Maintenance

After my grandfather died, my dad ended up with his hand tools. They sat in a black metal toolbox in the basement. Neatly arranged. A little worn. Waiting.

Eventually, they found their way to me. And I ruined them.

I got cement on some and never cleaned them off. Others sat damp too long and rusted out. I think most of them got thrown away.

I look back now with shame. I let down my lineage. I wish I could go back and take better care of those things. 

But I can't. And I still haven’t fully learned the lesson.

There are two stone hammers waiting for new handles on the counter by our front door. I’ve walked past them a dozen times a day for the last three months. Still, there they sit.

My chisels are dull and the heads are mushroomed beyond saving. The registration is overdue on the one-ton. The excavator needs a service.

I get so caught up in the work itself, I neglect the things that support the work. They’re just as important. I know that.

But trade-offs have to be made, right? There are only so many hours in a day.

And... I’m rationalizing. I know I am.

It’s a flaw. One I’m well aware of. I don’t know where it comes from. Or maybe I do, but I haven’t wanted to look too closely.

I know when I close this laptop I should re-handle those hammers. I should sharpen the chisels. I should schedule the service.

But not today.