Unlike your average consumer, my mom rarely ever just bought "something". Even purely functional items had to have character and in a sense, life. With freedom and financing, her home came alive and evolved into a folklore mecca of hutches, sideboards, wardrobes, hoosiers, book cases, benches, and quilts. As a teenager I would desperately try to entice friends to my house, the RC Willey antithesis, as the location for movie night. The typical response went something like, "I don't want to watch a movie on "the wood!"". Our lone upholstery had been a puffy blue couch that little Jackson had worn out into oblivion. It was replaced with a 19th century wooden church pew that no matter how hard I tried could only remain as comfortable as... well... a church pew.
Throughout the years she would breathe new life into homemade crafts or storied antiques that she had discovered. Like most creative geniuses her decorative spark would fully manifest itself at odd hours. Usually late at night or early in the morning. All the menial tasks of the day kept her from her art. But when free, it would be very typical, while I was trying to fall asleep, to hear her tinkering around, kitchen drawers opening, plastic crinkling, and even a hammer hammering. And like the unique creations she was installing, her tool of choice was not the reliable aluminum Estwing in my Dad's tool box, it was a wobbly wooden antique hammer. With reckless abandon and no regard for 2 x 4's or drywall, that woman would hammer away and hang all manner of objects throughout the house. Preparation and excessive measuring was against the rules. There had to be a certain wildness about it.
Throughout the years she would breathe new life into homemade crafts or storied antiques that she had discovered. Like most creative geniuses her decorative spark would fully manifest itself at odd hours. Usually late at night or early in the morning. All the menial tasks of the day kept her from her art. But when free, it would be very typical, while I was trying to fall asleep, to hear her tinkering around, kitchen drawers opening, plastic crinkling, and even a hammer hammering. And like the unique creations she was installing, her tool of choice was not the reliable aluminum Estwing in my Dad's tool box, it was a wobbly wooden antique hammer. With reckless abandon and no regard for 2 x 4's or drywall, that woman would hammer away and hang all manner of objects throughout the house. Preparation and excessive measuring was against the rules. There had to be a certain wildness about it.
With her gone, all of her belongings exist as tangible reminders of their intangible owner. If they could speak, I am sure we would mourn together because, like me, they have realized that she couldn't have loved them more or given them more meaning. I have been doing some late night creating of my own recently. A few weeks ago I purchased a poster from the Ray LaMontagne concert. I also bought some framing and matting supplies at Roberts Crafts (yes, I actually went into a craft store) and tonight I finally got it all put together. For the finish, I needed a good hammer to nail the hooks to the frame and then hang on the wall. This one happened to be resting in my tool box waiting for some late night action.
It was wobbly and worked just fine.
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