If I Had A Hammer...

I mentioned my William Foster in a previous post and waxed romantic about the possibility that it could have been used by the last blacksmith in our family - my great, great grandfather. Something much more meaningful happened over Palm Sunday.

We went back to Minnesota to see the parents and the in-laws. While we were visiting my parents, my dad went out into the garage and came back with a three pound blacksmithing hammer. "I took this out of the garage at the old farm. It was dad's. It might have been the old man's."

We don't know for sure how old it is. There might be a manufacturer's stamp on it and if so, I might be able to track back the company that made it. But I'm not sure I want to. There are times when facts and truth should be researched and shared. But not always. I smile when I think that somehow the hammer of my great, great grandfather has been handed down to the very last of his male descendants.

My parents are coming to visit us this weekend; I expect them to be at the house in another hour or so. It should be an interesting weekend. Our youngest is turning three, so that should be a fine party. We also bought one of those overly large, assemble it yourself play sets for the girls. Assuming the weather holds, we'll be installing it this weekend.

The possibility of a blog posting coming out of this weekend seems high.