I recently ran across some things I had written and forgotten. Some inspired by things I saw or experienced and felted motivated to spin from my perspective. Some came from writing prompts I gotten online. I had forgotten I had written these, and at first, I was not sure they were mine. If you read and feel inclined to leave a comment or feedback it will be welcomed. If you feel inclined to leave something you have written that would be very welcomed. So, for better or worse, here I start.

He had a habit of stopping at yard sales and out-of-the-way places where people sold “used stuff.” He rarely bought anything. There was simply a relaxing feeling that came with just browsing and looking; well, and of course touching and handling.

One soft spot he did have was for old woodworking hand tools. Fortunately, he had a sense of self-restraint, otherwise, he would have a warehouse full of them. He loved them all: saws, planes, brace and bits, vices, rulers of all sorts, rasps, screwdriver, hand files, well, any old tool. 

Imagine the stories they could tell if only they could speak. The people that had used them to shape wood. The types of wood they had turned into finished products. How they were part of the story of life. The way they had been taken care of and sharpened. And then, if they had had feelings, the sense of lose that had come when they were no longer taken off the shelf or workbench and placed against a piece of rough wood to perform their magic. A woodworker who had become too old to perform his craft and yet the tools just sat and waited. The magic dormant without the magician. 

The lucky ones ended up in the hands of a family member or friend who understood their value, not in the sense of money, but in the sense of their creative potential, the quality of their construction, the magic they could perform. The ones not so lucky ended up setting and gathering rust and then being placed on a table at a yard sale to go to someone unknown, perhaps a new magician. Someone who again had the touch to bring them back to life and restore them to the point where they could once again do their work. 

Today, on the table with the other rusted hand tools was a file. It was designed for shaping and finishing. One side was a medium grade cut and the other was a fine grade. It had a handle that was wood, and without a question, it was homemade. The metal had started acquiring rust and was in need of a good cleaning. With a little TLC, it would again be ready for any job. 

He never understood why some of the items attracted him. Some seemed to have a pull he was unable to resist. Today, he left the yard sale with the file.