I could side with Raven. It is also possible that it was a gift that was given to a dad by a son or daughter. Hard to say! I do know that sometimes when I have been pretty sure I had figured out a mystery that the real story turned out to be quite different. Good thing I'm not a detective!
When I was a kid my dad used a permanent marker to write “MINE” on his things. We lived in California at the time; I was 10. I haven’t thought about it in decades! Your hammer encounter prompted a recovered memory 💖 Now my grandkids are with me twice a week and I’m sympathetic to my dad, altho I’ve given up “owning” most of what’s in my kitchen cupboards— it’s fascinating to watch their creative use of ordinary objects.
I haven’t officially signed up for your course, but anticipate your weekly prompts and look forward to participating, similar to Journey in Place. I recently scrolled through people’s Place contributions and was blown away— again— by the range and scope of what people wrote. I’m glad you’re offering another course, similarly formatted 👍🏻 pls lmk if I need to do something formal to participate!
I like the broken handle and it starts a strong need for repairing. I taught my sons how to split wood and so had to replace the maul handle at least twice. I've been a carpenter all my life so have fixed some handles on a rake, shovel, ax and wheelbarrow too. I tried my hand at making a steel rake handle from a piece of hard red cedar. It had a few curves but worked fine. Thanks
I have a maul handle that finally gave up the ghost after too many errant whacks to a wedge. The broken maul and a brand new handle have been 'resting' outside my door for a while now! Need to get 'er done!
After Helene hit WNC and my friends’ land was completely underwater, including the sheds where they stores needs for rituals on the land and many necessary items. My friend Nita had buckets of mostly antique and old tools that belonged to her father and grandfather. After the waters receded the tools were still in their buckets sunk in red mud and water. As part of my contribution, I took several of these buckets home, cleaned and washed and oiled and sharpened and sanded and patched and painted the now smooth handles so they wouldn’t get lost out in the field. It was a joy to set up my sawhorses in the shade, which turned to sun in afternoon light, and handle those old tools. I made up stories about them, and coveted a few I admit. I was so proud when I was able to return a bucket to Nita. Nita was the victim of a terrible accident early the next year which ended her life in Sept 2025. Now I am wondering what happened to those beautiful hammers, wrenches, channel locks, screwdrivers. Loved reading this “lost and found” story.
This crazy day the handle picture has been stuck in my mind. I'll write this in hopes it will go away. The symbolism of the handle seems a bit haunting. The wood of an alive, complex, tough organism called a tree- probably a hickory- was repurposed as a lowly utilitarian handle causing shame. It survived as a handle for no telling how long until it could not take it anymore. It gathered courage and jumped out of the truck splintering itself. Not split, but splintered with sudden and explosive power from lots of stored compressed energy that was created when the tree was alive. All that energy was still there even after it suffering years as a handle.
DAD being capitalized and a check mark over always is very authoritarian. The bottom 10% of DAD is missing, gone, left on the highway and "always fixes" is somewhat still there and can be repaired to good-as-new with just a few scares. Such is life!
My guess is Raven can build beautiful picture frames and he can therefore repair furniture and handles. If the little one helps by assisting and watching, then Raven will have set into Fawn's head that DAD always fixes what is broken and that's a good thing.
I always think of what this means when I happen upon something like the hammer story. One day this week I went to The Dollar Store and as I walked from my car, stepping up to the curb, I saw the words someone had written in large capital letters, "LIFE IS ONLY PAIN". I continue to think about the circumstances behind those words.
I love everyone's interpretation of the words engraved on a found hammer. Unfortunately, these hammers are mass-produced; they pop up around Father's Day to be given as sentimental yet useful gifts. So the story behind it probably isn't as interesting as anything we come up with.
That said, I'm a big believer that there is more magic and mystery in the world than we give it credit for, and just because something was a pre-packaged sentiment doesn't mean that it can't still have a story and a message. After all, there's still a tale to be told about how it got there in the road. And maybe one about how it makes its way back to its owner, and/or gets fixed, or its life with its new owner. It certainly has become part of all our stories. I shall spend the afternoon musing on broken things - physical and metaphorical, - when they are worth fixing, and the perils of reading too much into them.
I love the message. And no, you aren't reading too much into it. It is something we storytellers can't stop doing. There are stories upon stories upon stories all around. And here's a funny one. My brother was the greatest storyteller. One day we were in the car and he saw a suitcase on the road. He pulled over immediately. "Go open it!" he demanded. He was in a wheelchair and it'd have been such a pain for him to do it. "There's gotta be a treasure inside! Something valuable! Hurry!" He was so excited. I got out, opened the suitcase, and found exactly one pair of dirty men's underwear. How we laughed.
I read through all the messages here before commenting….each containing an amazing story and thought of your statement, stories are medicine. And your story about the hammer was medicine as demonstrated in the comments here.
And your question, “did I read too much into this?”
From my perspective what occurred was your glorious imagination took flight and you began weaving a story, which we, your readers, experienced as, well, medicine!
I bought a bag of rags at the thrift store a long time ago. There was one bath towel in it -- dingy white, kind of scratchy, and someone had written with permanent marker in the smooth woven band, "Virg's Crying Towel." I've never thrown it away (nor have I ever cried into it, though I should try that sometime.)
"Janisse always picks up your stuff.” That really made me laugh. What a treasure that you found the hammer, that it had an ACTUAL message, and that you shared it with all of us. And now we make up our own stories. My daughter one time posted on social, "If you come to a fork in the road . . . don't run over it" with a photo of a fork stuck into her very flat tire. :)
Oh Janisse, that hammer took me back to a stack of Hardee's cups - floor to ceiling - in my father's garage. I don't mean the heavy-special-plastic ones. I mean the paper-cardboard ones you get with a value meal. Daddy saved everything, believed everything could be fixed and used again. When I cleaned out the garage after he died, I threw out the cups. When I told an old friend about the cups, he said, "My dad has a stack of Hardee's cups in his garage too." I said, "Your dad is still alive - ask him why." My friend called me back later, howling with laughter. "Dad's answer: Might need 'em." Yep, about that hammer....
Maybe my take is different since I was raised until age 10 with an alcoholic father. He was the “first born of the first born,” and had plenty of responsibility he (likely) never wanted to be the Head of the Household. What I got from the hammer, especially with its exclamation mark (and presuming he wrote the “note,”) is that DAD was taught to carry the weight of fixing in the household: things, people, relationships, children. But that he could not fix everything and expressed his frustration and outright anger about a failing marriage/family/job in an indelible statement reflecting the weight he could not carry yet still felt responsible for bearing.
I think even a mass produced hammer might have a story to be told :)
I could side with Raven. It is also possible that it was a gift that was given to a dad by a son or daughter. Hard to say! I do know that sometimes when I have been pretty sure I had figured out a mystery that the real story turned out to be quite different. Good thing I'm not a detective!
When I was a kid my dad used a permanent marker to write “MINE” on his things. We lived in California at the time; I was 10. I haven’t thought about it in decades! Your hammer encounter prompted a recovered memory 💖 Now my grandkids are with me twice a week and I’m sympathetic to my dad, altho I’ve given up “owning” most of what’s in my kitchen cupboards— it’s fascinating to watch their creative use of ordinary objects.
I haven’t officially signed up for your course, but anticipate your weekly prompts and look forward to participating, similar to Journey in Place. I recently scrolled through people’s Place contributions and was blown away— again— by the range and scope of what people wrote. I’m glad you’re offering another course, similarly formatted 👍🏻 pls lmk if I need to do something formal to participate!
No need to do a thing. You’re already in. We’re getting close to start day. And I wholeheartedly agree, jip was unreal
I like the broken handle and it starts a strong need for repairing. I taught my sons how to split wood and so had to replace the maul handle at least twice. I've been a carpenter all my life so have fixed some handles on a rake, shovel, ax and wheelbarrow too. I tried my hand at making a steel rake handle from a piece of hard red cedar. It had a few curves but worked fine. Thanks
I have a maul handle that finally gave up the ghost after too many errant whacks to a wedge. The broken maul and a brand new handle have been 'resting' outside my door for a while now! Need to get 'er done!
Hey, we all need a rest.
After Helene hit WNC and my friends’ land was completely underwater, including the sheds where they stores needs for rituals on the land and many necessary items. My friend Nita had buckets of mostly antique and old tools that belonged to her father and grandfather. After the waters receded the tools were still in their buckets sunk in red mud and water. As part of my contribution, I took several of these buckets home, cleaned and washed and oiled and sharpened and sanded and patched and painted the now smooth handles so they wouldn’t get lost out in the field. It was a joy to set up my sawhorses in the shade, which turned to sun in afternoon light, and handle those old tools. I made up stories about them, and coveted a few I admit. I was so proud when I was able to return a bucket to Nita. Nita was the victim of a terrible accident early the next year which ended her life in Sept 2025. Now I am wondering what happened to those beautiful hammers, wrenches, channel locks, screwdrivers. Loved reading this “lost and found” story.
Mendy, I am so sorry to hear about Nita. That is terrible news. I remember when you repaired and restored the old tools.
My father-in-law always engraved his name on his tools. Now, so many years later when I use those tools, I always think of him.
This crazy day the handle picture has been stuck in my mind. I'll write this in hopes it will go away. The symbolism of the handle seems a bit haunting. The wood of an alive, complex, tough organism called a tree- probably a hickory- was repurposed as a lowly utilitarian handle causing shame. It survived as a handle for no telling how long until it could not take it anymore. It gathered courage and jumped out of the truck splintering itself. Not split, but splintered with sudden and explosive power from lots of stored compressed energy that was created when the tree was alive. All that energy was still there even after it suffering years as a handle.
DAD being capitalized and a check mark over always is very authoritarian. The bottom 10% of DAD is missing, gone, left on the highway and "always fixes" is somewhat still there and can be repaired to good-as-new with just a few scares. Such is life!
My guess is Raven can build beautiful picture frames and he can therefore repair furniture and handles. If the little one helps by assisting and watching, then Raven will have set into Fawn's head that DAD always fixes what is broken and that's a good thing.
Peace
When you carve on the handle, make to to carve "If you leave it laying around Raven will claim it".
Where ARE my tools, by the way?
Tools, what tools, lol. They're in the same spot in the barn from when you sold your old truck
I always think of what this means when I happen upon something like the hammer story. One day this week I went to The Dollar Store and as I walked from my car, stepping up to the curb, I saw the words someone had written in large capital letters, "LIFE IS ONLY PAIN". I continue to think about the circumstances behind those words.
Yikes.
I love everyone's interpretation of the words engraved on a found hammer. Unfortunately, these hammers are mass-produced; they pop up around Father's Day to be given as sentimental yet useful gifts. So the story behind it probably isn't as interesting as anything we come up with.
That said, I'm a big believer that there is more magic and mystery in the world than we give it credit for, and just because something was a pre-packaged sentiment doesn't mean that it can't still have a story and a message. After all, there's still a tale to be told about how it got there in the road. And maybe one about how it makes its way back to its owner, and/or gets fixed, or its life with its new owner. It certainly has become part of all our stories. I shall spend the afternoon musing on broken things - physical and metaphorical, - when they are worth fixing, and the perils of reading too much into them.
Wait. Are you saying that this hammer was PURCHASED like this? Oh no. That would blow the whole story.
Alas, that does seem to be the case. I still think there is plenty of story in it, though.
I love the message. And no, you aren't reading too much into it. It is something we storytellers can't stop doing. There are stories upon stories upon stories all around. And here's a funny one. My brother was the greatest storyteller. One day we were in the car and he saw a suitcase on the road. He pulled over immediately. "Go open it!" he demanded. He was in a wheelchair and it'd have been such a pain for him to do it. "There's gotta be a treasure inside! Something valuable! Hurry!" He was so excited. I got out, opened the suitcase, and found exactly one pair of dirty men's underwear. How we laughed.
I read through all the messages here before commenting….each containing an amazing story and thought of your statement, stories are medicine. And your story about the hammer was medicine as demonstrated in the comments here.
And your question, “did I read too much into this?”
From my perspective what occurred was your glorious imagination took flight and you began weaving a story, which we, your readers, experienced as, well, medicine!
I bought a bag of rags at the thrift store a long time ago. There was one bath towel in it -- dingy white, kind of scratchy, and someone had written with permanent marker in the smooth woven band, "Virg's Crying Towel." I've never thrown it away (nor have I ever cried into it, though I should try that sometime.)
I'm laughing over this one. A crying towel? What strange things we encounter in this life.
"Janisse always picks up your stuff.” That really made me laugh. What a treasure that you found the hammer, that it had an ACTUAL message, and that you shared it with all of us. And now we make up our own stories. My daughter one time posted on social, "If you come to a fork in the road . . . don't run over it" with a photo of a fork stuck into her very flat tire. :)
I'm laughing so hard.
Oh Janisse, that hammer took me back to a stack of Hardee's cups - floor to ceiling - in my father's garage. I don't mean the heavy-special-plastic ones. I mean the paper-cardboard ones you get with a value meal. Daddy saved everything, believed everything could be fixed and used again. When I cleaned out the garage after he died, I threw out the cups. When I told an old friend about the cups, he said, "My dad has a stack of Hardee's cups in his garage too." I said, "Your dad is still alive - ask him why." My friend called me back later, howling with laughter. "Dad's answer: Might need 'em." Yep, about that hammer....
Maybe my take is different since I was raised until age 10 with an alcoholic father. He was the “first born of the first born,” and had plenty of responsibility he (likely) never wanted to be the Head of the Household. What I got from the hammer, especially with its exclamation mark (and presuming he wrote the “note,”) is that DAD was taught to carry the weight of fixing in the household: things, people, relationships, children. But that he could not fix everything and expressed his frustration and outright anger about a failing marriage/family/job in an indelible statement reflecting the weight he could not carry yet still felt responsible for bearing.