The Saddest Thing I’ve Ever Seen

Well, if anyone needs any nuts, bolts, screws or nails, I know where to find ‘em. ALL of them. They’re ALL in my father’s woodshop.

I just spent the last few days helping my father organize his new woodshop. Now that he’s retired, woodworking is going to be his main hobby. So as a Christmas present, I promised to come out and help him get everything organized. And when I say everything, I mean everything. The man has amassed a HUGE collection of every woodworking tool, gadget and accessory possible.

But this collection was useless in its current condition. You see, while waiting to retire, he stuffed everything into thousands of boxes and let it ripen... in his basement. Then he stuffed those boxes into larger boxes and shipped them across the country. (You don’t even wanna know how much it costs to ship a lathe.)

So anyway, since one of the not-so-destructive coping mechanisms I developed to combat dysphoria is a mild case of OCD… I’m really good at organization. I actually kinda like it. It sets my mind at ease to see everything all neat and orderly. (Also, years of mental illness have carved out nice little places in my mind where I can escape the crushing boredom, just for occasions like this. Ah, dissociation...)

So suffice it to say, this is not the first time, I’ve attempted to help my dad get his shop organized. Which brings me to The Saddest Thing I’ve Ever Seen.

I was sorting through old metal cracker tins filled with nuts, bolts, screws, nails, rivets, and all kinds of microscopic metal bits. Once sorted, the bits got filed away into neat little plastic drawers that my father will never look through. (That would defeat the purpose of the daily trip to the hardware store.)

Inside the little plastic drawers I started to find little scraps of paper with writing on them:

“Misc wood screws – copper” or “Hex head bolts – 2 ¼ in”

They were leftovers from an old attempt to help my dad get his shop organized.

But that’s not the saddest thing.

The saddest thing was – it wasn’t my handwriting; it was Anonymous Mom’s. You see… when we were about 14 years old, she was hanging out at my house during one of our school vacations. My dad asked for our help down in the basement woodshop.

AND I AGREED.

I should’ve said: “Gee dad, since I’m a 14 year old girl, and my friend is too, I don’t think it’d be a really great way for us to spend our vacation. You know, she might think I’m a weirdo and not want to hang out with me anymore if we ask her to do this. Instead, we’ll be upstairs doing something more enjoyable with our time. Like watching paint dry.”

But no. It never even occurred to me. I went along with this crazy idea and we spent some long hours sorting screws. All because I was too wrapped up in pleasing him, to say no to my dad. The man is a master of control. With an upbringing like that, it’s a wonder I know how to talk to people, comb my hair or engage in other human niceties.

For the record, thank you Anonymous Mom for still speaking to me.

Postscript: The Saddest Thing I’ve Ever Seen – 1st runner up: the 17 ft x 16 in x 1 ¼ in slab of Honduran Mahogany I watched my dad buy Saturday morning. I don’t know what made me sadder; the fact that he spent $300, the fact that you never see a giant piece of wood like that anymore, the fact that we had to chop it in half to get it home, or the fact that my father couldn’t just admire it… he had to possess it.

The Saddest Thing I’ve Ever Seen – 2nd runner up: people are selling those saltines cans on ebay for $25. I stuffed three into a hefty bag on Sunday. Sigh.