Let The Hammer Do The Work

A few days before Father’s Day, a radio talk show host invited listeners to call in and share the best advice their fathers ever gave them. I knew instantly what I would have told her; a bit of wisdom he shared with me that I’ve never forgotten.

It happened one summer day when I was nine years old. My mother was at work; my father was on vacation from his machine shop job and catching up on projects he had delayed for months.

The undertaking for that day was new roofing on the “shed.” Since we had no garage, a small wooden building in our backyard served as a workshop, laundry room and storage area.

I was elated about the project because I was being allowed to “help”. The shed’s roof was flat so there was little chance I would fall off it.

After carrying a hefty roll of roofing material up the ladder and onto the shed roof, my dad measured what was needed for the job, cut off that length from the roll, positioned it and tacked one end. My job was to nail down the roofing paper. I was eager to start. He showed me where he wanted the nails: about four or five inches apart along the edge of the roofing paper. Once I started driving nails, it turned out to be a harder job than I expected. I grasped the handle of the hammer about three inches from the hammerhead, tapped the nail to get it started, then pounded on the nail furiously to drive it home. About twenty blows later, the 3/4-inch long nail was finally all the way into the roof. I pounded a dozen or so nails that way, working up a good sweat, before I started complaining about how hard the wood was and how the nails didn’t go in easily. That was when my father told me something I never forgot. He took my hand in his, slid it down to the bottom of the hammer handle, and, using a pounding motion, said, “Let the hammer do the work.”

At nine years old, I simply didn’t believe him; I just knew he was wrong. Holding the hammer that way wouldn’t make it easier; it just made it heavier—a lot heavier. I also knew I couldn’t hold the hammer like that and swing it accurately. I was certain I would smash my fingers.

“Try it,” he commanded.

I knelt on the gritty roofing paper, picked up a nail, and grasped the hammer at the handle’s end with my left hand. Squeezing the nail between my thumb and forefinger, I tentatively raised the seemingly heavier hammer, tapping on the nail to start it into the wood. Quickly I pulled my fingers out of the way, and swung the hammer down, hard.

I was astounded. Not only did I hit the nail square, it sank about a quarter of its length into the wood. A few quick hits with the hammer, and the nail was all the way into the wood.

It worked! He was right!

I picked up another nail, and pounded it in with equal ease. After driving in a half-dozen nails I was converted to holding the hammer handle at the end and letting the hammer do the work.

We finished the roofing job in a few hours, and I was excited about what I had learned. That night at supper I told my mother about learning to let the hammer do the work. I looked at my dad, and he was looking at my mother and smiling over my words. It was a moment of high satisfaction for both of us. He was happy to have taught me something important, and I was happy he had taught it to me.

Even today, nearly 60 years later, whenever I pick up a hammer I hear his words: “Let the hammer do the work.”

There’s no great moral or hidden truth in that simple statement. And it really didn’t change my life or become a life-guiding principle.

On the other hand, it gives credence to the saying “You never know when you’re making a memory.” Simple events can last a lifetime. I’m sure neither my dad nor I ever imagined those six words would turn into a lifelong memory for me. But they did, firmly driven in like those nails so many years ago.