Love Letters to My Tools

 

Dear Wheelbarrow,

Remember when I got you from my darling daughter as a Mother's Day present all those years ago? She told me to wait while she went to get you, so I stood on the beach in Santa Monica after the Code Pink peace action, where hundreds of us stood in a winding formation, and if you were a seagull or a spirit high above the world you would have seen Picasso's Mother and Child outlined by people in the sand. So I was standing there, waiting for my darling daughter, exhilarated from my day in the company of a bunch of peaceniks on Mother's Day, waiting for my Mother's Day present. What I wanted, really wanted, was a wheelbarrow. I wanted to take it with me to Oklahoma when I moved there to help me with the heavy stuff. And then, there you were, all shiny and red.

You're kind of like "My Man." You're handsome and strong. You can carry any damn thing. All I have to do is load your bucket, grab your strong handles and walk behind you while you do the heavy work of moving bricks, dirt, branches, lumber, boxes of stuff, potted plants, rocks for the drainage ditch for the Outdoor Shower, piles of books from the pickup, feed for the guineas, gravel for the driveway, and compost for the front yard. The wheel, maybe Man's most ingenious invention, is attached coolly to your front end, helping me gently roll over rocks and dirt and grass, up and down hills, around the pile of lumber that used to lie behind the shed. I actually love you, Wheelbarrow. You were my first important tool. You are my first love.

Dear Electric Drill,

My hero, son Eric, gave me my first electric drill. But alas, I lost its charger and kept it like a dysfunctional loved one in my tool drawer, hoping someday I would find that charger. Eric said to me when he brought it home to me, "MOM!! You NEED an electric drill!" He was so ardent in his declaration that I believed him. He was right.

Then years later, a guy at Lowes pointed you out when I asked what kind of drill I should buy to replace my beloved in the drawer. He said I couldn't go wrong, getting you. He was right. You're kind of muscular and heavy in my hand. I felt my wrist and arm muscles grow as I used you. At first you were hard for me to handle. Too much power. I had to slow down and feel your personality before I could really work with you. But after I learned your temperament and gentled you into action, you were amazing. You sang when you worked. You spun those screws into the wood so fast, that it took my breath away. What partners we were, you pushing metal into wood, me holding you perfectly as you did your job. You are my Beautiful Guy.

Dear Level,

You are honest and true. You make sense of the world. You are sanity in chaos. As I lift your straight fine body onto the boards or steel frame of my house, you tell me the truth about the way things are. Your bubble floats and shows the way toward perfection. There is something satisfying and just plain good about you. It doesn't take strength to use you. You are a tool of subtlety and discretion. You are my Truth.

Dear Screw,

My temperamental beauty. You are so finely made. I love your powerful head, your spiraled body, your sharp point. Your head accepts the Drill, but only if the Drill is perfectly in tune with you. Your sharp point bites the wood, turning your beautiful body down and down into the delicious plank. Being the perfectionist you are, you sometimes stand sideways in the wood, or spit Drill out if he's not correctly positioned, or fall from my fingers if I'm not thoughtful enough with you. Temperamental, yes, but after everything's said and done, YOU are the one who stays and endures, long after the other tools are gone. Like a great actress you fight with the director, but put on quite a show and stay to hold everything together in the end. Brava!

Dear Power Saw,

You terrify me. I have had nightmarish thoughts about you cutting off my hand, my fingers. You seem as though you have a blood lust. You voice screams as it cuts through wood, warning me that I could be next. I am scared to touch you. You are dangerous and beautiful. A bad boy. You make short shrift of what is put before you. You are the Freddy Krueger of tools. Careful, careful with Power Saw. He wants my blood. He's hungry. He won't think twice about chewing off whatever is in front of him.

Dear Hammer,

Simple and good. You aren't the brightest kid on the block, but you know your job. And you have LOTS of jobs. You hammer in nails, pull out nails, pound boards flat, straighten them in lines. I've used you as a paperweight, a marker, a lifter of boards, a digger of soil. You never object. You are happy to serve. Your solid sound is the most honest sound from all the tools. I love your shape, especially your head. You look like a tropical bird, or a cool guy with his hat on backwards. Your handle and your weight fit me, gracefully. We were made for each other.

Dear Measuring Tape,

How clever you are! I love the feel of your release when I grab your tab and pull. With a gentle pause, you know to stay, like a good dog. Your tab can grab anything and keep you straight as I read your numbers and make decisions. You give me information like a good lieutenant. You bend when you need to and stand straight if given half a chance. You reach higher than I can, bringing numbers down to earth.

Dear Sawhorses,

You hold the weight of the world on your shoulders, my Atlases. You never complain. You stand for hours, days, weeks, if need be. Not only do you not complain, but you love your work! I've never even seen you break a sweat under the heaviest of burdens. So solid. So dependable. I've used you to hold metal siding to create a shed to shield my lawnmower from the rain, to lay steel beams on for painting under the hot August sun, to be the table for the crazy Electric Saw. Imperturbable, stoic, kind. Thank you, my mighty friends.

Dear Garden Tool,

I don't even know your real name. I shall call you Jack of All Trades. Your hammer-like handle fits my hand. Your head, one side a small chisel pick, the other side a two pronged digger of soil. You are the most adaptable of all my tools. You have lifted single boards off mountains of lumber with your chisel head, you have pushed boards neatly together, you have used your prongs to space boards and bricks. I always take you with me when I garden but I've also used you over and over as the deck was built. You are my Right Hand Man, Jack.

Dear Clamp,

What a grip! You love holding stuff! With you, NEW tools can be invented, such as leveling devices. You wait patiently, hold wood together, so that it can be drilled. Your shape reminds me of a guy with a large mouth. What I like about you is that you can keep your mouth shut. I never knew what you could do until Annie showed me your talents. Upside down, sideways, inside, outside. You, Clamp, were made to go anywhere, do things I never imagined. You can be so many things! You are a Renaissance Man.

Dear Pitchfork,

I bought you in California, thinking you would help me with my gardening. So far I haven't used you much for that. But you have been irreplaceable as the tool that pries the clay apart, the tool that sneaks around stone and rock and then you TURN THE EARTH! A shovel couldn't do what you do. I stand on you with both feet and push your strong pointed prongs into the earth, like a god's fork, push and push into the hardest earth and split it, making Shovel's work an easy thing. You're a sharp guy, Pitchfork.

Dear Shovel,

You're like a heart with a handle. I used you to load gravel and compost into Wheelbarrow. I would count out each shovelful so that I wouldn't quit before the promised number I had made before the work began. It's not easy using you. I have to bend and push and lift and swing. But you give me the most exercise of all my tools. You keep me healthy. You are my heart.

To All My Tools,

I love you and cherish you. You have helped me build my house and my deck. You have helped with the driveway and the "yard." I couldn't have done it without you.

No really. I mean it.

Love,
Donna