Back Home by Chris Hardie
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There is nothing predictable about memories, which are sometimes as harsh as the strike of the hammer on the anvil and the next moment as soft as puffy clouds in the blue summer sky.
I’ve forgotten much more than I remember, which will not improve as I age, but every so often the gate that holds back my recollections opens up and they flood my mind.
Such was the case the day after the third anniversary of my father’s death when I finally got around to cleaning the garage of my parent’s former house. It was exactly one year after my mother moved from the home, which has been put up for sale.
The rest of the house had been sorted and cleaned, but the garage was the last. It’s not that I lack things to do, but perhaps my reason for delay was because it was the final domain of my father. Maybe deep down I felt like it was my last connection to him.
Bit by bit, object by object, tool by tool, I began to sort. There was never any organizational system when it pertained to Dad and his tools – a trait I unfortunately inherited. There were other items stored in the cabinets and here are the ones that captured Dad in many ways.
Deer antlers: On the top of a storage cupboard were nine pairs of deer antlers from over the years. Dad loved hunting and saved his antlers. I smiled when I discovered that sometime a few years ago when he kept the garage door open all the time a bird had built a nest on the bottom side of one rack.
Pliers: Dad always carried pliers and after wearing out a few pockets, he opted for a leather holster he wore on his belt. The pliers were used for everything from pounding nails, fixing stanchions or even pulling a loose tooth if I complained (which I learned not to do after one or two times).
Tape measure: The second of his three tools that he always carried – along with a pocket knife – was a small tape measure. He never needed it for larger measurements – he knew the length of his strike and would just walk it off.
Ruler: This small metal measurer reminded me of him because it was a promotion for Sunbeam bread. Dad actually despised the bread – he hated the soft consistency – so he used the name for any kind of bread that he hated.
Baseball: Dad loved baseball. He played for local farm teams and was one heckuva pitcher. During high school he worked on his uncle’s farm during the day and then would play baseball at night. He was a fan of the Milwaukee Braves and later the Brewers. I’ve written a story about how my brother Kevin and I lost his treasured baseball that he once caught at a Braves game.
Ax: This ax was used for butchering chickens. Dad would cut off the heads on a stump, I would dip them in hot water and pluck and Mom would eviscerate. It was a hot and smelly job, but the meat was delicious.
Level: There were several antique levels in the garage. Dad’s father was a skilled carpenter. Dad was not. He was extremely capable, but never had the patience for the fine finish work. He was definitely from the “it’s good enough” school of carpentry.
Christmas tree stand: Some years Dad would harvest Christmas trees the old-fashioned way by going out into his woods and finding a fir tree that would barely fit through the front door, much less into a tree holder. We had some of the more memorable – and ugly – trees.
A few hours later and the job was done. I saved many of the tools – and the deer antlers – but there was plenty to throw away too. Objects and possessions are sometimes important, but it’s the memories that are the true treasures.
Chris Hardie spent more than 30 years as a reporter, editor
