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My father-in-law's toolbox. We replaced the deck stairs today! Now maybe people won't fall through them and break their necks.
5. i am a fixer. i love resolution. i crave the result, the tangible of broken then fixed.
i feel so accomplished and needed when i can successfully right a wrong. i can change a flat tire, repair a hole in a shirt, proofread a paper, replace a lightbulb.
but those are just things, people are harder. it took me a long time to realize that you can't put people back together like a broken vase. it's not as easy and you have to wait much longer than the few hours it takes for crazy glue to set.
and sometimes people don't want to be fixed. that was a tough realization too, and i am glad i won't have to learn it again.
will fix shit for hugs.
Vintage toolbox chalkboard paint DIY. Step by step instructions on my blog: www.thriftcore.com/2012/01/chalkboard-toolbox-diy-for-you...
I am behind on submitting this one, and I have a list of good excuses but the reality is that this beat up old box just sends me for a loop each time I pull it out.
This is my fathers toolbox. The one he pulled out every time my bike seat needed raising, or the teeny tiny screw of my glasses feel out. It's the one his father gave to him when he was old enough to be mending his own bike and glasses.
When my dad died, the tools had to go. I couldn't fly home a 50 pound box of saws and hammers and it wasn't really the tools that held the memories for me.
Inside now is 63 years worth of photos, and baby teeth, of handmade father's day cards and ribbons for being the World's Greatest Grandpa. It contains his wallet, his rings, the remains of his cologne bottle and the last pair of driving gloves that still curl to the shape of his fingers.
When I open it, it's a multisensory reminder of my father.
It's my most treasured thing.
Confusion is for wimps.
A development of my previous photograph 'Business Studies.' Growth can be a relative perspective Rachel.
Scored this at a garage sale some years ago for minimal $'s. Heavy duty rubbery, garbage-can-thickness plastic. Couple of latches - one at each end. About 15" x 9", and 12" tall.