Volume 2 number 2, February 2000 Tool Mania I often find myself scanning the sales sections of the newspaper looking for good buys on hand and power tools. I don’t remember when I first became interested in tools, but I bought my first set of wrenches when I was a senior in high school. They were a polished chrome set of Snap-On wrenches. The thin handles hurt my hands on a hard pull and the chrome made it hard to hang on to them when they were oily and greasy. I had my first collection of tools when I was in Vietnam. I went overseas as a helicopter mechanic, but I soon tired of all the screwdriver twisting and hangar politics, and transferred into a company that provided security for the airfield. I began driving truck, posting guards on the wire watch (but that’s a story in and of itself). That bunch of tools began as a set of found tools that filled a small ammunitions can. Before I left Vietnam, I had a .50 caliber ammunition can (2' x 3' x 6") tucked between the seats of the truck, full of tools. I began to get serious about tools whan I started my own trucking company in 1973. Along with my first truck, I bought a cutting torch and began buying cheap and second-hand tools. (It was many years later that I got wise and began buying good quality tools.) Today the tool radar is on autopilot, be they tools found on the road or a good deal in the newspaper. I’m drawn to them like a vole to peanut butter. I’ll buy tools before I’ll buy breakfast—the tools will buy me several breakfasts, that’s my philosophy. Over the years I’ve had plenty of time to ponder why tools are so important to me. Tools allow me to do things, like having the privilege of freezing my fingers so that I don’t have to pay somebody an exorbitant fee to do what I can do myself. Like many men, I have been burdened with that unfortunate imprint that it is not O.K. to ask for help, that it is weak to do so (fortunately, I have managed to grow beyond this to some degree). Tools are an escape from that prison; tools allow me to do things independently. But they also foster a creative process: My welder and torch allow me to take a piece of hard, unforgiving, unmalleable steel, bend it any way I see fit, and make something utilitarian out of it. That same creative process allows me to envision a piece of art out of a rusty pile of scrap metal. Machinery is perhaps the ultimate expression of tool mania. I began my career as a heavy equipment operator and truck driver at the age of fifteen. I had been attracted to and hung around construction machinery since I was big enough to walk. To this day I still don’t understand all of the reasons for that fascination. I came into my career towards the end of an era (mid sixties) when progress and construction were a state of mind, and some of the most important things on the Alaskan slate. Anybody involved in that kind of work was somewhat highly regarded. There was a place for a kid like me to get attention and approval, something that I did not know how to give myself at the time. I can relate very strongly to the occasional boy I run across who has the same fascination as I did. Late in my career it dawned on me that using tools is tremendously empowering. I was thinking about the siting of my cabin: if I didn’t like where it was I could just pick it up and move it (I have the means to do that). The idea that I could move it at my whim gave me a lot of pleasure. I thought more about this: a problem with the hole in my driveway, 200 yards of gravel—no problem. If I didn’t like that hill where it was—simple, fire up the ’dozer. It was something that I took for granted, but it was also shocking when I brought it to a conscious level. (You Esteroids have no worries—I have no designs on Ester Dome, I like it just the way it is.) I believe that part of a person’s makeup is genetic memory. The expanded braincase plays a fairly serious role in human evolution, and that came about in part as a result of the opposable thumb; the opposable thumb came from using tools (i.e., using a grass stem to pick delectable morsels inhabiting some nook or cranny). Cavemen hunted large animals with spears and arrows. A hallmark of a society’s evolution was its toolmakers’ ability to nap flint and their skill at it. Now that I think about it, historically almost all advances of civilization are marked by monuments made by tools: Egyptian pyramids, Roman iters, Greek amphorae, medieval armor, Gutenberg’s press, and particularly all the floating craft that brought forth movements of humanity. Cro-magnon man was probably ancient by the age of thirty; I like the idea that I might live to see one hundred. Tools make my life easier and I’ll probably live a lot longer as a result. The other day I had a repair job to finish on my truck at 40 below. A surplus parachute and the Monitor heater became my shop—much easier than a snowbank. Not a real nice shop, but better than 40 below! Monitor heaters, blue foam insulation, GVEA, Ford, and so on, are the toolmarks of civilization and my longer life. As you can see, I’m not some slack-jawed oaf salivating over the size of my tools. As with many other men, there is a basis for my fascination—you ladies are not exempt, either. I have a lot to learn about the depths of my relationship with tools, and I welcome any food for thought in this direction. I could go on but it would be babbling so I’ll close with this: I was going to see if anybody had a use for an 8 & 3/4 inch radial arm saw, but I’ve changed my mind. I can use it as a substitute for that router table I’ve been wanting… | ||
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