Hammer and Nails

“Hold the handle near the bottom.” Dad moved my hand toward the base of the hammer. “You’ll get more leverage that way.”

But I was a preschooler. I didn’t know what leverage was and I wasn’t strong, either. More often than not, I grabbed the handle near the head and bashed away. Regardless of my skill or strength, I wanted to be like my dad, and he used tools all the time.

Filled with restless energy, he spent hours in his basement workshop, even giving menial chores to my brother and me. When I got big enough, he gave me a scrap of wood, a small hammer and a handful of nails. “Just for practice.”

Actually, it was preparation. When Dad built a speedboat in the basement, Bob and I helped. He drilled countersunk holes, and we filled them with a drop of glue before setting the screws for Dad to tighten.

When my brother and I set up a shade tree mechanic area beside the garage for our bicycles, we learned about wrenches and screwdrivers. Although I didn’t plan it, this was my introduction to the oil and grease I’d learn to dislike once I had to maintain my own cars.

Dad passed on many things to me, but his restless energy wasn’t one of them, and I never had my own workshop. When my first son was born, he became my shadow and wanted to do everything I did, which meant he “helped” in household maintenance, holding tools, handing me nails and screws or simply watching. One day, when I thought he was old enough, I led him out to the garage and handed him a small board, a handful of tacks and a claw hammer.

“Hold it near the end of the handle. You’ll get more leverage.”

William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.