Towel folds

Years ago, when I found a hole in the stiff wire screen of a small under-house air vent, I stuck a rock in that hole. When I found the rock dislodged the next day, it confirmed my suspicion of mouse traffic.

Mom folds her towels in thirds when hanging them in the guest bathroom. Towels are definitely easier to fold in half or quarters. Have you ever tried folding a long towel in thirds? It's harder to get both ends of the towel to work out. But that's how she folded them. And as a gesture of respect, I would go through the effort to get them back into those nice thirds after using them. Did that for years.

One day, Mom asked why I folded the towels in thirds. "Because you do." "Oh, I just do that so that when people hang them back up, folded in half, I can tell the towels have been used and need washing."

Finishing nails

For decades, my folks' garage has accumulated stuff. One section in particular is stacked high with materials and tools related to projects. It's easy to look at those and remember projects completed and also know my parents readiness to tackle whatever the next project was.

In that corner is a workbench whose frame and top were built by my father's father. It is a rugged bench, well worn from generations of use. For over a decade, its top has barely been visible under accumulated scrap, wood dust, screws, washers, odd project remnants. In Dad's last months, I found I couldn't hang out for long in the workbench/shelf area. I'd quickly choke up, knowing he wasn't going to be using all that stuff anymore. It became a symbol of unfinished projects. I knew I'd have to clean it up someday, along with the rest of the garage. It has been a stronghold for months, a symbol of loss. So many months have gone by with my avoiding that corner.

Yesterday was a good day. I was two days beyond a flu that had given me a body temperature over 100° for four days. I was once again enjoying being up and about. I had been gardening outdoors under a gorgeous blue sky. At one point, I walked by the workbench and realized I was up for tackling it. Soon, I was down to final dusting and that's when I saw the little nails.

Each was bent over and smashed into the surface, nearly the same distance apart, in a line that extended across the bench and even on to the separate wooden vice piece. I wondered why on earth anyone would've (1) put nails in a workbench (disrespectful) and (2) left them there (disrespectful).

I chuckled and shook my head as I remembered that, oh yeah, I did that in my late teens. The best I can remember now is that I was experimenting with these very fine 1" nails to see if it was possible for me to drive one completely into the table in a single hammer blow. When I didn't succeed with the first, I tried with another, and another and another. And instead of pulling out the nails, I just pounded them in an attempt to make them flush with the surface. Duh.

The bench isn't beautiful. No one else would ever notice or even care if the nails were there or not. But it seemed fitting to pull those nails out now, a time to show the table a little respect, a time to correct my errors, a time to honor Dad.

Mom came along about this time, wondering what I was up to. When she saw the clean workbench, she burst into tears. "Bless you. I had no idea how to even start the task of cleaning up that workbench." A stronghold for her, too.