Grandpa’s Toolbox
I originally wrote this for Canadian Woodworking Magazine, but it’s always been a piece of my own history. It belongs here too — in the Rambles, where the stories live.
⭐ Estimated Reading Time: 4–5 minutes
When I was a teenybopper in the 80s — big hair, no supervision — the basement woodworking shop was my safe place. Tools scattered across old plywood benches, a fluffy layer of sawdust clinging to the paintbrushes, putty knives, and used paint rollers hanging from bent nails along the wall. Most days I was cutting wood or gluing up some crooked little board. But sometimes, when I couldn’t find a scrap to build with and the fireplace had already eaten the good offcuts keeping winter’s cold fingers outside, I’d clean the shop.
Grandpa’s Brace and Auger Bits
Some of Grandpa’s tools came to me loose, scattered, or worn down to nothing — but the brace and auger bits were different. He built a small plywood box to hold them, corners mashed from years of use, the lid stained dark from oil and damp basement air. Inside, the brace still turns smooth, the wooden handle polished by his hands and mine. The auger bits sit in their rows, each one sharpened who‑knows‑how-many times, each one ready to bore a clean hole if I ever ask it to. They’re simple tools, but they carry the weight of real work — the kind done slowly, by hand, with patience and purpose. I keep them together in his box, just the way he intended.
Everything had its place.
Sawdust swept into the bin.
Order restored.
And if all that was done and my “shop time” still wasn’t satisfied, I’d pull the old tools out from below the bench.
A plywood box with mashed corners, stained black from grease and years of dampness that seeped through the basement walls. Grandpa’s tools were inside — heavy with old metal, memory, and loss. Beneath layers of cobwebs, sawdust, and the occasional dead cricket, a secret forgotten but still felt. I’d slide that old box out and let the soft yellow light of the room reveal what it could.
The sawdust smelled old — that unmistakable blend of tool oil, light rust, douglas fir and the kind of nostalgia only Grandpa’s shop and his old vintage tools could hold.
A bit and brace with a set of auger bits.
An old steel electric drill.
A hand plane.
Chisels with edges long dull, their sharpness gone as Grandpa’s shaky hands could no longer bring them back.
I understood the drill.
But the bit and brace? That thing was a mystery. I’d practice with it, drilling holes full of tear-out and disappointment, wondering why Grandpa needed such a tool, where he got it, and what he used it on. The truth, of course, was simple: power cords used to be too short. This was cordless before cordless was cool.
But as neat as it was, the bit brace had no sway over me like the hand plane did.
That hand plane…
Grandpa’s hand plane
— the one tool from his box that stayed with me. Old metal, worn wood, and every lesson it ever taught still lives in my shop.
Dark wooden knob and tote.
Metal with a light rust and a roughness, a deep gray patina from years of storage and damp basement air. Grooves along the sole and old bits of wood still curled at the blade.
Brass screws turned brown with dried oil and time.
Old‑world craftsmanship in every line.
I didn’t know what it was for, but I knew exactly how it was meant to be held. I’d turn it over in my hands, studying every curve and screw, feeling the weight of it, imagining the work it once did. I’d dust it off and rub a light coat of oil on its surface, knowing that one day I’d figure this thing out.
Then I’d place everything back in the box, slide it under the bench, turn off the lights, and head upstairs. I’d wash my hands, watching the grease and tang of old metal swirl down the drain.
That was decades ago — more than I care to count — but here we are.
That box is probably still in Dad’s old workshop, smelling the same, with a few more dead crickets inside.
The tools live in my shop now.
The bit brace sits in a drawer, taking up space, waiting for its moment in the light again. But the hand plane? I figured that one out. It’s restored, loved, and part of a collection where dozens of planes sit lined up together — all because of Grandpa’s old toolbox. It’s the only plane that passed from his hands to mine, and now I use it all the time. I smile as Leo, my son and apprentice, discovers the same lessons it once taught me. And with tools scattered across plywood benches, I’m proud to watch how these tools are shaping him into the craftsman he’s becoming.
Grandpa’s Auger Bits
These are Grandpa’s auger bits — the full set he kept in the plywood box he built with his own hands. I stood them up one afternoon for a photo shoot, wanting to see them the way he might have seen them: lined up, proud, ready for work. Each bit carries its own history in the spiral flutes and worn steel, sharpened who‑knows‑how-many times, used long before cordless drills made life easy. They were the quiet backbone of his shop, boring holes in fence posts, jigs, cabinets, and whatever else needed doing. I don’t use them often, but I keep them together, upright, and respected — a small tribute to the man who taught me what tools really mean.
Handplane collection
These are some of the handplanes I’ve collected over the years — a small part of a larger story that started with Grandpa’s old No. 5C. Once I understood that first plane, the rest followed naturally. I learned how to tune them, how to read the grain, how to trust the weight of a tool that doesn’t need electricity to do perfect work. Each plane here has been cleaned, sharpened, and brought back to life. They’re not museum pieces; they’re working tools, shaping boards in the same way craftsmen did a century ago. They remind me where I came from.
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Written by David Flather, Red Seal cabinetmaker and founder of Knotty Dave’s Fine Woodworking — a Manitoba shop rooted in heritage restoration, storytelling, and real craft.
All photos shot by David Flather — in the shop, on the road, and in the places where craft and story meet.
Related rambles: The World Runs on Pencils, How to Arrive at Perfect
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