It's a damp, overcast morning here at KintlaLake Ranch. Seems like a good time to catalog some unexpected finds.
In one of my Urban Resources posts I surveyed The Other Economy,
that rich source of goods and services operating outside the conventional marketplace. My family and I have been "shopping the roadside" a lot lately, turning up bargain after useful bargain.
I've regretted parting with my Black & Decker Benchtop Workmate since leaving it behind when I moved back to Ohio ten years ago. Introduced in the late 1970s, the Benchtop model eventually was discontinued, so if I wanted to replace it I'd have to explore the secondhand market.
I discovered this one (above) earlier this summer at a garage sale halfway down a narrow alley in our village. Other than a few stains and a little rust, I found it in excellent condition, complete except for a pair of original-issue L-bolts that clamp it to a bench.
The price: just $3.00. Two carriage bolts, two flat washers and two wingnuts, purchased at the local hardware store, put it on my workbench for a grand total of four bucks.
Because a man can never have enough vises (or vices, for that matter), at another garage sale that same day I picked up this "hobby vise" (left) for two dollars. It clamps to the work-surface with a thumbscrew and will come in handy for a variety of small projects.
Speaking of The Other Economy, our village held its annual flea market last weekend. It's not a big event, just a coupla dozen canopied tables piled with household castoffs. My wife and I came home with a three-foot chocolate rabbit (brown plastic, actually) that'll grace our front porch next Easter, and a 1960s-vintage glass-and-chrome teapot. Together, the two items cost us two bucks.
I spent one more dollar, that on an old Boy Scout "contest medal." These awards were introduced in the late 1920s, as I understand it, but they'd been retired by the time I became a Scout myself.
Wanting to get a better fix on this medal's age, yesterday I examined it with a magnifying glass. Other than the word CAMPING cast into the front, the pendant bears no markings. Stamped on the clasp at the top of the ribbon, however, is PAT. NO. 2,795,064. A bit of web-sleuthing unearthed a copy of the original patent for the clasp -- applied for in 1953, granted in 1957.
So the clasp, at least, probably is as old as I am. A buck bought me a keeper and a pleasant exercise in discovery.
I love beer -- and I mean good beer. Sure, I'm willing to throw back my earthly portion of mass-produced barley pop, but I prefer beer that has actual flavor.
In a corner-store lager, for example, I enjoy an ice-cold Rolling Rock. If I had to choose a favorite, without a doubt it'd be Rogue Brewery Dead Guy Ale. And as you might expect, I'm especially partial to small-batch local brews, like those from Columbus Brewing Company.
Recently I learned of Rockmill Brewery, located in nearby Lancaster, and its Belgian-style ales. As the story goes, Rockmill's founder discovered that the well on his family's farm produced water with the same mineral content as that found in Wallonia, Belgium, and that served as the inspiration for four unusual ales.
Mrs. KintlaLake and I savored a bottle of Rockmill Dubbel over a plate of summer sausage, sharp cheese and apple slices (this isn't a beer one serves with nachos), and we came away truly amazed. It's strong (6% to 8% ABM), full-bodied and fruity, as well as pricey ($16 for a 22-ounce bottle) -- and worth every penny.
Great beer, brewed barely a stone's throw from home -- that's as good as it gets. There's a bottle of high-octane Rockmill Tripel in my fridge, and I can't wait to pop the cork.
Finally, of course, our vegetable garden offers up discoveries almost every day -- take this green-and-yellow beauty (below) that sprang from one of the "volunteer" vines I mentioned last week. At about 12 inches long, it's the largest gourd that's set (so far). Our unintentional crop continues to spread, so there will be more.
I devoted part of Monday's "Prying ayes" post to the Exhumer™ that now rides in my TrailBlazer. My wife doesn't carry a pry-bar, per se, in her truck. Instead, she's chosen this beast:
That's an Armstrong 1-1/4 inch single-head open-end wrench. It's just under a foot long and at least twice as heavy as my Exhumer 9.
Chicago-based Armstrong Tools has been in the manufacturing business full-time since 1900. The age of this particular wrench is a mystery to me, but judging by its condition it's been around for quite a while. I snagged it for five bucks at a garage sale some years ago. (Today's equivalent will set a buyer back about $40.)
MADE IN U.S.A. is clearly visible on the head of this wrench, as it is on current-production Armstrong tools. From the company's website:
"Armstrong Tools are still, and will continue to be made in the U.S.A."
Now, please permit me to introduce the elephant in the room: Mrs. KintlaLake doesn't expect to do any wrenching with this wrench, any more than I'm likely to be prying stuff with my pry-bar.
To be clear here, we tote these tools so that we have something to swing in an emergency. The purpose may be self-defense or escape. The target may be an attacker, or it could be the window of a burning or submerged vehicle.
In a wilderness-survival situation, the primary field-expedient weapon is the club. My missus and I simply are applying a variation of that principle to everyday life.
As luck would have it, my smaller Dead On Tools Exhumer™ showed up in the P.O. box not long after I finished yesterday's post.
To recap, the Exhumer 8 (MSRP $19.79, Home Depot $9.99) measures 8-5/8 inches long. Turning it over in my hand I notice that it's slightly thinner and significantly lighter than the Exhumer 9, and the inside of its "cat's paw" is designed a bit differently.
The larger tool will be a better nail-puller and a better hammer -- leverage, mass and all that -- but the Exhumer 8's size and weight make it an excellent choice for my grab'n'go kit.
One sure way to ruin a perfectly good blade is to try prying something with it. We hear that caution shortly after being issued our very first knife -- and still we insist on learning our lessons the hard way.
Carrying a pocketable pry-bar helps me avoid the temptation to abuse my knives. And like many KintlaLake Blog readers, I'll wager, I've settled on a CountyComm Widgy®.
The tool is offered in three sizes -- the Pocket Widgy is four inches long, the Micro Widgy three inches and the Pico Widgy two inches. Priced from $4.00 to $5.50 each, they're made of D9 steel.
The mid-size Micro works well for my everyday carry, and the other models have found their way into various kits. It's common, I'm told, to apply a cord wrap to a Widgy, adding a personal touch and helping to muffle pocket rattle. (Check out the video tutorial here.)
As handy as it can be to have a tiny pry-bar along, sometimes a more substantial tool is called for -- nastier than a Widgy but more portable than a FuBar. Enter the Death Stick® Exhumer™ 9 from Dead On Tools.
I learned about Exhumer nail-pullers just last week, through an e-mail preparedness newsletter. The Exhumer 9 (MSRP $23.10, Home Depot $14.99) is the second-smallest of five offered by Dead On, and I have to say that the mere act of holding it in my hand makes me smile -- it feels as wonderfully wicked as its name implies.
Overall length of the tool, which is made of S5 steel with phosphate coating, is 10-5/8 inches. The "cat's paw" end features an opposing striking face. On the back side is a saw wrench and -- no kidding -- a bottle opener.
The simple paracord wrap (pictured) is my addition.
Now some folks may look at the Exhumer and imagine only carpentry and light-duty structural demolition. But if a hunk of investment-cast tool steel with sharp claws on both ends inspires you to consider its personal-defense potential... well, you're not alone.
With that in mind, then, my Exhumer 9 is going to live in the door pocket of my TrailBlazer, within easy reach of the driver's left hand. I'll also be adding a smaller, lighter Exhumer 8 (MSRP $19.79, Home Depot $9.99, 8-5/8 inches long) to my grab'n'go kit.
I mean, there's no telling when I'll bump into a nail that's just begging to be pulled. Y'know?
Just as our winter seemed to observe the first of December, so our spring arrived with April.
Milder temps have been with us since Friday, rising into and through the 60s. Yesterday we had two weeks' worth of rain in a few hours. Right now the preceding season's chill is making a brief return, but we've turned the corner, I think.
The songbirds are back, our lawn is greening and the neighbor's forsythia is in bloom. Hyacinths are up by the front steps and daffodils glow at the edge of the woods. An insistent breeze, missing its icy edge, carries a train's horn and hymn tunes. (If you ask me, everyone should live within earshot of a carillon and railroad tracks.)
Springtime isn't a spectator sport, of course. Our vegetable garden-to-be begs to be tilled and planted. Shrubbery and flower beds must be weeded and mulched. If we want our crabapple tree to survive another year, it should be pruned before it blooms.
Over the winter, weighty ice and snow brought down a fair number of branches, which I piled behind the garage -- those need to be bucked and added to our humble woodpile.
I'll sharpen shovels and hoes and cutting tools, and I'll give our walk-behind mower a once-over in anticipation of seven months' duty. The work will begin this weekend.
All work and no play? Hardly. A few days ago I liberated my motorcycle from its winter storage. Battery freshly charged, it started on the first try -- no drama whatsoever.
I haven't yet completed the annual ritual by taking the bike out for the first ride of the season, but that'll happen soon. I'm thinkin' Saturday.
[The image above is from ABC of Victory Gardens, published in 1943 by the USDA.]
Ten days ago I devoted a post to three tools that once belonged to my mother's father. Now I'll pay respect to a utilitarian gem from the other side of the family.
This "monkey wrench" bears no maker's marks, so I can shed no light on its provenance except that it was my paternal grandfather's. It measures just 3.875 inches long closed; it opens to one inch. The frame and jaw appear to be cast steel and the adjuster is brass.
As for how the tool was used, I can't say. I do know that my dad's dad, born in 1900, raised Guernsey cattle during the Great Depression. Too poor to afford a tractor, he farmed the land with teams of Belgian draft horses -- "Tom" and "Jerry," to name two. Perhaps he carried this small wrench in an overalls pocket for tending to implements, harnesses and such.
He was killed by one of his Guernsey bulls two years before I was born, but my father often spoke of his dad's frugality, the product of desperate necessity. I'm willing to bet that the man didn't own dozens of wrenches -- he probably had two or three at most, and he damned sure made them last.
That tells me more about this tool than any maker's mark ever could.
We're still unpacking here, eight months after our last (and I do mean last) household move. Other than seasonal storage -- winter coats, holiday decorations and the like -- at this stage it's mostly discovering stuff I'd forgotten about.
I pulled a plastic toolbox down from a basement shelf yesterday afternoon, recalling that we'd used it last spring to shuttle everyday wrenches and pliers and such. Buried in the bottom of the box I found three tools that once belonged to my maternal grandfather -- a claw hammer, tin snips and pruning shears.
I don't remember the last time I actually used any of those tools. We probably tossed them into the box as an afterthought, part of the process of making small items disappear into containers headed for our new place. Turning them over in my hands now, however, I was drawn to investigate the stories they might have to tell.
Carved into one side of the hammer's oak handle are my grandfather's initials. The other side bears his surname. His last initial is scratched into the butt.
Apparently he prized this simple tool and, typical of Depression-era Heartlanders, he didn't want it wandering off. I can't say that I blame him.
The head carries the marks of the maker: HELLER and MADE IN U.S.A., flanking the image of a horse.
Heller & Bros. made hammers and files, specializing in farriers' tools (thus the horse). Founded in Newark, New Jersey in 1866, Heller bought the fire-ravaged Rex File & Saw Co. in Newcomerstown, Ohio in 1917 and by the early 1950s had shifted virtually all of its production there.
It's not clear when or where this hammer was made; for what it's worth, my grandfather lived his entire life 15 miles south of the Newcomerstown plant. Heller was sold to Simonds in 1955, and while the brand survives today, production has moved to South America.
The small pair of tin snips offers no obvious clues to its origins. The pruning shears, on the other hand, are quite intriguing.
Behind the pivot, one blade is stamped with T. HESSENBRUCH & CO. arched over PHILA. On the other is a standing bear grasping a cane.
Hessenbruch, which sold its marked tools from Philadelphia between 1873 and 1926, usually is associated with fine German straight razors and, to a lesser degree, gentleman's pocketknives. The initial "T" reportedly stands for "Thomas" and helps date this tool to before 1890, when son Hermann assumed the business. (At that time the mark was changed to "H. HESSENBRUCH.")
On Hessenbruch's razors and knives, from what I gather, the bear icon often was accompanied by the words "WILD INSPECTION" (whatever that means) or "PERFECTION WARRANTED" (which at least makes sense). There's no such text on these pruning shears.
I'm not likely to press my grandfather's tools into regular service again anytime soon, despite the fact that they're still solid and capable. I'll keep them close at hand anyway, if only to be reminded of the history behind them.
Our house sits on a postage-stamp lot, a tiny patch of land in a Midwestern village. On its face, it appears to offer little in the way of natural resources.
A closer look reveals what a first glance doesn't.
I believe this post will be the first of a series I'll call "Urban Resources" -- seeking and finding materials often discarded and practices neglected. Today I'll talk about making use of a ridiculously simple source of firewood for our backyard pit or, in a pinch, the indoor fireplace.
There are but four trees on our lot -- two maples, a crabapple and a 60-year-old ash. On township property to the east are a magnificent bur oak and a catalpa, each estimated to be 180 years old, as well as a handful of tall pines and spruces. Our southern neighbor's sweetgum and poplar hang over our driveway.
Because all of those trees are relatively mature, they shed onto our lawn every day -- just how much depends on the weather. I've made an early-morning ritual of collecting fallen wood and carrying it to a semi-tidy pile I've built behind the garage.
It's not all small twigs, either. We had an arborist prune the ash of dead limbs back in May, which added some respectably large rounds, and our decrepit crabapple seems to lose a branch or two every time the wind blows.
Bucking the larger limbs requires nothing more than a pruning saw, although occasionally I resort to using a small chainsaw that operates on rechargeable batteries. I also break out my old Estwing hatchet from time to time. The tool I use most often, however, is a machete.
Specifically, it's 22-inch Collins that I've had for 27 years. The blade is stained and the edge is nicked, and the fractured phenolic handle is wrapped in adhesive tape -- that is, it's just about broken-in. A few minutes' attention with a flat file and a genuine Carborundum stone is all it takes to keep the blade brutally effective.
In four months I've gathered about one-third of a cord of imperfect firewood for my inelegant woodpile. Yes, much of it is kindling and some of it is tinder, but I figure I have enough wood for about a dozen good cooking fires -- so far -- and every bit of it was free.
In the next installment, I'll talk about a surprising source of the ultimate natural firestarter: fatwood. Stay tuned.
While I was on the phone this morning, expressing my habit of doodling in three dimensions I picked up that old Estwing hatchet and began turning it over in my hands. I mentioned in yesterday's post that I'd found three letters scribed into the tool's carbon-steel shank, but until today I hadn't spotted a second set of scratchings on the opposite side.
Some hours later I squinted through a magnifying glass at the faint letters -- first name and surname, postal route, town and state. A quick bit of research, colored by a splash of speculation, gives me a story to tell.
The place-name leads to a farming community north of Chillicothe, Ohio. As for the hatchet's owner, two candidates emerge -- father and son, Sr. and Jr.
The father was of my grandparents' era, born in Ross County in October of 1901; his death was recorded in the same locale in January of 1981. His namesake, who in his eighties reportedly goes by "Sonny," apparently still lives there. A satellite image shows the address to be a collection of buildings, surrounded by cultivated fields, at the end of a long lane.
With only sketchy information it's impossible to say for sure, of course, but it's my guess that the hatchet was employed on the family farm and may have been sold as part of the father's estate.
By today's standards, this scarred-up tool should've been retired long ago. It's not new, hardly state-of-the-art, neither pretty nor perfect.
Human hands in Rockford, Illinois forged this hatchet to last and, by god, it survived under the unsentimental lash of Depression-hardened Heartlanders. It saw a lifetime of use before finding its way to me -- what to do with it now?
I think I know what the tool's original owner might've said:
Use it up, wear it out;
Make it do or do without.
That's certainly what my father and his father would've said. There is indeed a story in this humble hatchet, and the telling of that tale isn't finished quite yet.
Each and every time I've wandered the maze of aisles at an indoor antiques mall recently, a certain old-school tool has caught my eye. Yesterday I shelled out a few bucks and brought it home.
It's an Estwing carpenter's hatchet, 13 inches long with a straight, stacked-leather handle. Its condition testifies to hard use. The letters "THH" are scratched into the shank.
Estwing has been around since 1923 and this hatchet is typical of the company's one-piece forged designs. I have no idea how old it is, but I can say with near-certainty that it has no value whatsoever as a collectible -- it looks like the blade was shortened by a half-inch or more and re-profiled at some point, perhaps because the edge broke or chipped.
It came to me crudely ground, with a handle so grimy that it looked like it was wrapped in electrician's tape. I spent five minutes scrubbing the gucked-up leather and ten more knocking the shoulders off of the bevel.
It feels like a keeper and a user -- not much of a woods tool, really, but it could be an ideal backyard companion. Kindling, anyone?
This is a Stanley® FatMax® Xtreme™ FuBar™ -- short for Functional Utility Bar -- and you need it.
The FuBar is a multi-purpose demolition and forcible-entry (or forcible-exit) tool. It's available in 15-, 18- and 30-inch versions.
Firefighters use FuBars. Cops and search-and-rescue pros use them, too. I've used an 18-inch FuBar for three years now and there's nothing quite like it.
It's a FuBar. It costs thirty-five bucks, and you need one -- at least.
Because a man can never have enough vises (or vices, for that matter), at another garage sale that same day I picked up this "hobby vise" (left) for two dollars. It clamps to the work-surface with a thumbscrew and will come in handy for a variety of small projects.
I spent one more dollar, that on an old Boy Scout "contest medal." These awards were introduced in the late 1920s, as I understand it, but they'd been retired by the time I became a Scout myself.
Chicago-based Armstrong Tools has been in the manufacturing business full-time since 1900. The age of this particular wrench is a mystery to me, but judging by its condition it's been around for quite a while. I snagged it for five bucks at a garage sale some years ago. (Today's equivalent will set a buyer back about $40.)
Overall length of the tool, which is made of S5 steel with phosphate coating, is 10-5/8 inches. The "cat's paw" end features an opposing striking face. On the back side is a saw wrench and -- no kidding -- a bottle opener.
Springtime isn't a spectator sport, of course. Our vegetable garden-to-be begs to be tilled and planted. Shrubbery and flower beds must be weeded and mulched. If we want our crabapple tree to survive another year, it should be pruned before it blooms.
This "monkey wrench" bears no maker's marks, so I can shed no light on its provenance except that it was my paternal grandfather's. It measures just 3.875 inches long closed; it opens to one inch. The frame and jaw appear to be cast steel and the adjuster is brass.
I pulled a plastic toolbox down from a basement shelf yesterday afternoon, recalling that we'd used it last spring to shuttle everyday wrenches and pliers and such. Buried in the bottom of the box I found three tools that once belonged to my maternal grandfather -- a claw hammer, tin snips and pruning shears.
Carved into one side of the hammer's oak handle are my grandfather's initials. The other side bears his surname. His last initial is scratched into the butt.
The head carries the marks of the maker: HELLER and MADE IN U.S.A., flanking the image of a horse.
On Hessenbruch's razors and knives, from what I gather, the bear icon often was accompanied by the words "WILD INSPECTION" (whatever that means) or "PERFECTION WARRANTED" (which at least makes sense). There's no such text on these pruning shears.
Because all of those trees are relatively mature, they shed onto our lawn every day -- just how much depends on the weather. I've made an early-morning ritual of collecting fallen wood and carrying it to a semi-tidy pile I've built behind the garage.
Some hours later I squinted through a magnifying glass at the faint letters -- first name and surname, postal route, town and state. A quick bit of research, colored by a splash of speculation, gives me a story to tell.
