Tools of My Father’s Father: by Patrick Weldon Christmas 1976.  When I was five my grandpa made my brother, cousin and I, our first tool boxes. The hammer, sockets, screwdrivers and wrenches were basic tools, but the wooden box that housed them was the real gift. Each one had our name hand-lettered on it and the year.  The boxes were huge.  I could easily fit inside it, and did.   Originally from Sweden, he was a master carpenter and after moving from North Dakota, they purchased 3 acres of land in Portland that had nothing but a chicken coop on it. He built the house that my mom grew up in, that still stands today. My most vivid memories of him are when he’d come after work, reeking like freshly cut wood and cigarettes. He’d pull his black boots off and sawdust would shake out everywhere like fake snow. He’d unbutton his worn and torn Ben Davis shirt and place it on the hook near the back door, the “Union Made” monkey smiling at me. I distinctly remember his workshop: everything had its place. He had drawn silhouettes of every tool on the pegboard, so easily identifiable that, even as a child, I could have put each tool back in it’s place.   Looking at it today I see the detail he put into the box: piano hinge hardware, stained wood, finished edges. I sometimes like to open it up and just smell it. It reminds me of the of his old sweat stained and sawdusted hickory shirt.   He taught me the importance of using the right tool for the right job. Respect your tools.  They’ll last you a lifetime, and then some. Native Oregonian, Patrick Weldon works for a large law firm in Portland as the Facilities/Operations supervisor.  When he’s not wearing his corporate tool belt, he enjoys riding his bikes with family, exploring Portland’s many craft breweries, riding motorcycles and chopping wood with his trusted companion, Famous Green.
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Tools of My Father’s Father: by Patrick Weldon

Christmas 1976.  When I was five my grandpa made my brother, cousin and I, our first tool boxes. The hammer, sockets, screwdrivers and wrenches were basic tools, but the wooden box that housed them was the real gift. Each one had our name hand-lettered on it and the year.  The boxes were huge.  I could easily fit inside it, and did.  

Originally from Sweden, he was a master carpenter and after moving from North Dakota, they purchased 3 acres of land in Portland that had nothing but a chicken coop on it. He built the house that my mom grew up in, that still stands today.

My most vivid memories of him are when he’d come after work, reeking like freshly cut wood and cigarettes. He’d pull his black boots off and sawdust would shake out everywhere like fake snow. He’d unbutton his worn and torn Ben Davis shirt and place it on the hook near the back door, the “Union Made” monkey smiling at me. I distinctly remember his workshop: everything had its place. He had drawn silhouettes of every tool on the pegboard, so easily identifiable that, even as a child, I could have put each tool back in it’s place.  

Looking at it today I see the detail he put into the box: piano hinge hardware, stained wood, finished edges. I sometimes like to open it up and just smell it. It reminds me of the of his old sweat stained and sawdusted hickory shirt.  

He taught me the importance of using the right tool for the right job. Respect your tools.  They’ll last you a lifetime, and then some.

Native Oregonian, Patrick Weldon works for a large law firm in Portland as the Facilities/Operations supervisor.  When he’s not wearing his corporate tool belt, he enjoys riding his bikes with family, exploring Portland’s many craft breweries, riding motorcycles and chopping wood with his trusted companion, Famous Green.

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