When I was 5, my grandfather gave me a small toolbox full of rather disposable tools … most of which I managed to hurry to their predestined fate. Over the years, I added real screwdrivers, a hammer, crescent wrench, pliers etc. In time, it was a drill, circular saw, and reciprocating saw. A lathe, drill press, a few nice planes and a couple of expensive chisels later, my most valuable tool is one I’ve had since 3rd grade and probably the smallest – my pocket knife. It goes with me everywhere, except the airport now. It was stolen by my freshman-assigned, drug dealing roommate in college, lost on a 120 acre construction site in the excavation phase, and dropped through many a hole from my pockets. Each time – fatefully recovered. The plastic sides, long gone, replaced by hickory handles made from the tree shading my childhood bedroom taught me that wood glued to metal doesn’t stay. Need to open a tube of caulk, strip a wire, remove a piece of window trim, wedge a car battery terminal to the cable connector, pick up a really small screw with a weak magnet, hit something with a small hammer, hold something with a paperweight, open a bottle of wine, stir paint, cut a sandwich, enlarge a peep hole in fence, scrape the grey junk off the promotional mail to reveal the “winning number”, clean your fingernails, turn one bait worm into two, or cut a daffodil to say “sorry I’m late”? This is the tool. The blade was chipped by the aforementioned roommate, the screw driver is shorter than it originally was, as is the cork screw, the toothpick and tweezers are long gone and everything is starting to creak and wobble like its owner, but I wouldn’t trade it for the latest, whiz bang, gotta-have-it power tool with a retail price more than my college education.
