Thor's Hammer - Reloading Edition
We all have tools we use more than others. Some collections are extensive, some are just a couple simple items. I had a roommate briefly a while back, a female friend who needed a place to stay between selling one home and closing on the smaller one in a neighboring state she bought for retirement.. When she left, she handed me a copy paper box and said "this is every tool you will ever need". It contained some nails, and hooks to hang pictures, a hammer, needle nose pliers, two types of screwdrivers, WD40 and duck tape. Actually, that would cover most things. WD 40 if it' tight, duct tape if it's loose.
I keep it at the crash pad, that and some reloading supplies for the garage there in case I get bored. Since it's a rental, there's little maintenance for me to do.
My house and shop are filled with old tools, the garage, the work bench actually used for work. There's a bit more than just the hammer and screwdriver. There's a belt sander. When hand sanding is not enough, this handy little electric job can turn the most minor touch up jobs into a complete home finishing project as quick as you can say, a la' George Jetson, "Jane - STOP this crazy thing". There are several saws, the Congress of tools, it starts with a good idea and a straight course, then turns every which way due to lack of direction and a tendency to lean to the Left, ending up with something that doesn't even begin to look like the original plan. And of course, lots of vice grips, that make excellent branding tools when heated up during a welding project.
I remember Dad being out in his workspace on the weekends, the sound of a saw, the beat of a hammer, fixing up things to make our lives more secure. Dad could craft or fix anything that was made out of a tree, raising his hammer above someone old and weathered like a new flag above a vanquished fortress.
I used to just and watch him, happy just to be in his company while Mom was busy with ironing or working on her crafts. My own weekly chores done, I'd be quiet, looking at the light coming in from the single garage windows, glints and glares upon whirring metal, the sunlight like sparks upon my Dad's hands as they worked.
One day Dad said "let me show you how to do something" and I knew better to question him, but simply watched and learned.
To Dad I was always going to be "his little girl" but he understood my inquisitive mind, even then. He was also, mindfully aware of his own mortality, determined that when he was no longer there to protect me, I would have the mindset to put up my tools and save myself.
So I learned about safely handling tools and what was used for what purpose. We built our own little things, a birdhouse, some soap box derby cars (in our day we built them ourselves, rather than our Dad's building them with adult skills and cheat sheets so the kids could win with the most minimal of personal effort). Once we took two very large sheets of plywood, sanding them and painting them green. Topping some saw horses we now had a base for our Lionel trains that took over the garage on the weekends, working together out in the garage as if our forms were joined by some mechanical arm. We'd work until my arms ached, fading light drowsing on the floor like a drop cloth, slowed down by fatigue but still motion, still inevitable.
Few, it seems, know how to build anything any more, or take the time to craft. We go to a store and buy disposable things made of often inferior material, to be cast aside before the next generation is even asking to borrow the car. Newness is often prized above quality, and pristine and perfect, more valued then something you can stake your life and heart on, even it if has a few dings.
I know people that do not know how to can, or store food long term, treat water, fix a pump, build a fire without a lighter, sew up a wound, or repair something worth repairing. They are one paycheck away from going to bed hungry but for government handouts, but have multiple cars in the garage and two large TV's. People bred with a "gimme" mindset and a grocery store on the corner, likely to be frozen inertia when things go south as they wait for someone to save them. And they call some of us "dumb redhecks". We'll be around a lot longer than those that live off of credit, someone else's cash and an attitude that the world owes them something, which is NOT a mindset which will put food on the table if the grocery store is empty and the power is out.
Fate and the vagrancy of human egos have set a warning in the sky that rises up like smoke for those of us who watch history. Those of us out here where the land is flat and the grain is dying have seen it, and we gather in our grain and we polish our protections and we look at our future with strength from within.
So I continue to learn, small skills, a little bit at a time for as time thunders past, into the dusk, there is no telling when I will need to use them, to not just make my life easier, or to restore a piece of old furniture, becoming part of its history. but simply to survive. I learned about choice and I learned about trust. I learned that it's not just finding something strong enough to embrace your own strength, it's finding something honest enough to earn it.
It's hard work, the work we do that protect and provision and provide for ourselves and our loved ones.. There are fractured attempts and splinters, cuts and sharp edges and sharp judgments. But it's rewarding work. For I enjoy such things, pulling cabinetry out of the wall, taking tools and making them do what I needed, the sweat on my forehead, reaching my mouth, tasting of who I am, someone who's worked hard for everything she's got. Someone who will raise some sweat to keep it; someone who can spill blood to protect it.
I learned that on that bathroom project, where I worked late into the nights alone too many nights, putting whacked fingers to my lips, tasting air and life and blood. I used my brain, I used old manuals of instructions, I used my Dad's words. Yes I was alone, using leverage to swing the tools, but at times it seemed like there were two of us, the tools and I, working side by side like old friends who can guess each others moves.
The tools I have are old and precious to me, some given by friends, some from home. Tools my Dad used to craft the fence around the house, the detailed and geometrically perfect cabinets in the garage, Tools that have stood the test of time, held by three generations, tempered by fire and heat to be strong under stress, and having enough flexibility to get out of corners and swing freely as needs arise. Just as we were raised to do.
For, like my Dad, I love the look and smell of the shop. To some that work space is simply a noisy, sometimes dirty place where one can either store stuff, or close the door to. . To me it's the houses most expressive feature, the tools of which measure the depth of its owners true nature, the things crafted there, the design by which one perceives their life.
On the wall there are tools, so many tools, that press upon your brain like whispered words, telling you their stories, of old pasts and new eternities, of what they have done, what they can do. Some people pick up such a tool, and it's the same feeling they get when they pick up a firearm. Uncomfortable, cold, a necessity perhaps, or rather something to be discarded as soon as possible. To others, like myself, when they pick up such tools, it is much more, that which presses in your hand a weighted pressure, the heaviness of responsibility, the firmness of purpose.
On some days, there in that place, one's hands join in sensual dance with those hardened instruments, transforming rough materials by mind and imagination into some wonderful creation warped out of all experience. On the floor lay bits of wood, not spent like ammo, or consumed like fire, but expended into something that serves a use, a purpose, if only beauty. On others, you simply end up with a new door stop. sacrifice either day for one spent in front of a television.
The skills, involved, like anything of value, take time to learn, take patience. If you are lucky, you had parents that passed those skills on to you. If not, there are ways to learn. There will be mistakes, some hopefully no more than a misplaced hammered blow, the hand curling up in pain like a leaf tossed upon a fire, perhaps a piece of wood or metal ruined due to your inattention or inexperience.
There will be those projects where a friend or family member comes in and says, without thinking "is it supposed to look like that?" But then comes that day, when with the swing of that hammer or that hand on the lathe, timidity and and inexperience fall from your hands and what you can make, what you can do, is not only recognizable in form, but serves a purpose, one that's unique to your life.
I remember Dad being out in his workspace on the weekends, the sound of a saw, the beat of a hammer, fixing up things to make our lives more secure. Dad could craft or fix anything that was made out of a tree, raising his hammer above someone old and weathered like a new flag above a vanquished fortress.I used to just and watch him, happy just to be in his company while Mom was busy with ironing or working on her crafts. My own weekly chores done, I'd be quiet, looking at the light coming in from the single garage windows, glints and glares upon whirring metal, the sunlight like sparks upon my Dad's hands as they worked.
One day Dad said "let me show you how to do something" and I knew better to question him, but simply watched and learned.To Dad I was always going to be "his little girl" but he understood my inquisitive mind, even then. He was also, mindfully aware of his own mortality, determined that when he was no longer there to protect me, I would have the mindset to put up my tools and save myself.
So I learned about safely handling tools and what was used for what purpose. We built our own little things, a birdhouse, some soap box derby cars (in our day we built them ourselves, rather than our Dad's building them with adult skills and cheat sheets so the kids could win with the most minimal of personal effort). Once we took two very large sheets of plywood, sanding them and painting them green. Topping some saw horses we now had a base for our Lionel trains that took over the garage on the weekends, working together out in the garage as if our forms were joined by some mechanical arm. We'd work until my arms ached, fading light drowsing on the floor like a drop cloth, slowed down by fatigue but still motion, still inevitable.Few, it seems, know how to build anything any more, or take the time to craft. We go to a store and buy disposable things made of often inferior material, to be cast aside before the next generation is even asking to borrow the car. Newness is often prized above quality, and pristine and perfect, more valued then something you can stake your life and heart on, even it if has a few dings.
I know people that do not know how to can, or store food long term, treat water, fix a pump, build a fire without a lighter, sew up a wound, or repair something worth repairing. They are one paycheck away from going to bed hungry but for government handouts, but have multiple cars in the garage and two large TV's. People bred with a "gimme" mindset and a grocery store on the corner, likely to be frozen inertia when things go south as they wait for someone to save them. And they call some of us "dumb redhecks". We'll be around a lot longer than those that live off of credit, someone else's cash and an attitude that the world owes them something, which is NOT a mindset which will put food on the table if the grocery store is empty and the power is out.Fate and the vagrancy of human egos have set a warning in the sky that rises up like smoke for those of us who watch history. Those of us out here where the land is flat and the grain is dying have seen it, and we gather in our grain and we polish our protections and we look at our future with strength from within.
So I continue to learn, small skills, a little bit at a time for as time thunders past, into the dusk, there is no telling when I will need to use them, to not just make my life easier, or to restore a piece of old furniture, becoming part of its history. but simply to survive. I learned about choice and I learned about trust. I learned that it's not just finding something strong enough to embrace your own strength, it's finding something honest enough to earn it.It's hard work, the work we do that protect and provision and provide for ourselves and our loved ones.. There are fractured attempts and splinters, cuts and sharp edges and sharp judgments. But it's rewarding work. For I enjoy such things, pulling cabinetry out of the wall, taking tools and making them do what I needed, the sweat on my forehead, reaching my mouth, tasting of who I am, someone who's worked hard for everything she's got. Someone who will raise some sweat to keep it; someone who can spill blood to protect it.
I learned that on that bathroom project, where I worked late into the nights alone too many nights, putting whacked fingers to my lips, tasting air and life and blood. I used my brain, I used old manuals of instructions, I used my Dad's words. Yes I was alone, using leverage to swing the tools, but at times it seemed like there were two of us, the tools and I, working side by side like old friends who can guess each others moves.
The tools I have are old and precious to me, some given by friends, some from home. Tools my Dad used to craft the fence around the house, the detailed and geometrically perfect cabinets in the garage, Tools that have stood the test of time, held by three generations, tempered by fire and heat to be strong under stress, and having enough flexibility to get out of corners and swing freely as needs arise. Just as we were raised to do.For, like my Dad, I love the look and smell of the shop. To some that work space is simply a noisy, sometimes dirty place where one can either store stuff, or close the door to. . To me it's the houses most expressive feature, the tools of which measure the depth of its owners true nature, the things crafted there, the design by which one perceives their life.
On the wall there are tools, so many tools, that press upon your brain like whispered words, telling you their stories, of old pasts and new eternities, of what they have done, what they can do. Some people pick up such a tool, and it's the same feeling they get when they pick up a firearm. Uncomfortable, cold, a necessity perhaps, or rather something to be discarded as soon as possible. To others, like myself, when they pick up such tools, it is much more, that which presses in your hand a weighted pressure, the heaviness of responsibility, the firmness of purpose.On some days, there in that place, one's hands join in sensual dance with those hardened instruments, transforming rough materials by mind and imagination into some wonderful creation warped out of all experience. On the floor lay bits of wood, not spent like ammo, or consumed like fire, but expended into something that serves a use, a purpose, if only beauty. On others, you simply end up with a new door stop. sacrifice either day for one spent in front of a television.
There will be those projects where a friend or family member comes in and says, without thinking "is it supposed to look like that?" But then comes that day, when with the swing of that hammer or that hand on the lathe, timidity and and inexperience fall from your hands and what you can make, what you can do, is not only recognizable in form, but serves a purpose, one that's unique to your life.
I was lucky in that I had someone to teach me, not just a hammer and a screwdriver, but the first tool of which I was given responsibility for as I came of age, a firearm. So many days where we would go out and practice, the responsibilities, the rules of safety, drilled into us so they became second nature, the weight of what we held in our hand, not a toy, not a source of entertainment, but a TOOL. We shot until our arms ached and the light veiled the range in hazy hush. Even then, worn out from the day,we handed the guns back carefully, with deep and somnolent reluctance.I thought about that as I recently left the pistol range for a walk to the truck, the urgent beating of my heart timed with the slap of the gun bag against my hip as I covered the distance across the now empty parking lot. My weapon, so much different than my first, yet still a paladin of equity, a fighter for justice.
I walk with that steady gait that is both aim and purpose, being free with that singular carrying of arms that abrogates both timidity and hesitation. It's a stride borne of training and practice so as to relegate fear to a place far away. I may sometimes walk alone, but I am safe. I am safe because someone loved me enough to give me the tools to be confident, to protect. We can ask for nothing better.
