I started messin' with wood over a half-century ago, being introduced to it in the same way many of you have; through my old man. To say that our relationship was "rocky" over the years would be the epitome of the understatement, but tools and wood were always our constant.
My old man found pure joy in the woodworking processes. Fitting two pieces of wood together with spectacular precision was always his goal, no matter how simple or complex the joint. For him, a tool was something to respect, but not for the tool itself, but for what he could achieve with it. All he saw in a tool was its function, and he didn't give a rat's ass about its form.
For me, it was always the opposite. When I look at a tool, I see its form first, then assess its ability to function. As with most things in my life; I could care less about the destination as I am too busy enjoying getting there.
The differences in my old man's and my ideologies can be seen in our tool collections. At the end of his career, the old bugger sold me his collection, which consisted of about 60-odd basic hand tools (there is a list of them on this blog somewhere). My collection is now approaching 400 different tools, and while I doubt I will ever put the vast majority of them to use, whenever the thought of getting rid of them comes up, I suddenly turn into Charlton Heston and start mumbling about cold dead hands.
My last post was over a month ago, and it was nothing more than a list of tools I though I should part with. As things turned out, it was like sending out invitations to a party and having no-one show up. I sold one of the fourteen I had listed, and thinking about it now, I'm not exactly upset about the results.
A few days after posting that list I had a rather bizarre situation arise. I had finished doing a little woodworking and was putting away my tools when I was attacked by a drill. I hadn't even used this drill that day. It was just sitting out on the cabinet because I really don't have a proper storage place for it. It is a Ryobi 18 volt combo screw gun and drill, and for some reason, it decided to just jump off the cabinet and stab me.
I whipped up a little animation to show you what happened...
While it doesn't seem to be a big deal, here is what my ankle looked like twenty days later...
You can see the hole to the left of the ankle bone where the drill bit entered, penetrating about a half inch and nicking the bone in the process. It took two weeks before I was able to walk on it again, and was as painful as a son-of-a-bitch.
I'm starting to get a complex regarding drills, given all the nonsense I have been through with them over this past two years.
Being an orphan I never had the experience of working wood with my father or any other male figure. I learned to do it on my own by trial and error (mostly error). I guess the grass isn't always greener on the other side of the fence.
Like the song says, "Don't let the green grass fool you". I will tell you, though, your comment did bring to mind that old adage that says, "I felt terrible because I had no shoes until I saw someone who had no feet".ReplyDelete
As I seem to be on a phrase kick this morning, Oscar Wilde once said, "Children begin by loving their parents; after a time they judge them; rarely, if ever, do they forgive them."
I guess I am one of those rare ones Oscar was talking about. Eventually, I accepted my old man for who he was, as he did me, we forgave each other and I went back to loving him again. While I may be rare, I am also damned lucky.
Mitchell — ouch! I hope there's no permanent damage.ReplyDelete
If it happened to me, I'd smash that drill with a sledge.
Joe, I was thinking about doing some sever damage to the drill, but I was too busy bleeding all over the place to act. :o)ReplyDelete
The only things permanent are the two scars; the one on my ankle caused by the drill and the other on my pride for being stupid enough to leave the thing out with a bit in it.