At some point it will happen to every one of us. The tools are still willing but the flesh is not. What happens then? Maybe a family fight over their value, maybe a smooth transition of a predetermined person, or maybe they just sit. They sit in the darkness of an abandoned factory basement, forgotten by the world and sealed in a dank tomb. Such was the case when my father called me a couple of weeks ago to inform me of an interesting windfall.
The owner/operator of a small, and we mean small, auto repair shop, located in a makeshift bay situated in the basement of an ancient, wood framed, factory building had suddenly dropped dead and the owner of the building was looking to have his “junk” removed from the bay.
Knowing my father had a trailer, the building owner asked if he would haul off the cars inside the shop to the scrap yard. There was an early 1980s Cadillac and an import from the early 1990s taking up space in the cramped, musty shop. With the cars out, all of the tools this man had amassed over his years as a mechanic remained.
The building owner, viewing all this stuff as a nuisance told my dad to take it all. Thankfully he called me and we’ll soon be sorting through the roll-away tool boxes, piles of hammers, clamps, gauges, books, and anything else we can find of use. The dingy fridge full of Samuel Adams beer, while enticing, is probably better left for the dump, as it is all moldy and gross inside.
Had the owner of this building not known my father, chances are everything would end up in a dumpster, which to me is crime. Tools are the very foundation of being a gearhead. Even if you are no good with them, tools are an integral part of being a “do-er”. The fact that they’re being considered junk to discard by the owner of this building is a sad commentary on the greater mentality of the world these days.
On the one hand I am excited to add tools to my box at home. They’ll help me work on Goliath and tackle jobs I may have struggled with before. There is a definite tinge of strangeness holding onto somehting that belonged to a dead man I never knew. I wonder if he liked what he was doing in that darkly lit garage with the beer cooler? Was he struggling just to get by? Did he grip that wrench with enthusiasm or dread? Were the tools a key to happiness or shackles to a job or profession he was tired of?
I’d have to think that he’d be happy to see them saved and used, however ham-fistedly by myself and my dad (not ham-fistedly). I hope that one day when I’m old and gray that I’ll hand my tools to my sons. They are already an important part of lots of stuff we do together and I’d love to think that when they hold that cold steel in their hands as grown men that they remembered me and the days when a 5/16th wrench slipped easily over their thumbs.
The man with the dingy little repair shop is dead but his tools will live, and probably for generations.
What about yours?
