by Beth Goodman

Disclaimers: None whatsoever. Oh, maybe a spew alert.

Feedback is always welcome: bethgoodman@e-scribblers.com.

Copyright © 2004 by Beth Goodman. All Rights Reserved.

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We had little aluminum shed in the back yard, that held the lawn tools and such, and behind it, actually between it and the fence, was our woodpile.

There were scraps of lumber left over from all kinds of odd jobs, I'm not even sure where it came from. There wasn't a great deal to it, but it sure came in handy now and again.

Lots of the wood had lots of nails in it. I think that was my fault though, I really had a thing for driving nails with a hammer when I was a kid. As a matter of fact, the wooden cover over the entrance to the crawl space under the house looked like a medieval torture device from the underside -- I spent hours banging on that thing. Come to think of it, the nails were recycled too -- we had an old coffee can full of "parts" that was lockjaw waiting to happen.

One summer, someone showed me how to make a rubber band gun using a piece of 2x4, a clothespin and a nail. I thought it was fantastic, until Granny discovered all our rubber band stash missing and I had to surrender my ammunition.

The most amazing things came out of that wood pile. The stakes we used to prop up our young pine tree, boards to plug gaps in the fence, and most wonderfully, a play house.

I always wanted a play house, or a tree house, or almost any little space to call my own. I think it may have been the summer that I first tried to take over the shed, and then spent my days in a refrigerator box and tents made from a sheet and two kitchen chairs, that Granny decided to take action.

Like many projects, this was one of ingenuity and make-do.

What I wound up with was about the size of a large dog house, 3 feet high, 3 feet wide and 4 feet long. It had 3 walls (with a few gaps where the plywood had been cut for some other purpose) and a flat roof that only leaked a little in the rain.

I remember sitting and reading, scrunched up in there, and feeling so nicely hidden and safe. (Oddly enough I still get that feeling in the bathroom at work, which is sometimes the only place I can hear myself think.)

It wasn't exactly something out of Better Homes & Gardens, and actually it could be rather unpleasant. It had a severe list to one side, smelled a bit, and attracted spiders, but it was built with as much love as the Taj Mahal and I treasured it.

So much of my life with Granny was like this, a hodge podge of salvaged pieces, mixed liberally with some elbow grease and Scotch-Irish determination. We never really had much too speak of, but in so many ways we had everything we ever needed.

It's amazing, the things we carry with us through life, as I sit and write this I realize that I have my own little mini version of our woodpile in the odd scraps of lumber in the back of my closet, and the coffee can of half-rusted parts has evolved into a large tackle box where at least you don't have to dump the whole thing out to find a screw that might fit.

I also carry the ability to "fix things." It may not always be the best way, or with the parts you'd expect, but it's such a wonderful skill to have. How else would I have scraped along without new glasses last year, if I hadn't figured out how to use a drywall anchor to hold them together?!

Most importantly, the thing I picked from these make-do experiences with Granny was to keep my eyes open, and my mind in gear -- you never knew what odd bit you might pick up along the way that would be exactly what you needed later in the journey.

They say that when all you have is a hammer, everything starts to look like a nail, but Granny would say, when all you have is a hammer, you just need to find new ways to use it to get the job done.

Take me to Life With Granny 5...

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