Being a father now, I spend a lot of time anticipating the future. Wondering about random scenarios I will be presented with where I'll actually have to "parent". What age to let them watch scary movies, teaching them to drive, cell phones cameras (*shudders*). That sort of thing. Inevitably, that stream of consciousness always brings me back to my upbringing, and some of the more hilarious (in hindsight) moments from my childhood.
One of the funniest (again, in hindsight) revolved around my brother and the "metal saw".
My father was not what you'd consider a "handyman". That's not to say he wasn't able to do the odd-job around the house. He was certainly capable. Especially if it involved varnish. That man never met a piece of wood he didn't want to drown in varnish. But fixing things just wasn't his hobby. He was far more interested in music and sports and politics than hanging out in the garage building things. Which I think worked out quite well for my brothers and I. I couldn't imagine a life that didn't revolve around sports and music. It's also worked out well for Neil, the man I pay to do all of the work around my house. In fact, it's worked out really well for Neil. He should probably send my Dad a thank you card.
But for a man that didn't spend much time building things, my father certainly had tools. One of which was a hand-saw designed specifically to saw through metal. A hand-saw which I had never seen my father hold, and one that, to a 12 year old, looks suspiciously like any other hand-saw. So when my brother and his friend Jimmy decided they were going to start an after-school knee hockey game which I got to tag-along to (my entrance song? "Pump Up The Jam" by Technotronics) we needed something to cut our street hockey sticks in half with. Rummaging through our garage we found that saw. It looked exactly like the tool we needed.
So my brother grabbed the metal saw and started hacking away. In a few minutes our full-length hockey sticks were cut in two and we had the tiny little sticks we needed. I'm positive that my brother didn't return the saw to its proper place. If he had, none of what followed probably would have happened.
As I stated earlier, to my knowledge, my father had never sawed a piece of metal at home. I had never seen him pick up, look at, or mention that metal saw. If it had been put back where my brother found it, to this day it would probably still be in that exact same spot. But that's not what happened. When my Dad got home from work he found that saw wherever my brother left it. Wood shavings surely along its teeth. Two-foot long hockey stick ends certainly laying on the garage floor next to it.
He wasn't pleased.
When we returned home later that afternoon, my father was in the garage waiting; angry lecture already mapped out in his head. Saw in hand. I don't remember exactly what he said, but I do know that it was directed at my brother and not me. I was too young. But that didn't stop me from being downright terrified. The crux of his angry ranting, the one thing that really ruined his day was that cutting those sticks, with that specific saw had ruined it.
Basically: its special teeth, designed to slice through metal, AND METAL ONLY, had been sullied by the wood. I imagine it's like when you touch a baby bird, and the mother refuses to feed it. Metal would know that the saw had once cut wood, and it's useful life was over. That was my father's argument. It may very well be true, but it just sounds so silly.
I'm willing to bet my house that my father had never used that saw to cut through metal before that day. And I'm certain he hasn't since. Is that because he simply wouldn't have (*nodding slowly*) or because we ruined the saw? We may never know (we already know)!
How does this relate to my children and I? I have no idea. But my interactions with my children are a constant reminder of my parents and how they raised me. Both the good and the bad. And it's awesome.
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