tool on that pegboard had a story. The hand plane from his own father. The lathe he saved three years to buy. The vise he bolted to the bench the week I was born, because he said a man needed a good vise before he needed almost anything else.
When Dad passed, he left the workshop to me with a note taped to the door: “Don’t let it go quiet.”
I kept the lights working. I kept the heater running in winter so the wood wouldn’t warp. I never sold
