Week 11: Tools

My dad's always been the craftsman type. One of my earliest memories of my father is of him climbing up a ladder to the roof of our old trailer, tool belt slung low accost his hips, and screws jingling down the aluminum structure with each step. I can also remember him yelling at me to get back, afraid I'd lose an eye or hurt myself in some other indirect way of his actions, but that was his way: gruff and masculine in a way only a Maine carpenter could be.

I also remember going through his tools as a kid, more out of curiosity than anything else. Each had it's place in either his tool belt or box they were all battered and well used, a sign of the trade, but they all had their places. I actually got in trouble a few times for putting things where they didn't belong, especially that three eighths wrench.

This was, of course, before my folks split up.

Now that we're older we've done several projects together, the tools still have the same worn and battered look they've always had and he's acquired more than a few since my early years. Though as we move through the basement of his house to work on a cover to an aquarium I've noticed there's less order, fewer tool boxes. The shelves are lined with haphazardly placed instruments of construction and their various accoutrements. Some of them aren't even in the house he's told me, but scattered about several work sites he's currently attending.

I just shake my head in wonder and feel lucky that we've found a suitable chop saw for the job.