The sound of nail clippers out on the back deck in the fading half light of a summer's evening, reminds me of my grandfather.
Somewhere back in time, the familiar sharp click, click, echoed across the soft green grass of my grandparents southern lawn. Out on the front porch came the sound click, click, click.
My grandfather was meticulous. Always impeccably groomed. Prefect teeth, clean shaven, and not a hair out of place. As age greyed his hair, and time took a few teeth he continued to look his best. No Andy Rooney wild eyebrows, or unsightly hair sprouted from his ears.
He was a perfectionist of grooming and hygiene. Which seems odd now, since he was a welder, and a farmer and a fisherman. Even when time and years of hard manual work added cracked and yellowed his nails he still clipped away.
I would never let my grandparents clip my nails since they both thought nails should be trimmed down to the quick. The pain of a good clipping from the grandparents could last for days.
But the sound of the nail clippers on summer night has lasted decades.