I’ll Hold the Hammer

I’m no Rosie the Riveter. But apparently being a handy woman is catching on.

There are women friendly sites to help a new breed of DIYers:

Be Jane

Tool Girl

At first I feign insult. “I don’t need any damn pink construction boots, who do they think I am, Paris Hilton?” Then I realize I’m a total sucker for marketing targeted to youngish women, and I’m not alone. Case in point – to my delight, my friend Claire gave me a purple Swiss Army-style knife for Christmas. Instead of the iconic utilitarian cross symbol, it has a heart and star on it, comes with a vial for perfume, tweezers and a mirror (which I used today to pluck a straying browline), along with the more conventional scissors, bottle opener and knife.

Regrettably, I do not actually know how to do things with power tools. My father was happy to show me, and we’d worked on a few projects, but I didn’t glean much because I wasn’t hands-on enough for anything to stick. I’d offer to help, but we both knew he’d need to intervene on my behalf to keep from ruining his tools or cutting off a limb. Instead, I’d hold the hammer. Or screwdriver, or dry wall. Whatever needed holding.

He, on the other hand was a genius. Not kidding. He’d just make stuff up as he went along. My favorite example of his ingenuity was when I came home one day, he was in our front yard with wooden half circles scattered all around him.

“What are you making?” I asked.

“A fountain for one of my clients.” He replied.

“Do you know how to make fountains?”

“No, but I will when I’m done.” He looked up and smiled. A cigarette probably hanging from his mouth. Damn it. He had a twinkle in his eye. It came from his mischievous, intrepid, and often mysterious nature. I’d trail off into the house, leaving him behind to work.

One summer I decided I wanted to work for him. It lasted all of one week, but it was really fun. That’s how I’d describe it. Really fun, high school kid hangs out with dad really fun. Sigh. I would alternate between reading Jane Eyre and painting garages. I was the only high school girl I saw traipsing with a toolbelt.

We'd drive all around, he'd twist his moustache. That moustache! We’d barely talk, but it really didn’t matter. It wasn’t the least bit awkward. It was relaxing. Like a monastic retreat. That week he told me about his new favorite hamburger place. Rally’s. He was so enthusiastic about it. Then we went there for lunch.

Since his death, everyone is wondering what to do with his power tools. I keep fantasizing about building tables like the one we made in college. I can’t tell you about it, because it is so cool that if anyone heard the idea they’d make them. So, sorry...that's between me and my dad.