Contact us at: whispernthunder1@gmail.comPliers and Reflections
~ Orannhawk
Relationships are interesting and complex
situations, lending lessons and insights that
develop with time. Shared circumstances
and events meld together, often spotlighting
our strengths and our vulnerabilities.
Good or bad, these events and
circumstances shape who we are. We tend
to gravitate toward people and items that
give us comfort, or a sense of security, especially under adverse conditions.
As I’ve mentioned in previous articles, both my dad and my Papaw were mechanics. Papaw’s shop was a half a block away from the dealership where my dad worked, and growing up I was in and out of both locations weekly. I could explore in Papaw’s shop and I thrived on the pungent blend of King Edward cigars and grease. He never fussed about me playing with the tools, or scooting across the floor on the crawler, and I was welcome to stand on a step stool to stare at the engine as he worked. He was always
patient and didn’t get upset when I left carrying a pair of pliers with me.
It was a different world at the dealership with limitations of where I could go and what I could do. Nonetheless, I knew most of the mechanics and other staff, and always felt at home there. However, I couldn’t wander around and pick up tools that intrigued me like I could at Papaws.
The pliers would end up on the bottom shelf in my closet, nestled among my favorite rocks and feathers. Once a week or so, Papaw would quietly pick up one or two and take them back to his shop, and leave something there in its place, usually a nice feather, a rock or something that intrigued him. There was often a follow up story with the little gifts too. When my dad opened his own shop, he and Papaw combined their tool hoard and worked side by side for a number of years. Needless to say, between the
two of them, there were a lot of pliers in that shop.
I inherited a lot of tools, even though I didn’t inherit their mechanical abilities. With time, I gravitated to using and buying more tools that complimented what I own and use. But back to the pliers. Every vehicle I have owned had a pair in the glove box or the console, as well as in the tool box/road kill box, along with a myriad of other necessary items. Every purse or backpack held a pair of pliers. When my son was born; a pair of pliers fit right into a pocket in the diaper bag. There’s a pair in every room in my
home and multiples in my studio, and I use them all the time.
It was never an obsession, although I’m sure that it might fall into an undeclared space. More than anything, being familiar with tools allowed me to learn more about repairing other things besides cars, including glitches in relationships. My relationship with my dad was strong, although it was often contentious, to say the least. It’s part of the complexities of relationships with those who are shadowed with alcohol. Those shadows unfortunately were a component of their lives, elements crowding about like
vaporous wraiths seeking anything or anyone nearby.
The contrast often left me reeling. The sober men battled the shadowed specters who invariably wanted nothing more than to hide in a bottle. And I walked somewhere in the middle. Regardless of their shadowy walks with alcohol, I knew and trusted their strength, compassion, humor, and honesty. I felt safe, especially in their sober moments. I knew they loved me, and they would do everything possible to
keep me safe.
I realized long ago; the appeal of the pliers went well beyond teaching me how to repair and create things. Holding on to the pliers was like holding their hand, like a conduit to the past. They gifted me with the ability to shape my life in a unique way, regardless of where I was. Tools were instrumental to their very being, as well as becoming a large aspect of my own skill set.
The foundational aspect of the pliers allowed me to see past the mundane. I learned to see beyond the illusion of a happy wasted soul to know more about the impetus driving addiction. It’s very possible their focus was on teaching me a part of the trade they knew, but I know it was a lot more. Sometimes, when I am triggered, when the PTSD has a grip on my emotions tighter than a vise, I will pick up a pair of pliers
and simply hold them in my hand. There is comfort there, stories that they shared, moments that I cherish and love … and I remember.