The house is finally as good as it gets and Lou has hurt her back. She’s taking a much needed rest at last. The packing stuff is pretty much done. Now realtors are passing though with clients. Cats must be shut up in the small bedroom. Bucky doesn’t like it, claws the door, but Amber simply takes a nap. My housework stays about the same. Now doing the garage workbench and tools.
What tools will work in metric world? Will I need English tools as well? Should I take drill bits? I must have at least $600 worth if drill buts . . . many cans of paint. A fifteen year collection, some were here when I arrived and never opened. Millions of nuts and bolts and nails must be gotten rid of. Those of you who frequent hardware stores know you pay sixty cents for a single quarter-inch by two inch bolt . . . then forty cents for a nut that fits and a quarter more for the washer. It’s cheaper to forget the washer and just drill a hole in the quarter. I’m sitting on a fortune in nuts and bolts and screws and hooks. Must give it all way. The hermit monks would be so happy. Weights like this there is no need to carry, they would tell me. Of what use?
I've discovered more bones of my father. Packed my his metal hard hat, and my plastic one from when I worked refineries. I’ve unearthed his welding tools, a cutting torch some brazing tips—a pair of double pressure gauges, beautiful in solid brass that glows like gold and sparkling thick glass lenses . . . from the late thirties or early forties—no plastic parts. He was good at what he did, bought fine equipment and took care of it. They’re beautiful. I’ll never have the slightest use for them, but have so little left of him, the hard had and these tools, a ring—his father’s, and the pocket bible that he took to church each Sunday. Memories of course weigh nothing and do not need to be packed and shipped - take up no space and are available when called upon . . . sometimes appear from nowhere and completely unexpected.