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Fine Homebuilding: The Magazine

Great Moments: Hidden Hammer

Robyn Doyon-Aitken, producer

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A carpenter's slip reveals itself during a remodel sixty years later.

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by Dave Dickinson

When we found our new house, a neglected foreclosure, we were attracted to three things: its cost, its location, and its original floor plan. it would fit our family of six comfortably. We added a bedroom and a bath, remodeled another bath, added modern closets, and painted the walls and the trim. While attempting to open the second-floor stairwell to the main living area, I tore out the door frame at the bottom of the stairs. As with most projects, one thing led to another, and soon I realized I would have to replace the bottom two treads and risers as well as the skirtboards.

A friend was helping me, and we dug into the work, tearing off the old pine treads to the original stringers. There, in the dust and debris of the original construction and 60 years of residency, lay a hammer—a standard curved-claw, wood-handle hammer.

It was immediately apparent to us what had happened. After all, what carpenter has not installed treads and risers from the bottom up and after nearing the top dropped a tool into the stair space? Left with the choice of tearing apart good work or purchasing another hammer, this carpenter had chosen the latter and continued his work. Sixty years later, that slip revealed itself, and we had a good laugh as we considered the dilemma he had been in. We certainly respected his decision to leave properly installed work intact at the sacrifice of a hammer.

Finding a tool during a remodel is a highlight. We passed around the hammer, showing it to family and friends. All of us marveled that hammers, truly the backbone of the construction industry, have not changed much over the years. After a while, the hammer was placed on a shelf in the garage and nearly forgotten.

Later, when we were showing off some of our remodeling progress, a friend walked through the kitchen door and exclaimed, “Hey, this was my grandparents’ house! My dad grew up here, and I played in the barn and had many family gatherings in the basement.” Incredibly, it was true; 60 years before, in 1947, his grandparents had built the house on their farm and raised their family there. Finding out that his 97-year-old grandmother was still alive and that his father lived nearby, we decided to invite them for a visit after we had finished the remodel.

On a beautiful summer evening a short time later, our friend, John, brought his wife and family to visit. His father, Joe, brought his wife, Olivia, and his mother, Erma, to see the house he had grown up in. We stood outside a few minutes, looking at old pictures of the place and hearing stories of the farm, marveling that the barn, the fields, and the orchards were now houses, parks, and a fire station.

As we entered the house, the surprise on Erma’s face was evident as she stood in the kitchen she’d worked in for 30 years, now transformed. Joe walked through the kitchen, explaining how he was 11 years old and the second oldest of nine children when the family moved in. He told how his mother insisted that they move in the day before Christmas in spite of the fact that the stonework was not yet installed. Joe remembered playing in the excavation, watching the raising of the wood frame, and experiencing the camaraderie of the workmen as they installed the stone veneer.

As he left the kitchen and saw the remodeled stairs, Joe commented on the fact that the door to the stairs had been removed. He explained that his mother had insisted that the door stay closed while he had lived there. He stated that she had followed farmhouse etiquette, so the dining and living rooms were off-limits to everyone but guests; the children were relegated to the kitchen and their bedrooms.

Then, turning my way with a smile, he said, “Hey, my Uncle Frank lost a hammer in there while installing the stair treads.” I replied, “I found that hammer and have it in the garage. Do you want it?” As I returned from the garage and placed the hammer in his hands, it was clear that the circle of this hidden hammer was complete. Sixty years of dust and darkness were erased, and a man—grown now, with children and grandchildren—was swept back to a meaningful moment in his youth as he held the same hammer he had watched his uncle use those many years before.

—Dave Dickinson, Appleton, Wis.

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