As a young boy, the oldest of the children, I often found myself lingering around a project that my father was working during his day off. In the cold months, his projects were in the warm, company owned shop that was 6 miles away from our house. In the warmer months, dad typically crawled underneath a vehicle parked in our yard and tore something apart. I can still feel the warm sunshine, and remember the feel of the grass and weeds that grew in that work area before spring really kicked in. It is odd that you could feel so close to your father when he was completely preoccupied with something, and you are just hanging around, fiddling with things in his toolbox.
From under the vehicle, dad would shout out to me that he needed a certain size wrench, a screwdriver, a hammer or something else from that toolbox. After seeing my badly chosen selection come flying back out on to the grass in front of me, and hearing the reissue of the original command, I was incented to learn which tool was what. That learning process also made me slightly less eager to be around when my dad started arguing with hard, greasy metal parts, and I sometimes casually slipped away when the conversation got intense. I know that meant he crawled out to get his own tools, and that I made a lousy helper that day, but self-preservation wins out from time to time.
During those helper events, my dad would often need a washer, nut or bolt. Now these were the days when your local Home Depot did not exist, and hardware stores kept regular business hours. So, a Sunday project would have stopped cold were it not for grandma’s garage across the street. Grandma’s garage had been a work shop for a husband, three sons and at least one son-in-law. Only the youngest son and inquisitive grandsons were still around to venture into the garage.
In that garage was a wonderful collection of artifacts from farming, mechanics, welders and construction ventures. I spent many a happy day in that garage discovering things that had been long abandoned and were never used again by working men. Old goggles, hammers and who knows what became my own inspiration for adventures. In the northwest corner sat an old dark colored shipping trunk like you see coming off sea-crossing boats. To that chest, sitting in an unlit corner, I returned over and over on missions for my father.
From under a car, or a place he had wedged into, my dad would call out a request for something from the chest. “Go get me one of these”, he would say, or “Get me a hex nut to fit this bolt.” I would dutifully take the item that he held up, grab the flashlight, get the key to the garage and sprint across the road and through the ditch to the garage. Early on, it seemed a lot easier to find the requested item than it did in later years. I think we must have harvested most of the typical sizes, and later I would spend a long time combing through 5 inches of nuts, bolt, washers and other items I was unfamiliar with until I found what I needed. Always the familiar taste of rust accompanied these forays into the trunk.
Expediency was required lest I got chewed when I finally showed up, or worse yet was to have dad show up himself and start pawing for the item. Oddly enough, it never seemed to take him long to find what he needed. Yes, those were the days when I just expected that most of what you wanted for a project ought to be found right in your own workshop.
The number of times when mom needed to jump into the car and actually go buy something seemed pretty few. In later life when I worked at a hardware store, I gained a better appreciation for the poor wife whose husband sends her off to the store, saying “Go get me one of these.” I saw a lot of flustered wives come in, not having a clue what they were buying, and unable to answer even simple questions.
A treasure I possess is a can of nuts, bolts and washers I took home with me after my dad passed away. I don’t know if they are from the original trunk in the garage, but I pretend that some of them I have handled for fifty years. Last year I bought a nice plastic box with dividers in it, and separated bolts from nuts, and sorted longer bolts from shorter bolts. It seemed like a smart move at the time, but it just isn’t as much fun looking for a something now as it was when I used a flashlight, knelt down in front of the trunk, and used an old welding rod to dig through hundreds of small rusty parts. I still get that rusty taste in my nose and mouth every time I dig around for something, and I always have a flood of memories. But, the adventure is gone.
Today, I live in the country, and it is seldom handy for me to jump into the car and drive miles to get what I need. I certainly don’t want to send my poor wife on those mission trips. So, even with all of the stores around that cater to the needs of the do-it-yourselfer, I like to have a cache of things around just in case I need it. Now I have my own collection of stuff squirreled away, and it gives me a sense of security. If I need ‘one of these’ – I just might have it.
