Memories of Father, as Close as the Tools That Kept Home Together
My favorite hammer is missing. In a frenzy, I empty my rusty toolbox, various kitchen drawers and dig deep inside the broom closet, but nada. I now regret not putting it away after having used it.
El martillo, a framing hammer with a serrated top, is very dear to me. It once belonged to my father, a man who worked well with his hands and not only built our house room by room, the white picket fence that was his pride and joy, but also the rustic kitchen table where each Saturday my mother filled a zinc tub with warm water to bathe us kids.
My affectation for work tools goes back to childhood. As a kid, I liked to dawdle in my dad’s garage to smell and touch the different tools mi papa used to keep our home together.
When not hauling wood, he fixed tilting chairs, worn bedsprings and made kitchen shelves to my mother’s specifications. He once dismantled a wooden crate to make a bench swing for my brother and me, then hung it from the tall eucalyptus tree in our backyard, from which we swung until dizzy.
Always, when done with a chore, my dad cleaned and oiled each item, then stored it in its proper place. If my brothers borrowed his equipment and forgot to clean it, they got a scolding but never a scruffing. As adults they emulate our papa’s fetish with clean tools--and order.
To Mexican immigrants like my father, tools were worth their weight in gold. The ability to use a saw or drill could guarantee gainful employment and take them away from backbreaking jobs--digging ditches, harvesting potatoes--that paid a meager wage. More importantly, having the correct herramientas (tools) for home repairs helped our parents save the little money they had. The family car or truck could be kept running, the outhouse secured so it would not tilt, and the fences that made for good neighbors kept standing.
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I have a thing about screwdrivers; I own at least 10 different kinds. My collection began with an old wooden screwdriver found at the San Fernando flea market. It was a hot Saturday. I munched on pan dulce and sipped coffee, then walked around. Just then I spotted the “antiques†sign atop a tent where an elderly man was selling what looked like junk: corroded handsaws, pipe cutters, pliers, rusty sockets and wrenches.
I was about to leave when I spied the old-fashioned destornillador--a screwdriver with a wooden handle, just like the one my father once owned. It sold for a dollar. I liked its oily smell; it felt snug in my hand. It brought back memories of my father. I paid, then once at home polished the handle until it shone and set it next to a vase full of flowers.
Soon after I found a ball-peen hammer at a yard sale; it had a round top and the handle was overlaid in blue leather. It looked just like that in my dad’s garage. It too cost one dollar.
As did my father, I put my tools to good use. I use the screwdriver to pry open lids, scrape mud off my work boots and to tighten loose screws. The ball-peen hammer serves to help stake my favorite pepper trees and keep them from toppling over. Often I use it to crack walnuts. When done, I do as did my father: I clean, oil and store it in its proper place.
