The Hammer

The hammer came down, a smooth downward swing, one more repetition of a repeated movement, upward swing changing direction to come down on a nail head, driving the nail deeper into the wood, through the wood and joining it with another, one nail after another hammered.

That’s how it’s supposed to be, how it was with my father and with my grandfather, skilled craftsmen both, with years of pounding nails, joining boards, houses, garages, buildings large and small rising up from a pile of boards and bags of nails, the rhythmic swing of hammers and the music of nails pounded. But any carpenter genes, if there be such genes as carpenter genes, were not passed down to me, try as I might to master this skill, the rhythmic swing of hammers, the music of pounded nails, interrupted by me to straighten a nail bent in my pounding, an awkward swing, or to stop and pull it out, starting over, or bending it over, hammering it bent, hoping it wouldn’t show, that nobody would notice, like me, nobody would care, knowing the error of my thinking.

But this one time, today, standing atop a ladder, two boards crossed, the beginnings of a new tool shed, a place to house, to store my tools, tools so infrequently used, so inexpertly handled and cared for, today, this one time, atop a ladder, I had a rhythm going, smooth upward swing changing direction to come down on a nail head, driving it into the wood, through the wood, joining two boards, a rhythm going, syncopated though it might have been, but a steady rhythm, the music of nails pounded.

Confidently I worked.

And the hammer came down, smooth downward swing, one more repetition of repeated movement, upward swing, downward swing … right onto my thumb … and the air turned blue around me, the language unfit for mixed company, the ensuing pain reminding me, once again, that I did not inherit the carpentry genes of my father, or my grandfather, the string of skilled craftsmen ending at me.