An Old Set of Wrenches

Some things are simply irreplaceable.

It’s funny how something so innocuous as a set of wrenches can mean so much. Of all my father’s worldly possessions, his old wrenches mean more to me than any other possession I have inherited of his.

I would be devasted if something were to happen to them. When I come to the cottage, I bring them. When I go home, I bring them. As unfounded as it seems, if someone were to break in to our residence and steal those wrenches, I would be devastated.

Logic tells me that of all my tools, a 80 year old set of wrenches would be the last thing of interest.

Why these wrenches?

Well they are not simply wrenches to me. They represent large, gnarled, rugged hands, often stained in grease, always dirty and often pock marked with scratches, scars and bruises.

They represent the hands of a man that held me as a baby, admonished me as a teenager and guided me as a man. They represent the sometimes difficult path he and mom had to traverse to raise a family and provide all the essentials to my sister and I, to prosper as adults.

Dad literally started with a few dollars in his pocket, eventually leading to a custom trucking business (with a little help from his Brother-in-Law Lyle Grant), bought a combine and expanded his business by doing custom combining for local grain farmers, and finally was able to buy a tobacco farm, where he was a successful albeit tough, man of the land.

“Waste not, want not”, “a penny saved is a penny earned”, and “save for a rainy day”, were his mantra and passed down, and reluctantly received by his children. Though I have in turn passed this sage advice to my own kids – also received reluctantly.

At some point in my early years, he got the idea to make a wrench carrying case out of deer hide. Apparently it was a good idea, as that case is still intact today.

Righty, Tighty – Lefty, Loosey!

I have used these wrenches countless times, and am often reminded of dad’s gnarled and scarred hands, when I pull too hard and the wrench slips, causing my hand to smash against an immovable object.

“If you ain’t bleeding, you ain’t trying”, is my mantra.

You were taken way to early Dad, but your memory lives on through a simple set of wrenches.

I wouldn’t part with them for anything!