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.
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