A Place Called Home

Jakob Pierce sifted through a stack of envelopes piled on the red enameled table before tossing the whole bit into the trash bin. “J. J.” he called out. “I’m home.”

When no one returned his salutation he sat down in a red vinyl chair, pushing an empty melamine cereal bowl back from the edge of the table. “How many times have I got to tell that boy?” he mumbled.

He'd just opened up the newspaper and set his reading glasses lower on the bridge of his nose when a yip from the living-room drew his attention. A white and brown pup yawned and then curled back into a ball on top of an old plaid that lay crumpled on the floor. “Well I’ll be." Jakob folded the paper and tossed it on top of a stack of the rest of the week’s papers. 

It took effort these days to rise from the chair, but the curiosity of the critter in his living room made it worthwhile. He approached the sleeping pup, which opened one eye when the man bent low. Jakob smiled at the pup and nodded approvingly. “Not much of a watch dog yet are ya?”

He heard the familiar sound of the propane torch burning out back. A sound he’d heard often over the long years of his marriage to Isla. A sound he hadn’t realized he’d missed after she’d passed away until his grandson came to live him seven months ago and started back up where Isla had left off. She’d taught J. J. the craft, and if Jakob were honest with the boy he’d have told him long ago his work was far superior to Isla’s. His faithfulness to Isla kept him from telling the truth, and he didn’t want the boy to get the idea that being an artist would get him anywhere in life. A boy like J.J. needed a real trade. Making mouth-blown baubles and stained-glass panes, no matter how beautiful, weren’t what provided for a family. Jakob knew this for certain.

He hadn’t changed a thing in the house since Isla’s passing. The same old yellowed curtains hung in the living room windows. The same green, nappy couch was still pressed tightly against the wall. The old rosebud lamps with the too-big shades still set on cheap wooden side tables. Everything in the house was dated, but it made no difference to him how Isla had decorated, just as long as the place was kept clean. Isla hadn’t been a good housekeeper, another trait she shared with her grandson. Their minds were always on their projects. “It’s the stuff of life,” Isla would always remind him when he’d gotten too cranky about the state of the household.

Jakob picked up a t-shirt from the arm of the couch, and a mug still half-filled with black coffee. He tossed the shirt into the laundry room that also served as the back entryway where he saw a big bag of dog chow tossed haphazardly over the top of a few pairs of boots and sneakers. He shook his head and then collected the melamine bowl from the table and washed it along with the mug. He dried his hands on the dingy dish towel that hung from the refrigerator door before putting his cap on and making his way to the studio.

It was a short walking path from the house to the studio out back, but it was overflowing with knick-knacks and baubles Isla had either made herself, or purchased at the garden centers over the years. Each decoration had been perfectly placed to look like they’d grown right out of the clumps of purple cone-flowers and black-eyed-Susan come mid-summer. Several stepping stones lined the path, each with special designs made from broken bits of glass that hadn’t made it from Isla’s artistic attempts. Jakob guessed she didn’t mind they’d ended up becoming artwork of a different form. He stepped over the stones gingerly. They were more precious to him now that she was gone.

He stood at the entryway of the studio and watched his grandson who was hunched over a project. The boy’s greasy hair poked out of the backward-turned ball-cap. Isla’s propane torch flamed in his hands. At least he was wearing the safety mask.

Jakob didn’t want to interrupt the boy. He’d learned long ago not to disturb an artist mid-work, especially during the smelting of the metal framework. He watched J.J. curiously. How could someone be so tirelessly inspired to create endless works of art without regard to their own needs? The boy needed a shower, needed clothes that fit properly. Jakob noted the baggy jeans the boy wore that hung low on his waist, the band of his blue underwear showing whenever J.J. lifted his arms, which seemed a good enough reason to interrupt the boy now.

“You get anything to eat for lunch?” called Jakob.

J.J. looked over at his grandfather then cut the torch. “Yeah, cereal.”

Jakob nodded. He thought of the sleeping pup in the living-room. “You went to town, eh?”

“Yeah,” said J.J, a small smile lighting his face. He re-lit the torch and went back to his project.

Jakob wasn’t a man of many words and it seemed if nothing else, J.J. had taken after him in this manner. He turned back toward the house. He knew the boy wouldn’t be in until after dark.

J.J. had always been a good boy. He had always been quiet, even as a little one. Now when J.J. spoke, it was only when he really had something to say. Even then the boy’s words often went unheard. Jakob had given up trying to get the boy to be more assertive. At least he’d gone to town today. That was a step in the right direction.