My mother’s father was Perry Brezeale. He lived on Concord Church Road about two miles from our house. He remained somewhat of a mystery to me for several decades after his passing.

I was speaking with one of my cousins some time back and happened to mention that I had walked into what appeared to be Grandpa Brezeale’s work shop. It was not very large, maybe 12 feet by 16 feet, with a few tools laying around. Most appeared to be ready for the trash can.

Among them I found a ball-peen hammer with a broken handle, an old hand saw with gaps where teeth used to be and formerly used nails, along with some rusty wire. I would like to mention that back in Grandpa Brezeale’s day, nothing was thrown away. Nails especially were

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