(How did a mild-mannered librarian end with a serious old
tool addiction?)

I spent my youth avoiding all types of work at all cost. 
Whenever my father got his tools out, it mean WORK, an
activity which came in a very distant second to hunting and
fishing, and later, cars & girls.  I can still remember the
time I overheard him telling a neighbor, "That Randy is a
good kid, but when there's any work to do, you just can't
find that boy anywhere."

I can still remember, too, the time he tried to show me how
to use a hand saw and hand plane and me tapping my foot
impatiently, in a hurry to hop on my bike and go jump over
dirt piles with the guys.  I managed to get through the
first 38 years of my life with only one solo
woodworking/carpentry project under my belt -- a boy scout
bird feeder.

Dad died in 1989.  In our part of the world, the eldest son
gets all the tools, so my older bro' claimed the big tool
box dad made in 1932 with all the goodies inside.  There
were a few planes that didn't fit in the box left over so
bro' allowed that I might as well take them.  There was a
Stanley no. 7 (Dad had two), a Stanley no. 4 (Dad had
several smoothers), and a no-name jack.  There was some
miscellaneous that he didn't want--it included a wooden
level, a brace and a mess of bits ...

I put the stuff in the trunk and took it home.  When I went
to clean the dust off them, I was amazed at how cool these
old tools were and wondered how they worked ... 

When if comes to objects, I'm not a sentimental person.  I
eventually traded off most of the stuff I got from Dad for
better tools (I had inadvertently cracked the cheek on the
beautiful, beautiful jointer). 

Course I came out of the deal with something better than
Dad's old tools. 
Randy Roeder                             Repaint houses, not
old tools.