Bring and
tell us about your past.
The things
you make.
The things
you look at.
The things
you have acquired, no matter from whom or when.
If you
cannot remember from whom, that does not matter either.
Perhaps you
made some of these things yourself. Bring them and tell us about them, because
they are part of who you are and where you are going.
My interaction
with tools comes a long way of many years. My late father was right-handed. I left-handed.
And that in itself caused stresses between us. He couldn’t teach me. And me was
an unwanted observer – so it seemed to me. Later years, he apologised to me
about it; my reaction was immediate and truthful: the best lesson I learned
from being in your presence was to observe: tools are made for a purpose: USE
IT. And so I did.
Bring it.
Tell the story.
That was at
our June 2026 gathering.
One person
spoke about the medals and awards he received during his army days. He brought
his own medals, as well as those of his late father, and we looked at them.
Everything was beautifully framed and exceptionally well cared for.
Another
chap displayed a few very old Bibles and, with nostalgia in his voice, told us
about them. One Bible had, in those days, been sent to South Africa from the
North, where WWII was raging; its two outer covers were made of olive wood.
Once again, these items had been exceptionally well preserved.
Another
brought along his mother's opera glasses. I was amazed at the way he took them
out of their case — gently, almost as if his mother were watching him.
One of my
friends has an old, dusty lathe that has been well used and that he still uses
regularly. It had previously belonged to someone else; he bought it somewhere
for fairly little money. An old, well-used lathe in new, eager hands can work
wonders. To him, it is a beloved working tool.
For one of
his granddaughters' weddings, he turned a whole lot of candleholders from
offcuts of pine. It was a special request that Grandpa should make them for
her. There was even one specifically earmarked for the main table: Grandpa's
handiwork.
What did I
bring?
I brought
some of my tools.
Today I
have very few tools because I sold most of them when I moved from Morningside
to Rivonia.
Before I tell you about the little bit of tooling I still have, I want to tell you about my Knysna yellowwood platter.
I completed
it on 13 December 1998. Since then, it has stood in a place of honour in our
home, on our sideboard.
The years
have been kind to this platter.
The patina
has developed into such a deep yellow — the outstanding characteristic of
yellowwood. When it first came off the lathe all those years ago, it was very
light and looked more white than yellow. Oxidation from exposure to the air,
together with all the hands that have dusted it over the years, has turned it a
deep yellow.
A knife — a
kitchen knife: the kind you use every day in the kitchen, the kind you use at
the table when you sit down for dinner. That old-fashioned knife with a handle
made of that light yellow-white-beige sort of material.
You find
them at flea markets and in other shops that sell off old odds and ends.
But this
knife is a kitchen knife with a difference.
Somewhere
along its life's journey in a kitchen, the original knife suffered a blow: the
blade cracked. And so it migrated to my garage.
I needed
something like an all-purpose utility item in the garage, and this old fellow
looked like a very suitable candidate. You know the utility-kind of philosophy:
that everything, should be usable.
Then the
tip broke off. I filed it roughly round with my electric grinder.
It is the
most versatile piece of equipment in my garage: scraping dirt from under
fingernails, tightening little screws, scraping clean empty plastic yoghurt
containers, scraping dried paint off screwdrivers — man, think of something and
you can probably use this tool for it.
When I displayed it at our genealogists' Bring and Tell gathering, the men's tongues really got going, and there was quite a buzz around it.
I had given
him a gift: a plaster cast of the front end of a pair of pliers. He gave me a
contraption.
Here
another story is beginning to emerge.
When we
moved house about four or five years ago, I saw these pliers lying around. And
I wondered where they had come from. The more I looked at the thing, the less I
liked it.
Until one
day I picked it up and examined it properly.
Now there
is a competition between these pliers and that knife: which of the two is the
most versatile and useful?
My wood chisel
This wood
chisel, too, developed a life of its own in my hands.
Somewhere —
I think I remember buying it in a second-hand pawn shop — I came across it. The
handle was missing.
Well, that
was not a problem.
The handle
was gone, and it didn't matter.
At home I
took a piece of scrap oak and turned a handle.
The oak, in
turn, came from a scrap piece that had come out of a factory making oak
furniture.
I also
fitted two bronze metal ferrules over the ends for protection.
Almost as
versatile as that knife and my pliers.
Next, I will
write something about the pieces of equipment I cast in plaster.
What do you
have?
Somewhere,
there is something in your house or in your garage that has a story.
Write that
story for me and send it to me at neelscoertse@wirelessza.co.za.
Send some photographs along as well.
