Here I am again, Diary. It's been some time since I last wrote in you. A great event has taken place. I now am the proud owner of a private shack behind our garage that has both a window and a door. I even have a lock for the door. And I lock it. So nobody else can get in. Except me. I'm the only guy in the world with the key that'll open the padlock. To tell the truth, Diary, I have two keys, one I hid in the garage. But you're the only one I'll tell.
Even when it rains in the summer, or come winter when it snows, the shack's roof won't leak at all because we three nailed tar paper on it and then covered each nail with tar. That's to stop water from entering the nail hole.
Anyway, Mister Nelson—Byron, not Brian, as I told you before—taught me many things two Saturdays ago. Putting tar on a flat roof over the nails that hold the tar paper down is one thing. Another thing he taught me was how to use hammer. Now, I didn't think I had to learn how to use a hammer. I thought any dummy could pound a nail into wood, me included. But I didn't know how to use a hammer like a carpenter. Now I do. Because Mister Nelson taught me how. His son, Johnny, already knew how to do the "tricks of the trade" his dad taught me that day. And every time Byron said something, Johnny said just about the same thing, adding "Yup, yup." He was hid dad’s echo. But what did I have to complain about? Nothing. I own my own brand new shack. Of course, it's made out of all old stuff.
I also learned how to measure twice or even a third time, and saw only once. That way, I didn't waste a lot of wood. I also learned how to saw a straight line. Well, as straight as a kid my age could get it.
The door is kind of small. I can't just open the door and walk in like I do when I walk into our crazy house. No way. I kneel down a bit and first unlock the padlock. Next I pull open the door on its hinges. Then, I get on my knees and crawl in.
Byron had plenty of old, used hinges. He saves lots of old things in wooden boxes. He has plenty of things like screws and doorknobs and padlocks and nails and nuts and bolts and screws and wire. Plenty of wire. He stores all that stuff in separate wooden boxes. One for hinges. Another for screws. And so on. He stores the boxes neatly on shelves in his garage. "Once you been through the Great Depression like me and my family," he said, "you learn to save things. That way you don't have to buy new all the time. New is okay. But old is free."
Albert Kell, Bobby's dad, must've lived through the Great Depression, too. But his garage looks like a tornado went through it. It's really messy. Only he knows where things are. Sometimes. And the only animal that knows where things are in the Kell garage is the Kell cat. It always finds a place to hide before it gives birth to its kittens.
Byron gave me two hinges for the door. Big ones. "They came off a barn door, that is, if I remember right," he said.
I grabbed some nails. And with his big paw, he stopped me. "You have to use screws instead of nails in those hinges."
"Yup, yup," said Johnny.
"Why?" I asked, dummy that I was.
"Because nails," Byron explained, "will loosen up after you open and close the door a few times. Screws won't slacken at all."
"Yup, yup,' said Johnny.
Slacken. Interesting word, huh? Anyway, I thought so. Afterwards, I looked it up in my Thorndike.
Byron told me to turn the first screw into the wood. Of course with a screwdriver. But first he taught me to pound a nail part way into the wood where the screw would be located. "Just a little bit as a starter hole," he explained.
"Yup, yup," said Johnny.
After pulling that nail out of the starter hole, I started to turn the screw into the wood. At first, it was kind of easy. But only for a little while. After that, it was really hard to turn at all. The palm of my hand started to hurt a bit. I looked at it. So did Johnny and Byron. "You're gonna get a couple of blisters," said Johnny, smiling. I found out later why he was smiling. He must've been taught the same lesson I was about to learn. Finally, I finished tightening the screw all the way in. "There," I said.
"Now, I'm gonna show you a little trick," said Byron.
"Yup, yup," said Johnny. He was smiling even more than he was before. He reached into dad's toolbox, moved things around, and eventually pulled out a stub of a burned down yellow candle. "It's beeswax," Johnny said.
"You'll find out it'll make your job a lot easier," said his dad.
“Can I?” Johnny asked his dad.
“Sure.”
Johnny rubbed the screw's swirls on the beeswax. And then handed the screw to me. "Try this," he said.
Boy, that beeswax trick was something else. Let me tell you, Diary. It was a heck of a lot easier to turn all the other screws in the barn door hinges into my wood door and the door frame than it was tightening the first one that didn't have any beeswax at all.
Besides all the things I learned from Byron, he gave me plenty of things for the shack that I didn't have. For free. Old things that he saved. He pulled out an old hasp from one of his wood boxes. Before he put that box back on the shelf, I counted a bunch of other hasps.
Next, he grabbed a wood box filled with old padlocks. Keys were wired to their "shackles." The shackles, he explained, are the steel upside down U-shaped pieces above the padlocks’ bodies, which he called their "cases." When you key open the padlock from underneath, the shackle springs up from the case. And then when you want to lock the padlock, you just push down the shackle back into the hole in its case. And just like that, it's locked.
Crazy Annie and Johnny are the only other kids I've let into my shack. So far. Most of the time, I am in it, alone. Being in my own home beats being in that crazy house on the other side of the garage. The crazy house gets crazier all the time.
Even when it rains in the summer, or come winter when it snows, the shack's roof won't leak at all because we three nailed tar paper on it and then covered each nail with tar. That's to stop water from entering the nail hole.
Anyway, Mister Nelson—Byron, not Brian, as I told you before—taught me many things two Saturdays ago. Putting tar on a flat roof over the nails that hold the tar paper down is one thing. Another thing he taught me was how to use hammer. Now, I didn't think I had to learn how to use a hammer. I thought any dummy could pound a nail into wood, me included. But I didn't know how to use a hammer like a carpenter. Now I do. Because Mister Nelson taught me how. His son, Johnny, already knew how to do the "tricks of the trade" his dad taught me that day. And every time Byron said something, Johnny said just about the same thing, adding "Yup, yup." He was hid dad’s echo. But what did I have to complain about? Nothing. I own my own brand new shack. Of course, it's made out of all old stuff.
I also learned how to measure twice or even a third time, and saw only once. That way, I didn't waste a lot of wood. I also learned how to saw a straight line. Well, as straight as a kid my age could get it.
The door is kind of small. I can't just open the door and walk in like I do when I walk into our crazy house. No way. I kneel down a bit and first unlock the padlock. Next I pull open the door on its hinges. Then, I get on my knees and crawl in.
Byron had plenty of old, used hinges. He saves lots of old things in wooden boxes. He has plenty of things like screws and doorknobs and padlocks and nails and nuts and bolts and screws and wire. Plenty of wire. He stores all that stuff in separate wooden boxes. One for hinges. Another for screws. And so on. He stores the boxes neatly on shelves in his garage. "Once you been through the Great Depression like me and my family," he said, "you learn to save things. That way you don't have to buy new all the time. New is okay. But old is free."
Albert Kell, Bobby's dad, must've lived through the Great Depression, too. But his garage looks like a tornado went through it. It's really messy. Only he knows where things are. Sometimes. And the only animal that knows where things are in the Kell garage is the Kell cat. It always finds a place to hide before it gives birth to its kittens.
Byron gave me two hinges for the door. Big ones. "They came off a barn door, that is, if I remember right," he said.
I grabbed some nails. And with his big paw, he stopped me. "You have to use screws instead of nails in those hinges."
"Yup, yup," said Johnny.
"Why?" I asked, dummy that I was.
"Because nails," Byron explained, "will loosen up after you open and close the door a few times. Screws won't slacken at all."
"Yup, yup,' said Johnny.
Slacken. Interesting word, huh? Anyway, I thought so. Afterwards, I looked it up in my Thorndike.
Byron told me to turn the first screw into the wood. Of course with a screwdriver. But first he taught me to pound a nail part way into the wood where the screw would be located. "Just a little bit as a starter hole," he explained.
"Yup, yup," said Johnny.
After pulling that nail out of the starter hole, I started to turn the screw into the wood. At first, it was kind of easy. But only for a little while. After that, it was really hard to turn at all. The palm of my hand started to hurt a bit. I looked at it. So did Johnny and Byron. "You're gonna get a couple of blisters," said Johnny, smiling. I found out later why he was smiling. He must've been taught the same lesson I was about to learn. Finally, I finished tightening the screw all the way in. "There," I said.
"Now, I'm gonna show you a little trick," said Byron.
"Yup, yup," said Johnny. He was smiling even more than he was before. He reached into dad's toolbox, moved things around, and eventually pulled out a stub of a burned down yellow candle. "It's beeswax," Johnny said.
"You'll find out it'll make your job a lot easier," said his dad.
“Can I?” Johnny asked his dad.
“Sure.”
Johnny rubbed the screw's swirls on the beeswax. And then handed the screw to me. "Try this," he said.
Boy, that beeswax trick was something else. Let me tell you, Diary. It was a heck of a lot easier to turn all the other screws in the barn door hinges into my wood door and the door frame than it was tightening the first one that didn't have any beeswax at all.
Besides all the things I learned from Byron, he gave me plenty of things for the shack that I didn't have. For free. Old things that he saved. He pulled out an old hasp from one of his wood boxes. Before he put that box back on the shelf, I counted a bunch of other hasps.
Next, he grabbed a wood box filled with old padlocks. Keys were wired to their "shackles." The shackles, he explained, are the steel upside down U-shaped pieces above the padlocks’ bodies, which he called their "cases." When you key open the padlock from underneath, the shackle springs up from the case. And then when you want to lock the padlock, you just push down the shackle back into the hole in its case. And just like that, it's locked.
Crazy Annie and Johnny are the only other kids I've let into my shack. So far. Most of the time, I am in it, alone. Being in my own home beats being in that crazy house on the other side of the garage. The crazy house gets crazier all the time.
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