His eyes adjusted to the dim light, and his nose took in the smell of aged wood, soil and leather. Sturdy oak logs stood resolute above him after nearly a century of supporting boards and wooden shakes in gabled fashion above the walls. Dust covered wall logs lay squarely in place, right where the hands of his family had placed them nearly 100 years ago. The clay chinking was nearly all intact, and the creek rock foundation was solid.
Old wooden barrels with rotted bottoms, and rusty tin cans lay on the dirt floor. Leather straps and harness hung beside hames and guides... in the last place they were hung decades ago. Old rusted saw blades and wooden poles stood in one corner. The workbench ran along the wall under the small six pane window that was missing some glass. A warm wind whistled through the vacant pane, across the wooden bench, and into the earthy building.
At first he couldn’t see it, this thing that he had come for. The bench was covered so, in a collection of dust covered paraphernalia. Old wooden boxes filled with nails, cotter pins, horse shoes, and hickory nuts brought in by mice and ground squirrels, were spread along the length of the yellow poplar planked bench. Old oil cans, Mason jars and other containers held a curious collection of items inside them. An old canvas, that had been carefully folded and left for the ages, was lying on the corner of the work table. He moved the canvas, and under it found what he was looking for.
The old vise was still mounted by sturdy bolts. It’s jaws opened to the last size needed to secure whatever had required the added grip. He placed his hands on the metal handle and turned it clock wise. The vise, still greased after all these years, floated smoothly forward in response. Before he thought, he cranked the handle back to the position where he found it. He chuckled a little to himself, as if someone would expect him to leave things as he found them now. 'Old habits', he thought, and he smiled as his mind carried him back.
His great-grandpa seemed to be using this vise nearly every time he came to visit.Whenever he had come to this place, his great-grandpa was most often in the shed working on something. Some piece of tool or fashioned object would be in this old vise to be molded or mended for use somewhere on the farm. He could picture the lean and gentle old man in blue denim overalls and big straw hat or cap on his head, telling stories to him while pulling, bending, or stretching whatever the vise held in its grasp. He would sit as a boy on an old oak stump and watch and listen. Sometimes he would tell a few stories of his own, as his great-grandpa continued to work. He would chat away as little boys do, while the older man just smiled and nodded like old folks do, when there’s not much to do but listen, in a one sided conversation. Lots of good times here in this old shed, playing with this old vice.
The last time he had seen his great-grandpa standing at this workbench was when he was sixteen years old. Shortly after that the old man had suffered a stroke. After a year in a hospital bed that had been set up in a room in the ancient farmhouse, his grandfathers father had peacefully passed away. He came to the shop at different times after his great-grandpa's passing but, without his oldest relative present, it just wasn't the same. Still he would pause and crank on that old vise each time he came.
He looked down and saw a hickory nut lying on the dirt floor. He picked it up and placed it in the vise and cranked the vise tighter until it cracked, then he released it. A thousand hickory nuts and walnuts had been cracked by him just this way, year after year, until the time came when he had grown up, and gone off to a life of his own. It was just an old vise, but it was treasure trove full of pleasant, deep felt rememberings. Funny how one inanimate object can set the movie of your past in play. This old shed item caused a flood of memories.That was why he had brought the tools to remove it and take it with him.
It didn’t take long to free the old hex nuts from the bolts, and then lift the vise from its ancient home on the old workbench. He carried it out the door and into the bright sunlight, and placed it in the bed of his truck. He took a long look around the farm that had been the best and most important part of his growing-up life, then turned back to take a final look at the log and plank building. His took in a deep breath and his eyes rimmed a little with tears. As he closed the door to the old log shed, he heard a musical sounding voice over a loudspeaker a little distance away. The auction had begun.
It would belong to someone else now, this family farm and his boyhood haven. This patchwork of fields,woods, creeks, and hills that had been in his family for well over a century would bear the name of another family now. But not the old vise. No, this good part of his early life, he would take away with him. After all, he had a woodshop of his own now, and grandsons who would sit upon a stump, and watch while he worked. And he had a few stories of his own to tell… and a few hickory nuts yet to crack.
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