He had always loved making things. He was a handyman by nature and he was good at it. But even by his high standards, he was especially proud of these.
From two sons, he had been blessed with two beautiful grandchildren. The eldest was a boy, a very cheeky, smiling boy. He liked to play pranks and laugh a lot. He was six the first time the snow fell heavily enough for sledding. His grandfather had considered buying one of those flimsy plastic things that you found in the shops, for a few moments. Then he had decided to craft one from wood. He cut the planks, added metal runners, varnished it and, as a finishing touch, engraved his name on the top.
They had fun for several winters, dragging it to the top of the few hills that could be found in their area of the country. Then, four years after he had first made it, his youngest son had a beautiful baby girl.
She was quieter than her cousin, more watchful. She grew up more curious, more studious. Then she became louder and brighter. She was bubbly and seeing her made his day. She was five when he made her her sled.
She didn’t get to use it for years, as the snow ceased to be heavy enough to play in. So he made her a wooden go-kart that her father could push her in.
But then, when she was eleven, the snow fell again. It was thick enough to play in and she dragged the sled to the nearest park and played for hours. She told him all about it when he came to pick her up on a snow day when she couldn’t go to school but her parents were at work. She told him all about it and made him laugh.
Twenty years later, the snow falls again and he starts thinking about the sled he would make for his great-grandson. His limbs aren’t as strong as they were and his hands are not as deft but his eldest son has long since past so there’s no one else to make a sled for the bright little boy who wins awards for being such a good student. So he pulls himself out to the garage to pick up his tools once more, his granddaughter by his side and begins all over again.
This one is mostly true.