Faded red toolbox

     The red paint had long been faded on the toolbox kept in his shop. The tools inside showed much usage and care. “We made things to last back then” he would tell me. “Not like the junk you see today.” He was always there when we needed him, his toolbox getting a little heavy now, but he didn't mind, he was still happy to help. He was a carpenter by trade, a lost art he would say, kids, didn't want to learn how to make something from nothing, too lazy he would say.

     I went to check on him every so often and usually found him in his workshop making or repairing something from somebody. He didn’t charge anymore, said he had all he needed. But he did take baked goods only if they were homemade. 'Nothing like a piece of apple pie and a glass of cold milk” he would tell me offering me a slice. What seemed like hundreds of tools hung from the ceiling most from hooks he made from scrap wood. I never got tired of watching as his now nimble hands transformed a block of wood into a beautiful table that he was making for his granddaughters’ birthday. He figured she would like it some.

     Generations of his work were scattered across the country each piece a testimony of his love and caring. He once spent an entire winter in his shop building eight church pews for a small church he sometimes attended. A fire had destroyed the old, and the congregation was using metal fold up chairs, and that didn't set right with him. There was a lot of pictures on the walls of his shop. Photos of people he had met that hired him to make them something special which he always managed to do. I was in one of those pictures. He was a lot younger, and I was just a boy of ten years. He asked me what I would like for my next birthday, and I told him I wanted a boat. I wasn't disappointed. He built that boat, and the day he gave it to me changed me in ways only years to come would show.

     My boat was only six feet long and seated, just one person. The lines of the boat were flawless and as seaworthy as any vessel out on the lake. It had two oars that scooped the water so effortlessly it was like racing across the water on a cloud. My body outgrew the small boat, but my son got a few good years out of it as did his son. Today the little craft sits in my yard on its side in need of a fresh coat of paint before the next generation puts her back on the lake. He was like that always making something that would last, tell a story and keep his craftsmanship alive. I wish he were coming by today or any day for that matter. I miss the old guy and his faded red toolbox. 

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