It has been such a long time since I last posted to this blog. My Dad's condition is more stable than I recall in the past. When I see him he knows me and remembers parts of the past.
I have been going through my Dad's stuff at his house looking for something. Perhaps a key to the past. I don't know. I have taken a few items that I really don't need. Things that my Dad loved.
As I have been looking though his stuff I keep realizing how my Dad was a keeper of the past. He was infatuated with history and a certain type of object it produces. At first appearance everything is in a state of mayhem. And perhaps, most curious of all are the many empty boxes. Mostly metal and some wood, they are usually at the lowest levels, on the floor. Upon them are stacked more boxes and finally just a pile of objects, seemingly random objects. It is impossible not to anticipate a treasure of some sort down below the stack and inside the box. But as you remove stack upon stack and finally reveal a box top and open the lid so often they are empty of anything except a dull and musty air.
Occasionally there has been an exception. Usually a box full of a certain tool or collectible, like a box or bucket full of screwdrivers or hammers or hatchets or wet-stones or brass door knockers or fishing gear or bullets or thimbles or sockets for a ratchet or wire or drill bits or nails or watches or oar locks bit braces or or what ever he chose to collect from the vast yard sales he attended.
I have been spending much time missing my Dad. As I have sorted through his stuff I often imagine him with me. Saying, Kev, you want that don't you? Take it! Take it! But I don't have a need for the abundance of objects he collected and neither does my sister. This stuff was his passion and fascination. And he sold only on the rarest of occasions, when he thought he was getting top dollar. He made it clear many times that this would by my sister's and my legacy.
I spent enough time with my Dad to know what he would consider valuable. He loved names and dates stamped into a part of a tool. He loved older tools that had hammer marks from tooling. He also loved tools from the industrial revolution. He didn't like plastic, except as a practical matter. He would constantly show up at my place of work with a hook or hammer and pass it to me. He would ask, “Can you read that, Kev?”
As time went on it was unlikely that I could. My eyes certainly haven't improved and the markings seemed to get smaller over the years. Patina was also important. He had learned early on that sanding, buffing, scraping was a no no. But as I have picked up many of his tools I can see where he lightly abraded around the manufacturer’s name and patent dates. This always causes me to raise an eyebrow which turns into a smile.
My Dad coveted most of his collection. Rarely did he give me something out right. And my sister has told me it was the same with her. When I would ask for something in particular it would take on an even greater value to him. I am talking about grinders, chisels, an axe. Not much really. I never had a strong interest in most of his things. I was interested mostly because he was interested.
Some of the tools he collected adapt easily to they type of work I do. Part of my business is making carved signs for homes and businesses. My Dad had a keen eye for chisels. And he did give me a set of superb carving chisels many years ago. And with a few other tools I have incorporated into my collection from his I do take particular pleasure in using something he acquired because he liked it. A hammer, a rasp, a wet-stone somehow makes an immediate connection to my Dad. I find myself holding his tool with more care and easily find content in the many thoughts evoked.
