keeper of the tool chest

My five year old grandson was today's project helper. He exclaimed,

"That's an old box."
"Yep," I replied.
"What's it for?"
"It's a tool chest".
"Where'd ya get it?"
"My dad gave it to me."
"Why?"
"Because I needed a tool box when I started carpentering."
"When?"
"A long time ago."
"Is your dad dead now?"
"Yes," I replied with a sigh to show the young boy my affection for my dad.

The tool chest sat on a pair of saw horses and was ready to paint, the final sanding finished. Using the air hose, it was dusted well and I set to painting and prompted by the boys questions, thought drifted to the past when dad gave it to me, and when our neighbor gave it to him. When dad gave it to me, he seemed surprised that I knew it was the one Mr. Stuck had given him many years before. I reminded him that I was there, I'd cut the Stuck's grass while he did repairs the evening that the tool box was given.

The Stucks, our closest neighbors lived a couple miles away and were old. It was near dark on a saturday summer evening when we finished our task and Mr Stuck who had been watching dad work, asked how much he owed. I knew dad would refuse pay, he'd instructed me several times that summer to cut their grass and not accept payment. Dad explained that helping a good neighbor was satisfaction enough, maybe someday he would need help. Mr. Stuck was so bent over that it was difficult for him to make eye contact with an adult, he had to roll his head sideways. He looked my dad and said, "Richard, I want you to take the tool chest."

Perhaps I remember it so well because it was the only recalled time I heard dad called Richard. He'd always gone by his middle name to distinguish himself from his father who had no middle name or perhaps it was because Mr. Stuck's voice had an insistancy to it and I found it rare for such words to be going to rather from dad. Gosh, I thought, that was fifty years ago and for the first time, it occurs to me that Mr. Stuck knew he'd not use the tools again and dad accepted that reality. If there were regrets at seeing the tool box go, Mr. Stuck masked them. I wondered when the time comes, if I would be as mature.

Dad had been keeper of the tool chest during the last fifteen years of his carpenter trade and was recently retired when giving to me as I began the trade. My business outgrew its size and it was handed down yet again to my son for a footlocker. It was used well and many years by him in the business of a boy, but not taken off to college. After a couple of years, the contents were boxed and the tool chest reclaimed for tools again and it moved to the barn with some roller castors added to move to and from the niche it found under the wood lathe.

I wonder who'd made the tool chest, selfishly wishing Mr. Stuck because he was such a kind man and I liked both he and Mrs. Stuck a great deal. The memory of waking to the phone ringing in the night, that hadn't happening before and I knew it had to be bad news. The sadness that Mrs. Stuck moved away to live with a daughter. The news that she passed away a few months later of what was said to be a broken heart.

My thoughts found focus on the yet remembered pleasing characters and I compared them to the grumpiness of others witnessed over the years. Remembering their appearance, they were likely handsome and certainly were kind, to each other as well as others.

As the painting continued, I wondered if this grandson would someday be keeper of the tool chest.