"Let me show you a little trick."

 

There was always a large peg board over the back of the bench with a myriad of hooks and hangers, and Dad was very particular about the placement of the tools on the peg board. He never had to mark where each tool went, because the arrangement was the same in every house.  Whenever I would use any of them for a project, I was very careful to return them both cleaned and to their proper location.  Most of the time I did well.  Sometimes I had better things to do.
"Dennis," he'd say trying to look very stern, "Have you been working here?"

I'd slowly nod yes.

Dad would look me right in the eye and say, "I can't find my medium Phillips-head screw driver.  Do you know where it is?"
I'd go to the little pile of tools that I had left in disarray and hand it to him.  Then he'd lift me up onto the bench and together we would place each tool where it belonged.  When we were done he would say, "Learn to take care of your tools
and . . ."  

Here he would pause for me to finish.

". . . and your tools will take care of you."  I would say dutifully, while sneaking a glance to see if he was mad.  A smile would tweak the corners of his mouth, and I knew everything was alright.

In his younger days, Dad was the object of many double-takes because of his striking resemblance to Humphrey Bogart in size, in facial expressions and even down to the cigarettes dangling from his mouth.  Later, his receding hair line gave way to a wide forehead, and his wrinkles turned into laugh lines.  Dad's smile could light up a whole room.  His eyes would narrow and twinkle, and as a toothy grin invaded his face, all would orchestrate themselves into a declaration of delight that said, "I celebrate life!"

I remember spending countless hours either standing on the little stool that he kept there for me or sitting on the workbench watching, helping and learning secrets -- like how to restore a stretched and worn screw hole with glue and toothpicks, or how to salvage an old garden hose, or how to splice an electrical wire to be sure that adjoining strands would not touch and cause a short.

At the workbench, Dad would carefully examine some busted toy or household item that looked ready for the trash, push his glasses back up on his nose and scan the pegboard.  Then, after choosing just the right tool and tossing me a wink, he would say, "Let me show you a little trick."  He would go on to complete the task as he patiently answered my many questions:  "Why are you doing that, Daddy?  What does that tool do?"

Dad would ceremoniously spread out a large rag he kept under the bench.  Then he would take the lid off of the extra-large coffee can that held hundreds of screws, nuts and washers that he had scrounged and pour them out onto the rag.  Sometimes an item would require a screw or bolt to complete the repair.  Well, this was always one of my favorite parts.  We would search through the pile and set possible selections aside.  After making the final choice, Dad would take out the big horseshoe magnet and let me pretend I was a construction crane as I lifted, complete with sound effects, load after load of scrap iron into the hopper.

Dad had a wonderful ability to mix some life message in with the job at hand.  I remember the day he was working on an old, neglected tie rack.  He was gluing, sanding, staining and varnishing that battered thing, and I knew it would look like new after he was finished.  When I saw him rummaging through the glue box, I remembered that my toy car needed gluing.  

A few hours after gluing it,... 

Continue to Part 3 > > > 

 

    Copyright c 1991 by Dennis Volz 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 It's a Good Life !

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Email: Dennis@DennisVolzInsurance.com
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