If I Had a Hammer

I have a hammer that is of immeasurable value to me. There's nothing particularly fancy about it. Just a standard hammer with a soft rubber like grip of some sort on the handle. It's covered with paint and caulking. The hammer is at least forty years old. It belonged to my great-grandfather, Poppy.

I once thought I had lost that hammer. I nearly instantaneously vomited at the thought. That's how much it means to me. Someone needed to borrow a hammer one time. Luckily they said, "Do you have a hammer I can borrow?" instead of "Can I borrow your hammer?" I was able to answer truthfully and without selfish guilt, "Sorry. I don't have a hammer you can borrow."

I'm not a carpenter. Just your average family handyman. I use that hammer for all my hammering needs. Occasionally I will use one of my kids' hammers if I need something light because of the nature of the job. I once used a hammer in the toolbox I keep in my wife's car for emergencies. It just didn't feel right. I have Poppy's hammer and it works great.

Poppy was a boat builder. He built wooden boats the old fashioned way in his backyard (which was my front yard). He even lost two of his fingers doing it. So the hammer is a sacred relic that connects me to my coastal heritage which has no contemporary manifestation. Sometimes I can hold that hammer and I swear that I can smell the sawdust as Poppy cuts and planes those juniper planks. I smell the paint and varnish used to help keep barnacles from growing on the bottom once the boat was put overboard. I can even smell his sweat and the sweet smell of Red Man on his breath.

Sometimes I hold that hammer and I think of Poppy's celebrity. The big town newspaper from Raleigh, The News & Observer, did a couple of stories on him before he died and his dying vocation of boat building. (I was even in one of those. I'm the cute four year old sitting on the bow of the boat.) He was in a book written by a journalist who traveled down the Intracoastal Waterway by boat. Somehow, this guy ended up on Harkers Island and met Poppy. There was even a picture of him in the NC History textbook used by many of the elementary schools in our state with a caption referring to his use of natural resources. When that book came to the schools back home, it generated quite a buzz.

I think a lot of just who Poppy was. Even though he died thirty-two years ago, there are still quite a few people back home who are old enough to remember him. And every single one of them have nothing but respect and good things to say about Mr. Stacy.

Right after I graduated from college, my father gave me Poppy's hammer. He gave it to me in part because I simply needed a hammer and had no tools to speak of. But he also gave it to me as an exercise of trust. He made me keeper of the flame. I'll never forget his words. They were few and simple. "This is Poppy's hammer. Don't lose it." and that was it. We both knew nothing else need be said.

Last fall I sorted through my deceased father's tools. My boys called him Poppy. My Poppy and their Poppy had a lot of similar character traits. My dad was an civilian aircraft mechanic at a Marine Air Station. I took some old ratchets and sockets and divided them up into two groups. At Christmas, I gave each one of my boys a set. I gave them these simple words. "These were Poppy's. Don't lose them."

Some things are too important to not pass on. Faith, character, and values are at the top of the list. Poppy passed all these along to my father, who passed them to me. Hammers and other tools follow close behind in importance. Arlo Guthrie (no relation, but quite interestingly an appropriate reference) sang, "If I had a hammer, I'd hammer all over this land." Well, I've got a hammer. I intend to use it everywhere I go.