Morning Thanks--what he left us

It's what we inherited, part of the inheritance, a tiny part of it anyway. But yesterday it was sheer blessing.

Ten years ago, I built (!) and put in garden boxes out back. I'm not in the slightest bit handy. Dad Schaap was, as was Dad Van Gelder; but I inherited none of that.

 Here's what happened--

Three sides of one of the boxes rotted, leaving me (and our back yard) in shambles. I had to build another (ten years later), and certain parties in our house really wanted something taller, requiring less bending. 

I won't humiliate myself by telling how long it took for me to do what had to be done, but when you don't know a 2x4 from a 2x8, and nothing is what you say it is anyway (2x4s are really 1 3/4 bv 3 3/4--0r something like that), just walking into a lumber yard where men sport arms like Goodyear tires, it's, well, intimidating because I just know that the only retired prof in the place is sure to say or do something ridiculously stupid. 

Years ago, I took a temp job at a lumber yard that happened to employ a guy I grew up with, a perfectly mindless job, sticking a load of lumber into bins marked by their dimensions. At one point he looked at me, "You like working with wood?" he said. I was totally unaware anyone would.  

Anyway, we've got a backyard mess, and I've got to do something about it. Bite the frickin' bullet, I told myself. Besides, Barbara would be bringing home tomato plants from her weekly visit to the market. 

I measured the rotting 2x10s one more time--four feet by ten feet. Checked the basement for the right nails/screws (they're hybrids--I don't know what to call them), grabbed the case my father-in-law's drill inhabits, put it all out there, and took to the streets, to the lumber yard. 

Went remarkably well. If I acted stupid, the help were kind enough not to howl until I left. They put the lumber in the pickup. I drove home, carried the lumber around back, laid it out, and went back to retrieve the goods, opened up the case, grabbed the drill, and realized the thing was loaded with the same bit I'd used ten years ago--same drill bit. I hadn't used that blessed drill for an entire decade.

This morning (trumpet fanfare please), out back, there stands a brand new plant box, ready for our tomatoes, and taller than the old one--not tall enough, but taller. I can't help thinking I'm a man.

When finally the thing was finished, I grabbed Dad's drill and returned it to its case, same old bit still there in its teeth. Dad Van Gelder died a bit on the far side of 100 years old, and he left behind a quiet lifetime dedicated to family, farm, church, and once in a while a game of snooker or a stringer of sunnies. He left my wife a unique DNA and much, much more, including, to us, a battery-operated drill I rarely use. But yesterday I couldn't have done what needed to be done without that drill. Battery still had juice too, but I wouldn't have been in trouble had it run dry. He left us a charger too.

There's a whole world of things we inherited from him, including, I can't help but mention, a quiet faith. He let others play Jeremiah. 

But this morning's thanks are for that drill and what it represents, so very much more he left behind with us and for us. Oh, yeah, the bit. That too.