A Hammer, A Gift

Steve's birthday is today. It is hard to believe that it has been over a year since my stepdad passed away. Our family was forever changed when he came into our lives, and our family has been forever changed by his sudden departure. In that time, I've learned so much about what it really means to be a family, how priceless memories can be, how the smallest thing can trigger a flood of tears or a warm smile and, most of all, how there is, and always will be, a hole in our lives that Steve used to fill.

Not a day passes that I don't think of how much I would give to have one more late night conversation with Steve, both of us night owls who discussed so many different things during my visits home. Not a week passes that Caitlyn doesn't remind me how much she misses him. Just last week she got angry with me because I never asked Steve how many planet Earths could fit inside Jupiter, a pressing question for her, and she reminded me that now I never can before she just said quietly, "I miss him."

One of my most treasured items this past year has been a hammer that belonged to Steve. Steve, like my mom, was a handy DIYer who rarely met a project he couldn't tackle. He worried about my generation--a generation of lazy pencil pushers who were just as likely to hire out their painting projects as to pick up a brush, exert a little effort and get the job done themselves. He enjoyed showing others how to do things, and he was patient and careful in both his teaching and his tasks. I learned a lot from him, and some of my most treasured memories now are the times I spent working on a project with him and my mom. I remember a lot of painting--our Cunningham house, the hot tub surround, my first house (which we actually painted TWICE because the color I picked the first time was so awful), the lake house (sweet freaking jesus--that place was a never-ending stream of projects!). I remember a lot of flooring. I remember fencing, picture hanging, drapery hanging, power washing, door installation and on and on.

Of course, I also had another teacher in my mom, and she and Steve differed a bit in their execution of projects. Steve was careful and deliberate, making detailed notes, lists and plans. He measured twice and cut once (usually). He made sure walls were square, nails went into a stud and things were level. He liked to put as few holes as possible in drywall.

My mom and I could (and did!) lay nearly an entire room full of flooring before Steve had even decided which wall we should start on. My mom taught me to be creative in tool selection (did you know a hair dryer can be used to hammer a nail into a wall when you need to hang a picture RIGHT.NOW. to see if it looks good?). My mom also cared nothing for preserving the drywall--if the picture is off, just move the nail a couple inches, rehang the picture and repeat until you get it in the right spot.

Sometimes his methods drove her crazy, and sometimes her methods drove him crazy, but they loved to work on projects together. I know he admired her energy and "get it done" attitude, and I know she admired his attention to detail and patience with even the most fiddly projects. And I think of both of them every time I work on a project, drawing on specific knowledge each of them shared with me.

Back to his old hammer. After Steve died and my mom sold their beloved lake house, she asked all of the kids if there was anything that we wanted from the lake. I tried to think about what would best capture Steve's love of the lake and any one of a hundred happy memories from all the time we spent there. When my mom asked if we needed any tools (since the lakehouse garage was fully stocked), I knew that tools were exactly what most embodied what I loved about Steve, as a teacher, as a dad, as a partner to my mom and as a friend.

Steve's hammer is old, the wood worn smooth by his warm hands. It is unremarkable to look at, but I cannot do so without feeling the prick of tears in my eyes. Holding that hammer makes me feel like Steve is right here, helping me with projects, reminding me to go slow and do things right the first time. When Caitlyn helped me hang pictures in her room, I let her use the hammer, delighting her in the knowledge that it was PawPaw's. Her tiny hands grasped the same hammer his hands used to hold, and she gritted her teeth, anxious to get it just right. I remember feeling a wave of sadness and gratitude for all of the lessons he taught me that I will be able to pass on to her. But, I had to laugh when we realized the picture would look better slightly to the left. Caitlyn told me, "Well, just move it over and make another hole." We girls have a lot of Grammie in us, after all.

Steve's hammer, now my hammer, is priceless, and every time I use it, I remember him. Those who work with their hands may understand the connection that this simple tool gives me to Steve, that it is as if he imparted some bit of himself into it during those countless projects, and now I get to hold onto that energy as I add to its legacy.

Those closest to us know that this year brought some hardships in regards to settling Steve's estate, and I've learned some very hard lessons about human nature, family and finances. The things that happened have been so contrary to who Steve was as a person that I genuinely hope that my beliefs are correct, and there is no way for him to know or see what has gone on because I think he would find it disappointing, although I don't know that for certain.

What I do know for certain is that Steve's hammer far surpasses the value of any home, any account and any asset he left behind. And I am grateful I learned enough from him (and my mom) to know that.