Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. -Ancient Greek saying

Also:

Beauty, like supreme dominion
Is but supported by opinion. – Benjamin Franklin

Today my husband and I walked through my grandmother’s house for one of the last times. My grandmother was moved permanently to a nursing home last week, and the house is being emptied for sale. (Grandma is deeply mourning the loss of her home of 50 years, but she’s also enjoying the new social opportunities and activities her new home provides.) Nick and I were invited to take whatever we liked from the house (unless someone else wanted it), so we did a little treasure-hunting. I wanted a clock that’s hung in the entryway for as long as I can remember, an old-fashioned school chalkboard where Grandma used to leave notes for her grandchildren (and we in return), and a large photo of my grandfather’s Air Force squadron in 1936. Nick raised his eyebrows a bit at the clock (it’s not exactly our style) but he didn’t question any of my choices, which were all very “me”: I love anything with history, and anything with sentimental value that’s also useful.

Then we went to the garage, where I left Nick alone for a few minutes. I didn’t think he’d find anything there; it hadn’t been used much since my grandfather’s death over ten years ago. But when I walked back in, he said, “I want this,” and pointed to the workbench in the corner that must have been handmade by my grandfather at least 40 years ago.

The workbench isn’t fancy or in great shape, but it was well-made, as all of my grandfather’s projects were. Nick showed me how Grandpa had cleverly taken an old dresser and turned it into a workbench, complete with a vice, tool caddies, and plenty of drawers. Nick was very excited about this find; he said he’d been wanting to make something just like this for a long time, and here it was, ready-made and about to be thrown out.

If I had been alone in that garage, I wouldn’t have given that workbench a second thought. It’s old, dusty, and completely unrelated to my interests. But looking at it through Nick’s eyes, I saw it differently, and not just the craftsmanship or the functionality. I saw my grandfather moving around the garage, working with his hands, maybe his favorite pipe clenched in his teeth, or resting on a nearby shelf. I heard my grandmother call for him, maybe telling him lunch was ready, and heard him call back, “In a minute, Mother.” (He always called her that; maybe it’s a side-effect of having four children.) I thought of the workbench sitting there unused for more than ten years, years in which I dated, married and had a son with Nick. And now Nick was going to take this workbench back to our house, to clean up and use to make things for our family. I thought of how much Grandpa would have loved that I married a man who was good with his hands. (Nick and I had already been dating when Grandpa died, but we were away at college, so they never had the opportunity to meet.)

And thinking of all those things, standing in the garage with Nick, made me see that old, dusty workbench as a thing of beauty.

My eyes are tearing a bit as I write this; I feel very connected to my grandfather right now. Thank you, Grandpa, for making this beautiful, useful thing. And thank you, my husband, for showing me how special it is.

(I wish I had a photo to share, but I didn’t take my camera with me today, and we don’t have the workbench here yet- we’ll need to rent a trailer. Darn it!)