am ripped from my surroundings and pulled home.

He knew all kinds of things and taught me everything I consider important. After school I’d bike to his house, tear into the grass, and sprint to the workshop in the backyard. Granpap was a retired carpenter, but he only retired from earning money from the carpentry work. He never stopped building things for people. He always had a project. He made what was needed or asked for: bookshelves, tables, rocking chairs, anything. Finished projects were solid, exact, and of high quality. Slick as anything in a store.

He loved to talk to people. Family, friends, strangers, everyone was welcome; the workshop had constant foot traffic. People came to it the way stomachs come to lunch, eventually and with great satisfaction. The whole town was bound to swing through sooner or later. They came to stretch, relax, crack a can of Blatz, hang out, and talk all day of the mundane and the uncanny. Conversation in the workshop spilled easier than sawdust and wood flakes from the table blade.

In my world, the world he spun, my Grandfather was the talk of the town. If I went by myself to the A&P every person I met had to have a minute. What was Paul up to? How he was doing?

Before he retired from carpentry he retired from being a Seabee. An old coffee mug that held his slowly shrinking yellow marking and measuring pencils was the only thing left from his Seabee life. All I knew about Seabees was that they were a part of the Navy and that they built things in the middle of wars. That and they had a really cool name. My imaginings were based entirely on a faded cartoon bee with the big muscles on the side of the mug. I never asked him about Seabees. I knew he didn’t want to talk about Seabees or wars. Although once with the news in the background I heard him say, “there is no glamour in it. Young people have no business in wars or building things for wars.”

Every day after school I cut a beeline straight to his house. The basement opened onto a wide patio with the shop off to the right and a stone path that led to a rectangle garden about three-quarters the size of a football field. In the mornings we worked the garden. I would go back in first to star preparing food for the rest of the day. I often had deep crimson fingernails from tomatoes and dirt before the sun began pushing a slight yellow.

The backyard was gigantic and stretched out as long as a summer lasted. There were two ways through the backyard. One was a big green tractor. I rode up on the big seat with him when we cut the grass. That tractor, to me, was a monster truck. Big noise. Big tires. Big fun. The green monster was big, bad, and powerful. Up to the forest, it could go anywhere eyes could see. I know he got a kick out of how much fun we had riding around on “Bob.” If we weren’t trying to beat back that enormous wild wide open we were cutting through it on foot. Almost everyday included a walk and every walk was an adventure and you can’t have an adventure without a dog or three. We had Sawyer, Utes, and Abby. Going deep in the woods, we always took the dogs with us, even if we were heading to the creek to fish. Of course you had to occasionally let the dogs jump in the water, splash around, play, and cool off. Sure, they scared away all the fish but, “it’s better to have em’ with you in case you lose track of the sun for the way home,” he said, “lost in the woods is no way to find yourself.”

Afternoons were devoted to wood work projects in the shop or playing gear head on an old car. The last car we rebuilt together was a beat-up, bright orange Gremlin. The cars he brought home were as pathetic and homely as the pleading eye dogs that occasionally followed him home. One thing I learned from him is that where you start has nothing to do with where you finish. As with the wood projects, after a couple weeks the dogs and cars began to come together, look healthy, get color and luster, gain energy, and hold a soft flicker of life. Now I recognize everywhere that subtle flicker, what John Lennon said goes on within you and without you. Well, whether car or dog, next thing you know they could stand on their own power and prowess…purr and prowl or rev and run… and in no time they would be ready to go at the door in the morning.

Looking back, I see now that true magic is quite simply, the energy of life, however it is applied from one thing to another, hand to machine, hand to dog, or hand to man. At the time I thought it was natural, ordinary hard work and care with an open ear and eye for how to best fix a problem, but there was always more going on that only now I am fully understanding. In the evenings while he smoked a pipe, I played with the box of wooden blocks he made before I was born. The blocks were my first birthday present. While I played king maker to elaborate castles Granpap would read, draw up sketches or designs, or just tinker around the house. He really knew everything; at least to me it seemed that way. He knew things and would look me direct in the eye and talk with complete sincerity. We talked of things no one else would ever talk about in private or in public. He never asked for my word or my silence, but I always knew our speech was secret and just for our ears.

It’s amazing how much he knew about life, all kinds of life beyond the everyday and ordinary. He knew about animals too. Where and how they lived. What they did during the day and what they did at night. How they communicated with each other. One day walking in the woods with the dogs he told me something bizarre and incredible. He said, “You know how I told you about how animals communicate and talk to each other? Well you know that you can talk to animals just like I’m talking to you right now.”

Part two

I don’t remember much about my grandfather’s death. Nothing of what I was doing. I don’t remember the day or the time, only pockets of memory. We were not together when he went away.

I am in a living room. A nervous, trembling arm curls around my shoulder. A voice follows, “I’m sorry,… your grandfather passed.” Fade to black. Big black. Giant consuming black.

Sometime later, my knees push into soft leather and my elbows rest on cushion felt. Darkness outside moves all around while I remain stationary in the backseat of a car, his Lincoln Towncar. I should scream. Scream to shatter the windows. Scream to quiet the adults and everything else around me. Scream to everything beyond my control, but I can’t scream. I can’t even muster one word, not the smallest sound. Only my eyes register a response and quietly tear and run away from me. I stare out a rectangle rear window towards a grey purple sky quick shifting in phases over a brilliant yellow moon much bigger than a moon should ever look. We stop. The car door opens.

A hand takes my hand and draws me from the car. My hand is held and guided, a fully functioning boy of fourteen years drawn like a toddler. They grab my hand and pull me into a drab grey labyrinth as though I am deaf and dumb. The world around me phases in and out of existence as though lit by a strobe light in slow motion. Pull. Follow. Pull. Walk. Down a flight of stairs. Dim, flickering lights. Into a long sloping hallway. Through doors. And there he is. My grandfather lies on a metal table. I don’t remember everything. A few people stand around, some in silence and some in quick breaths and shaking tears. I stand next to my grandfather. Then step onto a stool and bend down to kiss his lips. They are cold. They are no longer lips. They are different. Everything is different. I look down at him and look away. The first finger next to his thumb is covered in heavy tape. I ask, “what’s the matter with his hand.” And a strange voice says, “it’s so that no one steals his wedding ring.”

Who would steel from my grandfather? No one would steel from Granpap. Nothing was right in this weird place. Why was I here, and who would steel his ring? The only thing I knew is that he was gone. He was not alive anymore. He had gone somewhere else. We had his funeral a few days later and the whole world showed up. I was there too, but not all of me. The weeks that follow are a complete blank.

Part three


“Wait are you saying you can talk to animals, and I can talk to animals, and everybody can talk to animals?” I asked.
“Well I can talk to animals so it stands to reason that you can talk to animals. As to everybody else, no, I don’t think most people can. Actually, if you brought the subject up or tried to explain it most will undoubtedly think you are completely mad.” He said.

“Yea…, well, that sounds pretty crazy, even from you. This is worse than the time you said vines and melons would grow out of my eyes, ears, and ass if I swallowed watermelon seeds.”

“But you knew that was a joke and this an honest truth, don’t you?”

“Ok,… you got me. How do you talk to animals?”

“Talk to animals, who’s feeding you this garbage? Cartoons and comic books are rotting your mind my boy.”
“Grandpa, come-on. Please! How do you do it?”

“Ok, I never could quite get the hang of talking to most animals, though I’ve tried…believe me. Actually, the only animals I have ever been able to communicate with regularly and extensively are birds. But I’ve found that I can speak to most any bird I’ve ever met.”

“Seriously?”

“Deadly Serious! In fact it was in the sincerity of death that it was all born out, this bird-speak. I had been oversees for a long time. We were building things for our guys to use as cover and roads and structures for our guys to blow up everything the other side was using as cover. Which by the way, you know there is no us and them. No one side or the other. It’s all a big trick, a fog to make people turn against their natural instincts. We may kill to eat, but we live to be happy. But, don’t let me get off the subject. Where was I?”

“Deadly serious…overseas…” I said.

“Ok, we finished our orders and had nothing to do but drink heavily. We joked that at least we helped save the same amount of lives that we had helped kill. It was disgusting business all the way around.” and clearing his throat, he said… “A good war.” He fell silent and we walked through the woods with the dogs and only the sounds of the leaves light rustle and crunch beneath our feet.

Stepping over a large fallen tree, “Well of course, I managed to get myself shot. It hurt like hell. I think. I don’t recall anything for weeks. First thing I remember is waking up in a makeshift medic tent in a weird thick wood. My memories from this time are uneven, everything is splintered. Between the morphine, pain, distant but constant mortar blasts, and general poor quality of life I was a complete mess. After a month with the aide of a crutch I was able to get up and help the doctors and nurses with the other patients. Seeing men coming in regularly and in such high numbers, half of them beyond any help was in many ways far worse than the pain and personal hell I went through. The faces and earnest pleas for the smallest measure of relief haunt me. Once I could go without a crutch I took to long walks through the woods with no intended direction. These walks kept me sane. I believe beyond saving my mind they saved my soul. I began to notice small things, small things of beauty everywhere. Little morsels the earth had released or preserved just for me. The more I looked, the more I walked and the more I walked, the more I found. I healed during these walks and became a more efficient caregiver to the flow of wounded. Still, I was bothered by something I couldn’t name. I knew it and I felt it but I couldn’t name it. It was an itch of an idea that I couldn’t scratch to think. One day it came to me. Where are all the animals? There are no animals anywhere.”

I burst in, “Oh my god, I know exactly what you mean. Remember the gigantic tsunami that killed thousands of people.” I said, “It was complete destruction with bodies everywhere, but they found almost no wild animal bodies. They say the animals just know and they got out of dodge.”

“Exactly!” he turned and smiled. “I became determined to find an animal. Just one animal, any kind of animal would do. I became completely absorbed in this task. I would do my part in the tents, but nothing extra and the minute my shift was over I was gone into the woods. I became so focused on locating an animal that I began to lose the improvements I had made in myself and others. I was becoming Ahab. I stopped sleeping in favor of walking my reckless search. I forced everyone I worked with and who counted on me to deal with my growing madness and insomnia. I know men died on my watch that I may have better helped or at least comforted. I knew it then, but I didn’t care,” He stopped and again we walked in silence for some time.

“I was fixated,” he said, “if I could find an animal the entire senseless and maddening violence would end. If I could get one animal to come back to the forest I figured reason and peace and personal absolution would soon follow with fast and unconquerable footsteps. I was wrong, of course. One night, delirious and miles from camp I fell. I collapsed out of overload and exhaustion face down in the dirt. I had finally found the death I was seeking and in subpar incompetence had helped so many others to,” again we stopped and walked in silence. It was weird, for a man who just swore he could only talk to birds I swear the dogs understood every sentence, syllable, and sound from his mouth. We all walked and waited.

“Obviously, I never found my grim reward. What I did find was the inevitable sunrise in a long dark night. Slowly turning and tilting my head up, spitting out grit and dirt I heard a slight chirp and flutter in the air. I thought nothing of it. I pushed myself up off the ground, wiped the dirt from my eyes, and there stood a little breath of God’s great love and mercy. A foundation to rebuild my pathetic skin, bones, body, and breath.”

“One of the animals came back. It found you!” I said.

“Yes, he did, but he waited till I was able to find him. Till I was ready to see him.” He said slowly with no emphasis anywhere in his words.

“So he just started talking?” I asked, “Out loud? In English,…I mean, foreign birds don’t speak English right?” Immediately I felt like an ass.

“No. That’s a fair question. Actually, a better question would be, Grandpap how did you get out of the padded room and buckled one-piece garment.” He cracked that smile that pushed on everyone it met like an afternoon sun in August. “No, foreign bird don’t speak English. It did not speak out-loud at all, I don’t believe, but there was no one else lying in the mud to confirm or deny the sounds. I understood him in English, or rather I heard both normal bird sounds with my ears and what I understood as English in my head.”

“Well, What did he say?” burst from my lips.

Dead faced with no emotion, he said, “The early bird catches the worm.”

“Are you kidding?” I asked as my face completely fell apart.

“Of course I am kidding you. You think the first man-bird conversation in history was some cliché?” He said and began laughing for the first time since we began our walk. “No, actually the bird said, get up you smell like shit and I think my breakfast is underneath you.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously!” he said straight-faced, “The bird said I needed to get up, eat, and then do my work. He asked what I was waiting for and said if I want to start living again to start small and slowly build it up, like a nest. Then he flew away.” Grandpa turned mouth hanging open, “How about that, dressed down by a god damn bird!”

We both started laughing and the dogs barked it up too. A great bustle erupted in the woods. Then he continued, “What else could I do. I took the birds advice. I went back, started eating and sleeping, and doing the best I could at everything I encountered. Things got better inside and outside. Everything I encountered from that point on never ceased to build my appreciation for all that is beautiful, delicate, and sincere in this world. After that first encounter, I couldn’t go in the woods without meeting and speaking with various birds. Other people noticed the slow return of the birds to, but I think I am the only one who actually encountered them in the conscious sense. Or at least no one ever described such an encounter to me so I never told any one else about speaking with the feathered ones, that is except for here, with you, now.

Part four

I was a void after seeing my grandfather’s body, a black hole. Nothing around me registered after he left. To me he was the brightest star in the sky. He was a fountain of energy, a certified life bringer, and a man you could trust to rise everyday as the sun. I bet you that first bird did tell him the early bird gets the worm. Why else would anybody get up that early? But I wasn’t thinking about this yet because I was still a black hole and in my realm there was no room, space, or time for anything of substance.

But even a blind man knows when the sun is shining and in time I began to notice things. I began to notice small things, small things of beauty everywhere. Little morsels that the earth had released or preserved just for me, and the more I looked around the more I found. After some time a couple of my friends, my old friends from the cross-country team began showing up and forcing me to run with them again. Apparently, they thought stewing in anger and pity was unhealthy.

I spit venom and curses at them and still they waited outside my last class to force me onto to the van to practice. I hated every one of them for it, but it was easier to give in to them than to ignore them. They were giant swamp flies, inescapable, unshakable, and annoying as hell. Bitch slap one with the most personal, unforgivable remark and another was suddenly biting you on your other side with a subtle push towards the light. Well, God bless those sadist ass holes, they are the good friends. I am glad they never gave up on me.

They were right of course I did need to live again. I needed to recognize life and again run with the wind in my face and the ill cares of the world curling around and blowing away into the foul wake of well-rested yesterdays. After cross-country practice with them I would go home and eat. A new novelty, eating, and then I’d collapse into bed.

Part Five

“This is so cool. I mean,… this is amazing. How does it work? You think I might be able to do this too.” I stammered and stuttered.

“Of course. I know you can. The qualities that make it possible were always within me. Unfortunately, it took a run through the depths of dark promises and tricks to make me see the obvious. I see it in you too. I’ve always seen it in you.” He said, “It is my belief and intention to prove to myself and whatever higher power there is out there that we are fundamentally good and don’t need to learn through corruption or almost corruption.” He said as he patted my shoulder. “That’s not to say that you are mister perfect, far from it. You will probably learn more from your mistakes than your first time perfects, which are few and far between. That goes for all of us. But you don’t need to go so far as killing to come upon mortal truths. That is what this, our here and now is driving at! Do you understand,” He asked?

“I understand what you mean, but I have no idea how to start it.”

“You start with pure truth and from there I can’t break it down into steps except to say that after you are firm in the truth, it’s like water on a steep hill. It flows.”

“The truth? I don’t think I understand,” and pausing for a moment, “You mean like at the end of Ghostbusters part one but the opposite. Instead of clearing my mind, I actually try to think of the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man, I mean, my version of the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man.” I said quite sincerely as he began laughing.

“Now see, that’s way better than I have ever been able to describe it to myself. My boy you were born for this kind of work.” Cracking a broad smile, “Exactly, that’s exactly what it is. Communication with birds, or people, is so much more than the sum of the parts. Just like thoughts and consciousness are more than brains, blood, and chemical reactions. Communication is more than throat, mouth, lips, and sound. You have to feel it without fear or shame. It has to be the truth, and then birds, people, or most any damn thing will respond to it even those beat-up old cars I bring home.”

We both laughed and talked and when we came to the stream we broke out our tackle and bait and split up to fish the creek. We were out of distance for a few hours and my mind revolved around everything that we had talked about. We met back up once the sun had begun to set. I had caught two good size ones. I don’t remember what kind of fish they were but on my way back towards Granpap I whispered to the fish that I only kept them to eat and we would certainly cook them most deliciously.
The subject of birds, bird talk, war, remorse, or truth never came up on the walk home. All we talked about was the different ways to cook and enjoy our dinner and the preparation and side dishes. My grandfather could cook and to two hungry men the subject of his culinary skills was easily enough to clear the chalkboard of any fantastic conversation. Back home we immediately got to business. An hour later we sat down to eat dirt and all. It was our last supper.

Part six

My friends were right; I loved running. I loved the long distances and the open country or thick woods. The evenings with the team were just my warm up. Sleep and dreams were my stretching. Waking at four I’d kick start my body with a run, my own secret, personal run. It was like a fission reaction, it was rebirth. Deciding to live again is remarkably healthy. On these runs I started thinking about talking to birds. Not actually trying to communicate, but somewhere deep within my newly emerging consciousness some part of me was planning first contact.

My healing reached a new peak on my front porch with the most unassuming and common bird, the Eastern Bluebird. I sat rocking on my handmade wooden rocking chair, comfortably numb. Out of the void my mind rose to a slight chirp and flutter in the air. From a trance I turned to the sound and motion on a slight twig branch. Nimble black foot claws clutched and wrapped around the branch. Legs so thin and small rose from the branch that I can’t believe they were made of anything more than skin, but they supported this little creature of the air. Funny as it sounds, I was in awe of this little bird. It was noble, striking, and drawing with an unwavering presence. Its black eyes focused on me with magnetic passion. The bluebird’s legs rose to a round white-feathered underbelly turning bright orange half way up with a border of purple everywhere but the head and wings, which with perfect symmetry turned a brilliant bright blue. This bird was beautiful.

I teared up. I couldn’t help it. I completely fell apart at the sight of a bird. It single handily reinvented color. There is no shame in the miserably broken, I can assure you. The dam burst and everything from my cheeks to the arches of my feet got a drop. What a relief, only lost desert wanders finding an oasis understand this level of emotional release. As I made weird little noises in my sniffling the bird began to chirp. With a deep breath I relaxed. The subtle key of the bird song was like a map back to a life beyond myself. I thought here is nature just when you need it and suddenly the song turned to speech.

Feeling already stripped thoroughly bear the song-speech wasn’t completely shocking. It seemed almost logical and as my tears began to dry a great calm came over me. In my head I heard this bird begin, “Discipline Focus and Mental Clarity. Search for Beauty Everywhere. Know Yourself. Cater to Your Strengths. Pursue What You Can Control Body Mind and Health. Let Go of the Uncontrollable Without Worry or Doubt. Find Stories Everywhere. Look on the Face of Objects Natures Animals and Peoples. Find Comfort in the Uniqueness of Life and what a Gift it is to be Alive In the World and to Know Your Alive. Respect the Reality. Adapt to the Present. You Will Survive.”

I must be tripping. I sat quiet for some time while he only stared on to me. “Thank You. I will try. Will you come again, later…soon?” I asked. “Perhaps.” He said strutting his feet up and down on the branch and then lifted up far away into the sky and clouds and like magic disappeared. I went inside and immediately wrote down what I had heard. I read it out loud to myself several times and it seemed so short and perfect. I smiled. I liked this bird born wisdom. I made several copies so I would not lose it. I placed one in my room, one in my locker, one in my wallet, and shortly one in my head.

I told no one that I had begun conversing with birds or that they offer sound psychiatric advice. I slowly let the fountain of anger run dry. It was the spring of a new year, but aside from that one visit neither my bluebird friend nor any other bird would talk with me or even land and stand near me. I was trying my best to live and learn from my new life mantra, but I was also beginning to wonder if I hadn’t imagined the whole thing. Perhaps, long ago I had heard or read those words and my mind had simply produced them at the exact moment it knew I would respond to them. Since I had a physical copy of something I enjoyed, believed in, and was growing success with it I decided that I shouldn’t lose my mind worrying about from where it came. It would just waste energy and add nothing to my life or well-being.

Just as a river with its way and natural course works with humans but won’t change for them, no sooner had I gone a week without thought of talking birds then my friend appeared in the woods during a morning run. I saw him from the corner of my eye and slowed to a stop. Turning I saw him branch hop into my line of sight. “Good Morning, my friend!” I said bursting a big smile. The sweet chirps came for a minute or two and then words. He asked if I had a song? “No,” I said. I should set myself to finding one he said and then he reminded me I was not alone as the words shifted back to bird song.

His song was beautiful, rising and falling, coming back on itself and spinning around filling the air with a call to everything in the woods that grows but starts small. Was it a call or maybe just an invitation to meet again tomorrow? After hearing his song I knew I had to have one, a song.

I sat there watching him chirp and sing, and listened as his song danced in the air and then fell silent. Looking at him then I spoke without thought. Looking at this beautiful little creature dressed in hues of white, orange, purple, and blue so absolutely logical and true. With his stick legs running straight into a rounded feathered belly.

Looking at him I asked, “Bird, I don’t mean to be rude but why don’t you have any arms or hands?” I immediately felt bad that the bird had no arms, and worse that I had blurted out such a ridiculous, insulting question. I don’t know where that question came from or why I said it, I mean it has wings yes, but no hands, no arms and I guess standing there watching him on feet rolling up into a belly it almost seemed weird that he had no arms. More than that I could picture exactly where if he had them, little miniature human hands, little phantom feathered arms would shoot out halfway up his big broad belly between the twig legs and hollow bone wings. Suddenly, it seemed weird that my talkative friend was all legs and wings.

“Oh my god, I sorry, I didn’t mean to… I mean you have done more for me in 10 minutes than anyone I know, I am sorry, I didn’t mean to be a jerk-face.” He sat there for a minute in silence and then started talking, weird talk too. Oddly enough he was more than willing to tell me the whole dirty business of losing hands and arms.

Apparently, at one time birds didn’t have wings but rather long bone limbs and fingers. They were all earth bound; their travels were by footstep alone. A long time ago a single bird struck a deal with some creature or force, a phoenix, they call it. The bird traded his arms for wings and forever bore his lineage to the winds trading up on hand manipulation and opposable thumbs for wings and flight.

“You can still see our fingertips when we fly though bright sunlight.” the bluebird said, “Sounds crazy right, but it’s a common tale that even the youngest of birds know.” “You mean its a tale, like a fable or a moral lesson or something, but not scientifically accurate.” I asked. “No, it’s real. This is our story. This is our truth.” He said and then only whistled and sang for some time. “The point is that what is done is done. What comes to us, whether we seek it or it finds us, brings changes and you have to accept it and move forward. A great change came to the birds and now we fly rather than run. Sometimes we miss the exactness that we once had with our fingers, but things change and now we fly and if we miss our old limbs well then we just sing our songs.” Again, he went into to a dazzling melody as if an exclamation point on his words. “My boy, you must find your song and keep moving forward because I assure you change is ever-present.” He danced and chirped for a moment and flew off.

Part seven

On my way home I thought about what the bird had said and suddenly I remembered the old sawdust-covered radio that played in the corner of the workshop. Sometimes we listened to the radio, the oldies station, but we also had a box of old tapes to put in and whistle and sing to as we worked in the shop.

Music makes life better. Sound is almost as powerful as scent. Sound’s strength is in its sustainable persistence. Scent is the 100-meter sprint; a burst of the senses. Sound is the cross-country runner of the senses, the eternal echo. I remember Ray Charles filling the workshop with a slow, drawn out beauty almost falling out of the radio in a bittersweet arch raining down man and piano on our mind, mood, and wood works. “Without a song the day would never end, without a song the road would never bend, when things go wrong a man ain't got a friend without a song…

That field of corn would never see a plow, that field of corn would be deserted now

A man is born but he's no good no how without a song…

I got my trouble and woe but sure as I know, the Jordan will roll and I'll get along as long as a song is strong in my soul, I'll never know what makes the rain to fall, I'll never know what makes that grass so tall, I only know there ain't no love at all without a song…

When you get up in the morning you got to have a song.”

I began to hum the tune in my head. I smiled. Since then I have found and created many songs for every mood or feeling I know. The bird was right. He helped me build my workshop wings and now I know all I need to rise above is a song.