Scary monster in the medicine cabinet
My house was built in 1942. You know how to tell? Take the lid off the toilet and look for a date stamped inside the tank. They don’t stockpile toilets, a builder told me; unless your home has been victim of a toilet-shattering catastrophe, it will have been built within a few months of the date stamped in the ceramic.
Nineteen fourty two jibes stylistically with the fixtures. Like my medicine cabinet. Inside, lurking behind the eyedrops and the cough syrup and the ten year old mystery prescriptions is the sinister object pictured above: a razor blade disposal…hole. I’ve used it myself; I once favored a safety razor.
Where do the old blades go? Down into the walls, I guess. You sometimes hear them tink once or twice on the journey. For all I know, that hole goes all the way down to the ground level.
So, maybe, somewhere in my foundations rusts a jagged pile of old razor blades.
Dear Powers that Be: in future, please be aware that I prefer my life metaphors with a little subtlety. Must try harder. Sincerely, S. Weasel.
April 9, 2007 — 7:19 am
Comments: 4
Meet my stuff
This is one of my favorite objects in the whole wild world (no, no…not the dime. Well, yes, actually…mercury dimes are nice, too).
In the late seventies, my mother bought a piece of property way back in the woods. There was a wobbly old barn and the foundation of an even older house. As she stepped onto the foundation the first time, her foot kicked loose this tiny pocket knife.
Possibly you must hold this thing in your hand to grok how cool it is. It was made with the most basic hand tools — there are clear file scrapes and hammer marks — apparently out of scraps of waste metal. The lack of polish and the hesitation around some of the cut marks suggests its creator was an amateur. The handle is horse hoof, I think. It looks, in short, like it was beaten together out of found junk.
It is, however, beautifully conceived and beautifully made. The lines are perfect. The mechanism is simple — that metal tab lifts and slips into a notch in the spine, lifting the backstrap and unlocking the blade — but it’s smooth and sure, even now. It is crude and it is amazingly elegant.
The two brass bands are an ornamental touch not repeated on the other side. Did he decide he didn’t like the look? Was he interrupted before he finished? How old is it, anyway? It is a puzzling artifact. I want to hold it in my hands and shout at it. “Cough it up! Tell me the story, goddamn you!”
I ran across it again today rummaging around for a stamp. This is a humbling object. It was, in all likelihood, hammered together out of crap by an ignorant farm hand in his spare time.
I can’t shake the feeling he’s worth three of me.
March 23, 2007 — 4:58 pm
Comments: 14