Happy birthday, grandpa.

​      On March 31, 2022, my grandpa, James Townsend, would be one hundred and twelve.  My grandpa was tough as nails, but had a heart of gold. 

     He adopted people in need once in a while. He’d feed a hungry family and invite a hungry child to his dinner table. 

     He ran his own business most of his life. He was a carpenter or maybe handyman is a better term. He could build pretty much anything. 

     He was retired long before I entered the work force or I probably would have followed in his footsteps. 

     He put a wall up in my mom and dad’s house that hasn’t changed in forty-nine years. He built the screen door on the back doorway that has been repaired at least a dozen times. 

     My uncles all worked for him growing up and they all had a good share of his knowledge, but my uncle Frank was the only one who made a living doing it for a while after grandpa retired. 

     My grandpa worked all over Peru and knew most of the business owners in the sixties. He told me stories about some of the people he worked for. 

     He worked for the priest at the Catholic Church in the early sixties. He called him by his name instead of calling him Father as everyone else working there did. When asked by his coworker why he didn’t call him father, he simply replied “I’m not catholic, and he’s not my dad or God.  They are the only ones I call Father.”  He said the priest heard what he said and laughed. 

     He was a simple man who was a complex individual. His core beliefs were unshakable, but could be bent by his compassion. My conscience has his voice and probably always will. 

     Happy Birthday, Grandpa. I love and miss you. 

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