Starts with K

When our granddaughter, Vivian, turned 3 last week, my husband and I presented her with a little tool belt, complete with a screwdriver, screws, hammer, nails and some sandpaper.

For the first time in her young life, Viv did not receive a hand-crafted wooden gift, lovingly created by her Papa Russ out of tiger maple or koa or purple heart or some other wonderfully exotic tree.

At her first Christmas, she received a little wooden spoon, carved with a shallow bowl and branded with her initials – and his.

We balanced it off her 5-month-old nose that night, but about two months later, pictures started coming our way of Vivian using it.

“Just vegetables,” my son said. “We don’t want to ruin it.”

“It will teach her fine motor skills,” Papa Russ said. “Let her eat yogurt and soup with it.”

At her first birthday, she received hand-hollowed wooden percussion blocks with a small set of drumsticks.

“They will teach her rhythm,” Papa Russ said. “She will not poke her eyes out with them. She’ll be fine.”

When she turned 2, she received a mallet as her special gift from Papa Russ.

It is heavy, solid, the square head made from padauk, the handle from maple. Her parents looked at my husband and me, eyes wide, as Viv lifted it with both hands – and promptly dropped it on the floor with a significant thud.

“We have a new baby coming in four months,” my son said.

“This will teach her control,” Papa Russ said. “She’ll be fine.”

That Christmas, Viv received a small all-wooden knife, complete with a handmade leather sheath. Her parents looked at my husband and me, eyes wide, as Viv slid the knife in and out of its case.

“We have a newborn,” my son said.

“This will teach her safety and knife skills,” Papa Russ said. “She’ll be fine.”

The lessons now will have to come a different route, because my husband is no longer able to be in his wood shop, making things he loves for the people he loves.

A diagnosis of pancreatic cancer that has spread to his liver and lymph nodes punched us right in the gut this month. The increasing fatigue, light-headedness, stomach pain and weakness now make sense.

He just finished a round of radiation, designed to stop the bleeding from a significant tumor.

By the time you read this, he will have started a two-month cycle of chemotherapy, designed to buy him some time.

He is unceasingly positive and brave: “You can get busy living or you can get busy dying,” he said. “I’m busy living.”

He is the maker of memories, the planner of adventures and the disobeyer of rules.

Papa Russ is the hands-down favorite of all of our grandchildren, who would boot me into traffic to find their way to his lap.

As soon as Vivian opened her birthday gift last week, she said, “Papa, open it please,” so he did.

He pulled out each tool and explained how to use it and care for it and why it is important. She listened solemnly, nodding and repeating key phrases.

“Always put them away!” “Watch your thumbs!” “So scratchy!”

Russ gets sad when he sees that I am sad, so I work hard at matching his optimism, because it feels like a betrayal to do otherwise.

If I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s to never, ever count him out.

The five-year survival rate for Stage 4 pancreatic cancer that has metastasized to the liver is 3%, but, as Russ says, “somebody’s got to be the 3%. Why not me?”

He has a point, you know, so when you see me, also know this: Whatever happens, we’ll be fine.