On Labor Day

[Bob Smalser]

From retired shipwright Dave Fleming:

http://www.vintagesaws.com//othermakers/offer.JPG

"Twas only a kit of carpenter's tools
We were chancing off that night.

The man who owned the tools was there
A carpenter whose hair was white.
To draw the stubs until the winning share
Would place the tools within another's care.

Aye! Only a kit of tools you say
Objects of metal hard and bright.
No! We chanced off something else that day
Something that didn't seem just right.

All the labor of yesteryear.
Homes that they built for those in the past
Of service come to an end at last.
Leaving his heart, his head, his hand

In a chest of tools, this white-haired man.
To end his days in a home for them
Whose years of service were at an end.
The sad look on that aged face

As each number shortened the space.
Of time when he must bid farewell for good
To old friends of his, of metal and wood.
He had used them for years, they were always there.

Twas awfully sad, the whole affair.
Like playing pitch with an old man's soul.
Pushing him on to the final goal.

Into the sidelines and out of the race
While a younger man takes up his place.

The tools of his trade, the hammer and saw
It struck me with wonder and something of awe.
As we laughingly shout and loudly cry
To see who the winning share did buy.

How stupid of us, we were such fools
To think we were chancing off
Only CARPENTER'S TOOLS"

- Julius Frerich

[Pat Zabrocki]

Bob,
That is an outstanding poem. Your posts always make the light bulbs come on for some of us and now your putting a lump in our throats, too. Again, great post.
Happy holiday to everyone
Pat

[harry strasil]

This is my favorite Bob, I had it read by the minister at my Fathers Funeral.

THE DUSTY WORKBENCH

When on the craftsman's silent form
His folded hands are still,
And dust has gathered on his tools,
And bench, and window sill,
A moment of reflection comes;
We seek to understand
From whence the light and wisdom came
To guide his master hand.

His craftsmanship a story tells
Of patience, care and skill;
Through product of his handiwork
His voice is speaking still.
The tale it tells of simple taste
In shape and place and size
Is perfect as a rose in bloom
And pleasing to one's eyes.

Perhaps his goal was never reached;
But product of his hand
Was service 'kin to worship
That all people understand.
Each article a monument
that inspiration brings
From him whose able, willing hands
Shaped only lovely things.

[David Weaver]

Bob - that picture reminds me, based on the body mechanics the gentleman is using - a lot of us, me included, have spent some time learning how to rehab and sharpen tools, but we haven't done much more than trial and error and some hearsay from videos and such when it comes to body mechanics with different tools.

Not that you're obligated to enlighten us, but have you thought about putting together a tutorial on the mechanics of using hand tools? Most of the people I know complain that it's too hard to be accurate with handtools, or that saws bind, etc - and I would venture to guess if their tools are acceptable, it's probably because of their mechanics.

Only popped into my head because that guy is lined up straight with his index finger aligning the whole operation and he's using the benefits of gravity to help him along on his push stroke. I don't know many people who use a saw like that the first time - most grab it and get all of their fingers inside the grip and torque it all over the place.

I can't say I've seen a lot more than stuff about planing when it comes to mechanics.

[Bob Smalser]

...like playing pitch with an old man's soul....

The poem is British and the picture is Pete Taran's, probably from an old trade publication. Not only does it illustrate perfect mechanics, the age and dress of the carpenter are notable.

Before Social Security in at the end of The Great Depression here and in Britain the yard or union often helped auction or raffle your tools off so you'd have some money to retire on when you got too old to work at your trade. That, your savings, your children and perhaps an easier job of night watchman, flagger, or shingle-making job were all there was. Most men worked at what they were capable of doing physically until the day they died.

My grandfather was born in 1880 and to supplement the income from his farm, he was an excavation contractor. Later his sons and sons-in-law were farmers, homebuilders, shipwrights and boatbuilders. He used his plow horses and a hand-guided scoop bucket to dig basements the hard way, then collected and laid the dry stone foundation walls. Brutal work, even after he acquired a tractor. When he got too old and broken for that, he took jobs laying bricks using younger helpers for the grunt work. One of my earliest memories as a toddler was "helping" Granddad build a brick fireplace in the early 1950's. Even though Social Security paid full benefits to farmers who never contributed to it, he worked almost daily at manual labor until shortly before he died in 1956. Just like his father did before him in the era this poem speaks to.

[John Gornall]

I have a great appreciation of photos like this. I have been envolved with photography and photos for 50 years. My favourite photos are of my Father and Grandfather at work. But so often I find people that after 40 years on the job have no pictures of their workplace or themselves at work. Do a big favour for families of the old timers as they leave work and head into the next part of their life. Take pictures of them and their workplace, frame them, and send these along with their old tools.

My Dad still gets up at 5:30 everyday and starts work, he's 91 and has only missed a couple of days in the past 72 years. His work now, and it's exactly what he wants to be doing is looking after my Mom and this is a full time job.

[Jim Dunn]

My dad built our home with a "little" help from a master craftsman. This gentleman was meticulous with the trim work and dad was proud to show everyone who cared and give the old gent credit for all the work.

When the gentleman died his sister raffled off his tools. Dad won the raffle and he couldn't have been prouder if he'd have won a million dollar lottery. I still have a couple of the planes, brace and bits and yankee screw drivers from that tool box.

Reminds me of my dad and the old gentleman each time I look at them.