Screwdrivers
I have received no less than 20 screwdrivers and screwdriver sets as xmas and birthday gifts over the past 15 years. I have regular size screwdrivers, giant screwdrivers, and tiny little screwdrivers. I have ratchet screwdrivers and flexible screwdrivers. Two of my screwdrivers have built-in lights. Most of my screwdrivers have attachments. I have phillips, hex, cube, allen, and star shaped screwdriver heads. Some of my screwdrivers keep their attachments in a separate case, and some are kept in a secret compartment in the handle. I have four-in-one screwdrivers, and I have eight-in-one screwdrivers. I even have the often coveted screwdriver with my name engraved on the handle. And believe it or not, all of these screwdrivers were given to me by my parents.
A year ago I told my brother about this. We were both mystified. Neither of my brothers were getting screwdrivers from our parents. That year for xmas, my wife and I BOTH got screwdriver sets. We each got our own little zippered case with screwdrivers and an itsy-bitsy pair of pliers too. My brother nearly busted a gut. I mean after the first four or five I told myself “better than a desk-set.” By ten the Dead Poets' desk-set was looking pretty original. Why so many fucking screwdrivers? Guilt.
My father was a machinist. His tools were his life. The only person I’ve ever known with more tools was my grandfather, who passed away when I was an undergrad. When they were cleaning out my grandfathers home I asked my dad if he would pick out a few things for me out of the piles of tools left behind. I wasn’t expecting the moon or anything; a hammer, a pair of pliers, maybe even A screwdriver. I figured they were gonna get tossed or sold anyhow. I could use them, and they’d have that special granddad quality. When it was all finished I asked my dad if he saved anything for me. “Na, it was all junk.”
A couple years later I was at my brother’s place. He pulls out his toolbox for something and says “Hey, look at all this cool stuff dad gave me of grandpa’s.”
Merry Christmas
A year ago I told my brother about this. We were both mystified. Neither of my brothers were getting screwdrivers from our parents. That year for xmas, my wife and I BOTH got screwdriver sets. We each got our own little zippered case with screwdrivers and an itsy-bitsy pair of pliers too. My brother nearly busted a gut. I mean after the first four or five I told myself “better than a desk-set.” By ten the Dead Poets' desk-set was looking pretty original. Why so many fucking screwdrivers? Guilt.
My father was a machinist. His tools were his life. The only person I’ve ever known with more tools was my grandfather, who passed away when I was an undergrad. When they were cleaning out my grandfathers home I asked my dad if he would pick out a few things for me out of the piles of tools left behind. I wasn’t expecting the moon or anything; a hammer, a pair of pliers, maybe even A screwdriver. I figured they were gonna get tossed or sold anyhow. I could use them, and they’d have that special granddad quality. When it was all finished I asked my dad if he saved anything for me. “Na, it was all junk.”
A couple years later I was at my brother’s place. He pulls out his toolbox for something and says “Hey, look at all this cool stuff dad gave me of grandpa’s.”
Merry Christmas
posted by Sylow_P | 1:53 PM
1 Comments:
One day when you and I are hangin out together, I might tell you about an idiotic conversation that one of my friends laid on me about how blogging is lame and she doesn't want to know about what I'm writing there.
Man, she is the wrongest.
I hope writing it helps, Sylow. I think it's helping me to externalize my ugliness... at the very least, it's getting it out of my head and somewhere else for a few hours.
Anyway, I thought you liked screwdrivers. And what about wind-up flashlights?
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