Today my shorts died. “Shorts” sounds so impersonal. Let’s call them “Fred.”
Fred died today. He was mult-cultural being both black and white, made out of some technical material with a single rear zip pocket and a drawstring.
Fred and I ran two fifty mile races, over a dozen marathons, and literally thousands of training miles. Really thousands. I had Fred for five years and he was my favorite. If Fred was clean, I wore him. I wore him when I wasn’t. My wife would usually steal Fred twice a week or so and wash him. I always had Fred on the weekends, so I always wore him on my long runs. Fred and I have camped out, built a deck, mowed the lawn, changed oil and chopped down trees. I slept with Fred. We swam in two oceans, pools, lakes and streams.
Fred was battle tested. He didn’t make me chafe, and he didn’t ride up. I looked good in Fred, and beleive it or not Fred looked pretty good right up until he died. He didn’t fade, and he didn’t look grungy.
There’s a seam that goes up both thighs and around the crotch. He’s worn through to the point where I can’t wear him without having things out that are best kept hidden. I tried to sew Fred, but the attempt leaves an itchy chafey line, that makes him useless.
I examined the seam and intuited that it was somehow heat-joined, so I took Fred upstairs, carefully realigned the seam and applied the iron in the hopes of saving him. This melted Fred, and if he wasn’t dead before, he’s sure bit the green weenie now. I may have also killed the iron and the ironing board, but the wife doesn’t know that yet, so keep it under your hat, ok?
Fred was a part of me. I think that’s literally true. I have sweated and shed and oozed into Fred so much that I’m sure he was completely permeated with my essence to such a degree that you could extract my DNA from every fiber.
It’s hard to describe that special bond you have with a favorite piece of battle tested clothing or equiptment, something you’ve used many, many, times, far beyond what is common, something you have total confidence in.
I have a maul that I think about the same way. When I lived in NYC and bought a farm in PA I decided that I was going to need tools if I was going to live in the country. I was a little nervous about this because I knew nothing about country life, so I went to a hardware store to try to get a grasp of the situation. That’s where I saw Darth.
Darth was 12 pounds, and red with a steel head and shaft painted red and a black polypropylene sheath to protect your hands from vibration. One side of the maul head was triangular, the other flat. Darth looked pretty formidable. He cost $15, so I took him back to my apartment and for a couple of weeks, he sat in a corner and I looked at him and figured everything would be ok.
It was.
Darth and I split firewood for ten years. I pounded in fence posts with Darth, knocked down a shed, pounded rocks. We smashed all kinds of things, and I never hit my foot or a bystander (which is something of a miracle.) I pried stuff with his handle and used him in all kinds of ways for which he was never intended.
Every man should own a maul. You never know when you are going to split or smash something. I’ve had him for another five years here in town, and used him for all kinds of stuff.
Every Halloween I put on my tan coverralls and hockey mask and when the doorbell ring I threaten small children with Darth before I give them candy.
There’s something special about this because… Darth is the real deal. I guess a lot of those kiddies are used to ringing doorbells and having adults dressed up as monster threaten them with cheap plastic props. They build up an immunity. My coveralls smell like oil and dirt though and Darth… is the real deal. As I swing him up to my shoulder and reach for the candy bowl the eyes always linger.
Is that rust or blood on the battered head? They see the heft and they can’t help but notice that this is a legitimate tool meant for smashing… and that the man holding hit has smashed a lot of things with it… and that together they smash things very well. It’s a responsibility and an honor to bring this heir of legitimacy tot he holiday.
I know how heavy Darth is and I’ve swung him thousands of times, and I know how to do it, and hit exactly where I want to hit. We can break up tree stumps for easy removal.
When it comes to smashing, Darth and I are one. Give me any other sledgehammer or maul, and it’s going to have a different heft and balance and weight and I’ll be just another incompetant dipshit.
Darth is gone though. I can’t find him. I last used him to knock some wooded rails off of some fence posts and I think I left him in the weeds over the winter. This shouldn’t be any problem for Darth. He’s been out over the winter before and knows how to fend for himself.
But now he’s gone. I hope he shows up soon.
I have a couple of other things that are my proven, reliable, battle-tested pieces of equipment or clothing… But really not that many. My chainsaw and I have never gotten along. I know it wants to get me and we don’t trust each other and it shows.
The sad thing though is just how few things like that I actually have, things that I love, things that I’m very competant or accomplished with, things that I’m good with, things that are battle tested and are like an extension of my body and will.
It’s a disposable world full of cheap shit without notice or attachment. Every week I roll the garbage can up the drive and am shocked and ashamed by how much me and my family waste and throw away, and how little of what we actually have as any real value or lasting utility.
I have my grandfather’s tool box of hand tools. Hammers, saws, chisels, pliers, sockets and wrenches and such. Every piece is scratched and worn… and serviceable and competant and experienced, but not by me. You can’t buy stuff. They don’t make it. Look at this electric drill! It must weigh ten pounds! It’s like they started with a block of steel and hollowed it out to put in the motor. The electric wire is as thich as thumb. I bet if you tried to drill something with this and the bit got stuck it would spin you around and around around or break your wrist. My grandfather built a house with this thing. Battle tested. This is a drill for life. My grandfather’s. I wouldn’t know how to use such an instrument. In the last ten years I’ve had probably four different cheap cordless drills. Pick them up at Lowes or Walmart for about $29 and use them a while until smoke and the smell of burned wiring from cheap motors comes out of their cheap plastic casings. Throw it away and get another.
It’s all bic lighters, Black and Decker drill and disposal razors now. There have been very few Darths and Freds for me.
My disposable life.