No Time for Tools

I have a lot of tools, many of which I have never used, will never use, and have no intention of ever using. I’ve just accumulated them over the years. I don’t know where half of them came from. They clutter up my utility closet, my attic, my shed, and my laundry area. A few of them got so rusty that I had to throw them out.

I’m not talking about power tools here. I should be clear on that. Those things scare me. The potential for bodily harm is too high. I do have electric hedge trimmers and a lawnmower, but that’s it. That’s where my power tools begin and end. I used my hedge trimmers once a year for quite a while, but I kept cutting through the cord, so I’ve turned that task over to someone else. The rest of my tools require varying degrees of skill and upper body strength, neither of which I possess in adequate amounts to successfully complete most jobs. This does not, however, totally discourage me. I do take a crack at something once in a while.

My success rate is nothing to brag about, but in thinking back over the jobs/repairs/improvements I have attempted over the years, there is one that stands out. It was a task that was forced upon me, and one that I began with zero confidence. My father had banged a huge hole in my bathroom wall where he then installed some recessed cupboards, and he did a nice job of it. By the time he was done, everything was firmly in place and lined up nicely. The problem was the very large messy opening that surrounded it like a huge gaping wound. I thought he was going to fix that, too, but he nonchalantly handed me a box of powdered plaster mix and some sort of smoothing tool. Then he packed up his gear and left. I had a feeling he thought it was something any fool could do. I was in trouble.

I chose not to put it off. I picked up the box and read the instructions. I mixed the powder and water in the appropriate quantities, began to apply it, and immediately ran into a problem. The stuff dried in a heartbeat. I had to continually mix up new batches and work at the speed of light. I fumbled and bumbled and stressed my way through it, but gosh by golly by the time I done, it looked pretty good. I could hardly believe it.

It is now and will always be an achievement that is unmatched in my long and storied history of attempted repairs. I did reluctantly return that particular tool, which I believe is called a trowel, to my dad. He wanted it back, and I guess that was for the best. If I’d been allowed to keep it, I would have been tempted to have it bronzed, and how stupid would that have looked on my mantle? Very, but I would’ve put it there anyway.