Keeping the Brass Tools in the Family.

It was the brassiest tool in the shop, Ken’s dad was always ranting about how it used to be his grandfathers and how’d it be his when he was old enough to know his way around the tool shop himself. But like Ken, he hated having to wait, to grow into the type of man his father had wanted.
Ken’s father Graham, he was a muscle man, a very large man who weaved with wood and his tools were magic to his fingers. He’d carve with ease with his brass tools, gripping them and weaving to manipulate the wood into something much greater than it’s first shape.

Ken, a twelve year old boy hated when his dad used the phrase, ‘Be a man, son’. He cringed incessively with disgust, but just like a boy, he’d not listen to his dad. He’d shrug off any nonsense that he’d have to grow into his dad’s much beloved tools.

So on one Saturday evening, Ken just hiself being completely bored, he managed to creep inside his dad’s working shop, a shed decked out on their farm where he’d sell his artwork. So Ken found himself in front of his dad’s treasured toolbox, lifting the lid, Ken, a carrot top, freckled boy, short and scrawny with bucked teeth, he heard those words of his dad spoken in the back of his mind, but did he listen? Of course he didn’t.

Ken picked up those shiney brass tools and took to his own stage in front of a lump of wood where he tried to copy the art of his dad, widdling wood, he tried to carve a shape, any shape into it, but then Ken jumped out of his skin when he heard a, ‘Crack’.
Then in his hands a brass tool was in two.

Ken sobbed tears of discomfort, putting the tools back in the very same toolbox and hoped his dad wouldn’t use them until he was able to come up with a half descent story that his dad would belive.

But the following morning, Ken woke a little later than usual, he rushed down stairs in his pj’s right to his dad’s work shop. He stood in the opening with a gasp and his mouth dry and hanging open from disbelief.

The tools that were broken had somehow meraciously healed, his dad on the other hand had lifted his head in shame.

“Come here son” Graham softly spoke not showing much of an expression.

Ken walked towards his dad, expecting fully to be punished, but with the tools not broken, Ken was a little unsure about everything.

“Did you touch my brass tools?” Graham asked with a cool tone.

“Um. Yes, Dad. I did and I’m SOOOOO SORRY” Ken stammered, looking at his dad with remorse.

“Why are you sorry son?” Graham asked.

“I’m sorry dad because I broke your tools” Ken replied with a sadness and kicking with his feet at the ground.

Graham took from another box in the shed cupboard, it was large like a cardboard box and had a lid mark with a big bold black, ‘X’ on it.
Opening it up, Graham look down at his son.

“Son, have a look in ’ere” Graham said to his son.

Ken walked a few feet over towards the big box and took a long hard look at what was inside.
Then with a cheeky but foolish grin, Ken looked up at his dad and asked him, “But why, Dad?”.

“I just knew one day those hands of your’s had a calling. The more I was to tell you no, the more curious you’d get and then finally I’d know when you were ready to start work” Graham enthused, he was proud of his son.

“You set me up Dad. You wanted me to disobey you. You tell me this story of the brass tools of your grandpa’s, but all along it was a joke?” Ken replied, he was surprised at how much effort his dad had put in.

The box was filled to the brim with the brass tools, Graham’s story was merely to encourage his son to follow in his footsteps when he was ready and to pick up those brass tools to widdle wood just like his own magic fingers were born to do just like his dad.

Keeping the Brass Tools in the Family.

Writers-Block

Joined May 2012

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