Mudnjoy@AOL.COM on wed 6 sep 00
My Dad in his prime could build a house from the basement up, plumbing,
wiring carper laying, could paint a ceiling over carpet with bothering with
drop clothes. I could watch him and get paint on my face, hair and butt. He
encouraged me to work with him, I was a little monkey and could climb up,
down and over anything. I was small and wiry and could fit anywhere.
Dad gave me a black rubber handled hammer for my own, over the years my
hand and that hammer grew together, it's balance & heft felt like an
extension of my hand.
Years later Husband 2 and I were working together on a project and he picked
up my hammer and declared it a "bad" hammer.
"Ha" I replied "My father gave me that hammer! My Dad can build a house
from the basement up, plumbing, wiring carper laying, and paint a ceiling
over carpet with bothering with drop clothes, My father wouldn't own a bad
hammer" Later that year when Dad and I were reroofing my studio. He picked
up my hammer then asked to borrow another. "What, what's the matter with
that hammer you gave me that hammer?" "It's a piece of crap, why do you
think I gave it away.? As I said "My father wouldn't own a bad hammer"
Joy in Tucson with a hand that is forever ruined for a good hammer.
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