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My Grandfather was a storyteller, but not in the manner of Clemens or Will Rodgers.
He held no nostalgia and no great love for the past.
He did not seek wisdom, but loved progress. His stories were of Popular Mechanics as life: Cars that could fly, engines that ran on water as fuel, miracle cleaners and labor saving devices. He believed in Progress, in the technical world giving life.
He worked most of his life in a chemical factory. He took early retirement when he found the tremor in his hands and the spasms that overtook his gait embarrassing.
He trembled with mercury poisoning. I’ve never been sure: Was he a martyr or a fool?
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