Tools to Smooth The Grain of Life
TOOLS were a part of life when I was a boy in blue-collar Brooklyn after World War II. Men carried their tools to work in the dark mornings, jammed into leather belts, or slung over shoulders, or gripped in gloved hands against the cold. They carried those tools with a certain pride, like prizefighters with gym bags; they were symbols of work and skill. In the evenings, the subways were salty with the aromas of perspiration and labor and the men planted their backs against the doors, with their tools at their feet. In memory, those working men were all hard and courteous, but grave, even solemn; more likely, they were simply exhausted. But one memory is absolutely clear: no kid ever told them to get out of the way.