A couple years back my Dad decided to sell the family home. Mom had died two years before and it was too much for Dad to continue to do on his own, especially as he was getting older.

My sister and I went to Corner Brook to help Dad clear out the house and redistribute the lifetime of memories that were held there.

One thing Dad was insistent on my taking was his tools.

These were not the new shiny tools, but tools that went back to when he was a young man and even beyond; to when his father was a young man.

They had some rust in places, but they had been kept in working order for several generations. The stories connected with these tools could be a novel in itself.

I proudly display these beautiful pieces in my workshop and there they will stay until I am gone. I only hope that then someone in my family will see the history in these pieces and cherish them as much as I do.

Dad's Tools

I sit alone in my workshop so neat


Looking at the tools adorning the wall


Bright and shiny, new and rarely used


Hung on hooks so they won't fall



They hold few memories, too new to have


A history of use and wear


We live in a world of disposable things


No use to fix things, I'm aware



But proudly displayed, on shelves pure white


With a history so rich and defined


Are tools of my Dad and his Dad before


Tools I'm proud to say, are now mine



They don't shine, they're dull, some rusted


From years of hard work and toil


They're chipped and gouged, cracked and scratched


Some embedded with years old soil



Many were the first of their kind


Some don't even have proper names


For they were built to suit the job they did


But they are treasures just the same



Relics of a time when you could not buy


All the fancy bits to finish your home


So you used the tools, whatever wood you had


And you made it on your own



The sweat, the tears, the blood and toil


The stories that each piece still hold


Are passed, now to me, to cherish, to tell


Every one as precious as gold



I can only hope that years from now


When I am gone and a memory myself


That the tools will still be proudly displayed


And the stories passed on to someone else



April 28, 2013