Grandpa’s toolbox – Canadian Woodworking

Tools scattered across old plywood benches, while a fluffy layer of sawdust clung to the paintbrushes, putty knives, and used paint rollers hanging from bent nails along the wall. Most days I was cutting wood or gluing up some crooked little board. But sometimes, when I couldn’t find a scrap to build with and the fireplace had already eaten the good offcuts keeping winter’s cold fingers outside, I’d clean the shop.

Everything had its place.
Sawdust swept into the bin.
Order restored.

And if all that was done and my “shop time” still wasn’t satisfied, I’d pull the old tools out from below the bench.

A plywood box with mashed corners, stained black from grease and years of dampness that seeped through the basement walls. Grandpa’s tools were inside — heavy with old metal, memory, and loss. Beneath layers of cobwebs, sawdust, and the occasional dead cricket, a secret forgotten but still felt. I’d slide that old box out and let the soft yellow light of the room reveal…