Sharing Tools

And other ways to build community

Photo by Hunter Haley on Unsplash

I’ve been a home owner since my very early 20s. In fact, I had my first house before I had all the tools I would need to keep it in good shape. And that’s not unusual. Lots of people buy houses and then have to figure out which pipe wrench to buy when the sink leaks.

It started with the most basic of tools – battery operated drills/drivers, levels small enough to fit in a pocket, the claw hammer I salvaged from my grandfather’s house after he died. You can only get so far with such things. No, I had no idea that you really do need a longer level for better accuracy. Cordless drills need brakes? Saw blades heat fatigue?!?

There should be a class.

Technically, “the class” is wisdom handed down from a parent with know-how. My dad is not handy. My mom *thinks* that she is handy.

By the time I was in my second house, the hundred-year-old craftsman that needed a lot of love and updating, I had determined that I could teach myself all of the skills I would need to keep things running, to renovate, and to improve. And that’s exactly what I did. But I did not do it alone.

“If you wanna run a new line out to your garage, all you need to do is flip the main off and connect it to those breakers,” said my very knowledgeable neighbor over a backyard beer.

I nodded sagely. “Riiiiight. And you’ve done that?”

“Oh yeah.” Long slow sip. “I’ll help you if you’ll hold the stick.”

“The stick?”

“Yeah, you hold a broom or two-by-four next to me so you can push me off if I get stuck to the panel from residual electricity.”

“I…… What??”

Nothing bad happened. We unspooled thirty feet of heavy copper cable through the pipe that fed the garage from underneath the backyard, and my neighbor bravely hooked it up to the waiting breaker in the main panel in the basement. I was impressed, and I learned some really valuable things.

Like always have a “stick” person nearby.

Not long after, another neighbor offered me his old belt sander when he saw me cleaning up the fence around the front yard. I still have that tool. The guy across the street brought over a twelve-foot-long pike to pry out a root from the backyard. His neighbor loaned me my first chainsaw. We borrowed a pressure washer from another neighbor.

Sometimes we traded eggs from our chickens or produce from our garden for time with those tools. Other times it was simply the generosity of those neighbors who came to my aid when I needed it most. I cannot say how many things I learned in those exchanges; both the hands-on expertise of building/fixing/working on parts of the house or garage and also the experience of the people behind those tools, where their education came from, all the projects they’d taken on, why that cord was taped together, how to remove the o-ring when the fitting seized. Where my parents failed me, my neighbors stepped in.

And, I mean, failure is a big word there. I’m not sincere. I love that my dad is an indoor kid at heart. But I am not.

As the years and the houses in my name stacked up, I often became the experienced person loaning out a tool or offering advice on what type of mortar to buy for a tile job. I’ve lent and borrowed tools from coworkers, exchanged in the employee parking lot or hauled to and from work on a bus or train (often with some funny looks from the folks sitting next to me). I’ve swapped horror and success stories over dinners and beers and lunches and coffee. And every time it happens I find myself anew, I connect in a meaningful way with someone, and I know that we are actively making the world better.

It's been a long time since that’s happened, though, and after a lot of harrowing experiences (I don’t know, like maybe a pandemic…), I once again found myself loading the car up with lumber and supplies, working outside in the heat and wildfire smoke. There’s a chain-link fence between my house and each neighbor, and one of them peeked through to see what I was building the other day.

“How big is your air compressor?” he asked.

“Oh,” I waved at it, “you know, just the little pancake one for small projects.”

He sized up the framing of the shed I’ve been building, clearly not a small project. “I’ve got a 60 gallon if you want to borrow it.” Within five minutes it was in my yard and my neighbor and I were regaling one another with tales of hexagonal tiles, flooring sanding nightmares, and retainer block walls. And his compressor really was a very fine tool. I was told I could keep it as long as I needed it, that I was always welcome to borrow it – or any other tool for that matter – if he had something I needed. We talked tools for almost an hour before I got back to work. Between the two of us we probably have all the equipment to tackle just about any household job.

But it’s not really about the tools.

Sharing tools is something deep and ancient in human socialization. It’s a safe place where neighbors can support one another and build a relationship in the process. Sometimes it means working together, especially when one neighbor has experience than another needs. Sometimes you just need another pair of hands to help lift. Many was the time I thought I knew what I needed only to have a neighbor see my problem and give me an entirely new solution I could never have imagined myself. And in each of those exchanges a thin thread of root begins to grow between each of us, tying ourselves to each other and to our larger landscape of togetherness. It is this landscape that my children grow up in, their antics watched by the retirees down the street who will happily report on whatever shenanigans they observe. It is this collective I feed with All The Zucchini coming out of the garden this time of year. And when it is needed, this is where we will lean on one another for support and kindness where we need it most, right here at home.

If you haven’t ever shared or borrowed a tool, this is your calling to consider it. Don’t be afraid to ask for the wisdom of the person up the road who is always outside with a solid-looking toolbox by their side. Offer your own perspective when you see the new folks on the block staring at their gutters leaking. Learn something new together. Build something bigger than what you started out planning. It might just become a community.

Your trans friend,

Robin

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