Popular Woodworking 2001-12 № 125, страница 65

Out of the Woodwork

The Inheritance

When it comes to our dearly departed woodworking relatives and their tools, my family has a system that Darwin could write a book about.

We are all woodworkers — some of us are of the powered variety, others demand that their equipment be meat-driven. But, in the final analysis we all need tools. The only question that remains is, how do you go about getting them? While some spend hours perusing the local hardware emporium, others burn endless Saturdays at every swap meet, garage sale and dog fight in their state to find a piece of equipment at "just the right price."

This not withstanding, no tool in our shop is as treasured as one we have inherited from a respected craftsman.

I have no doubt your family has its own traditions and techniques for passing on cherished heirlooms... and I'm sure they're good ones. But, in my family, after years of evolution, we have devised an approach that can only be described as... unique.

We call it, "The Best Man Principle."

The title alone evokes visions of our elder craftsmen sitting in a darkened star chamber adjudicating who among the surviving family members is the most worthy. However, this is not entirely accurate.

Recently, "The Best Man" has been the one who can outwit, outsmart or overpower (usually the latter) the other contenders and haul off as much of the "Loved One's" stuff as he can before the remaining relatives get their shotguns loaded.

For the past 30 years, my Uncle Bill had been the undisputed King of the Best Men. He wasn't the biggest or the meanest; his power lay in his ability to sense when the hour glass was running out on another, better-equipped family member. In the event that the unthinkable did happen, he was always the first on the scene to console the widow and help her avoid the unpleasant wrestling matches associated with settling the departed's woodworking estate.

As you might imagine, there comes a time in every man's life when he has to lay down his cards for the last time. And a few

years back, Old Bill was forced to fold his hand.

All of us knew that Bill had untold booty tucked away in his underground workshop. At last count, there were three jointers, half a dozen stationary drill presses and enough edged hand tools to shave Colorado flat without stopping to resharpen. Of course, this was all the stuff of legend since Bill wouldn't let so much as a cricket into the basement.

Out of decency, we knew we had to wait until after the wake to descend on the treasure trove of our forefather's tools.

So we all waited and grew edgier as the three long days before the funeral expired and the evening of the wake was upon us. We arrived early, in somber nervousness and then we waited some more. In a stroke of genius, Aunt Juanita had locked the doors to the basement.

It was around 10 p.m. when she unlocked the basement. I know because I was looking at my watch when I felt my wife's hand wrap around my wrist.

"You should go over and talk to her...."

Helga's grip tightened. Although she was seven months pregnant with our second child, she was still very agile. I knew that if I didn' t comply, her next step would be to slam me on the floor and put me in a "half-Nelson."

I tightened my necktie and did the right thing... under duress. Now, it would be fair to say that my Aunt Juanita liked to talk... a lot. We sat quietly as she spoke... at length... about everything. In honesty I must admit, tears welled up in my eyes — particularly at the sound of three pickup trucks, a mini-van and (if I'm not mistaken) a forklift pulling down the driveway and into the workshop only to lurch away moments later under a heavy burden.

It wasn't until around midnight that

Juanita had cleansed her system. By then, the rest of my family (the better men) had returned from downstairs. I moved tentatively toward the basement door, only to meet the discouraging glance of my cousin Mike, as he shook his head solemnly.

It was over.

Well, it goes without saying that the ride home with Helga was a long, quiet one. Oh sure, she was right. But we're talking about a family tradition here. I fumed in silence.

Some 20 minutes later, she finally broke the silence to say, "Juanita said to give these to you." And with that she shoved a folded grocery bag in my lap.

For a brief moment I felt dirty... this was a clear violation of a long-standing principle. This feeling was short lived and I had recovered completely by the time the paper bag was unfolded.

Two Estwing hammers: a framer and a tack. They had been my own Old Man's.

I don't want to go into too much detail here... Suffice it to say that I had to pull off the road and let my wife drive. Some surface rust would later have to be removed from the hammers.

Oh, I know two hammers ain't much. But, it is something and they are special. Besides, I'm staying in good shape; I'll have another crack at the big stuff. PW

Walt Akers is eating right and exercising regularly in Seaford, Virginia.

2 Popular Woodworking December 2001