1942, Duck Island, Trenton, New Jersey

By Genevieve Riggs Williams

As I dry my cherry wood spatula I think about my father. Although he has been gone for more than 30 years I still think of him on Father’s Day, on his birthday, at Christmas, and when I use something he made. (We are both pictured above; he made the wooden clogs I am wearing.)

The spatula was the last thing he carved for me. It must have been around 1968. This spatula and a cherry wood cutting board are all I have left of the many wooden things he made for me over the years.

Money was scarce in Trenton, New Jersey, when I was born there in 1938. I was the youngest of four children, following two boys and a girl. After purchasing the necessities of life there was very little left for buying children’s toys. But I was lucky. My Dad was a carpenter and could craft out of wood almost anything one could envision.

The first I can remember that he made specifically for me was a tiny blue tricycle. All wood, of course, even the wheels. After that came a seesaw. It was magnificent. Sturdy enough to hold my big brothers should they condescend to give their little sister a thrilling ride. It was during this time that Dad had the idea for wooden sandals.

I imagine this was necessitated by a little girl wearing out leather soles at an alarming rate. The clogs were quite wonderful for jumping rope as they made a nice solid thump with each descent. They were also very charming with their colorful ribbon ties threaded through holes in the platform soles. My sister and I loved them; when we wore them out jumping rope he simply made us another pair.

Most of the “toys” appeared at Christmas to supplement the few items my parents could afford to purchase for us. When I was about 9 years old a wooden sled appeared, probably the least appreciated of his many innovations. It was all wood and it too was painted blue. Every other child I knew had a red sled with metal runners. It was not a good thing to be different at that age.

Prior to the sled, one memorable item had almost occasioned the demise of Santa Claus in my young mind. On my fourth Christmas Santa had brought me a wonderful round, wooden, child-sized table to go with the two stools father had previously made for me.

I was so proud of that table that I showed it off to everyone who came to the house. One of the visitors was a man who worked with father at the shop. When I showed him my prize he said, “Ah, you like that table your papa made for you. That is good.”

Indignant, I told him, “Daddy didn’t make this. Santa did.” At which the man laughed, “Oh, no. Not unless your papa is Santa. I saw him making it in the shop.” I, of course, went flying to my mother in tears, telling her what that nasty man had said.

My mother, with a mother’s wisdom, pulled me into her lap and said, “Santa did bring it to you. But when he was looking for the very best carpenter in the world to make it for you, who do you think he asked?”

“My Daddy?”

“But of course.”

That’s how I remember him, as the very best carpenter in the world, and Santa’s helper.

Genevieve Riggs Williams is retired and lives in Georgia with her husband, Jim. Her work has been published in numerous journals, anthologies, and ezines. She is a 2004 winner in the statewide O, Georgia! competition for new writers.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Monday, December 18th, 2006 | Email This Post

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