Fairy tale of *the old rusty Stanley hand plane.*

The old rusty Stanley hand plane.

Once upon a time in a little land called Denmark, up under the ceiling in a little house in the city of Copenhagen, right there on the back on the floor, amongst dust, dirt and shaves, an old rusty Stanley hand plane was resting…

He was looking up at the work shop wall where all those beautiful shiny new bronze planes was standing proud on the shelf’s, shelf’s that was made just for them, with spotlights to make them highlighted for whoever would come into the little workshop.
These bronze planes were the pride of the owner, so he loved to take one down, to hold it so careful in his hands as if it was a little sweet baby he was holding, and his eyes had no rest until the planes was back on the shelf’s if some of his guests was holding them. The fine new bronze planes, was of course full of pride and joy, and when they looked down on the old Stanley so full of rust and dings, a piece of the handle broken off, and old paint and tar spread all over, they felt much better, so much more important here in the highlight.

Sometimes the owner even took a shave with one of these beauties, and asked his friends to see how sweet the shaves were from this plane, he would adjust, oil and even transport them in socks so they would not get cold or scratched, the old Stanley he would throw into the other tools in a big box and bring him only out to use if a plank had a nail or was full of old paint or tar, in this way the beautiful bronze babies would not get dirty or scratched.
Most of the time the bronze planes were actually not even brought to work, so the old Stanley had to go alone, since the owner was afraid they would get stolen if brought to the work site or that something should happen to them.

But in the evening when the lights went out and the owner went to bed, the workshop became full of life, and the talking began, the bronze’s were telling about how he had hold them so proud, how they had been caressed and shown to the others. The new wrench that was still in his box, could tell that he was a Bahco from Sweden, a brand new quality tool, so the owner kept him for now in his box. And like this all the different tools had their stories to tell.

But when the morning came they were all completely quiet except for one, all were they sitting still with the mouths open, listening to that old Stanley on the floor. No one could tell stories like him, no one had been around like him, traveled like him, spend endless hours with other tools, in the hands of different owners, working in different materials, straightened out planks day after day. He had even got a new handmade tote once since the old one was broken, he had spend hours alone when the owner was on break, and here the Stanley had talked with the other tools, had spend the night at several sites, been dropped and felt the owners joy when he had been able to live the fall, and so he could go on for hours and hours, and the others would listen with joy.

So one night just before the dawn, the shiny bronze planes decided to helped him up on the shelf, and they gave him the best place there, right in the center where the lights where shining the brightest, after all it was him that had made it all possible, it was his work that had paid them all.

The next day when the owner he came back to his work shop he was first surprised to find it there, but then after his morning coffee, he could see the logic, and decided it should be so, even of course he could not understand how it had happen. So he gave a well deserved restore to that old Stanley plane, and made it shiny and proud just like the others, but no more than it was still possible to see all the tracks their time together had brought him. And now the owner always started by telling stories to his friend of all the places they had been together, and he had no fear when the others was holding the old Stanley, after all they knew each other so well, and after of course of the beautiful bronze planes there on the shelf next to him.

Now we will say that is one sweet fairy tale!

But in an old woolen sack in the other end of the workshop hidden away on a shelf, a old tired wooden molding plane was laying on its side, he said nothing, since he had been around for generations, he just thought his, and then slept a little more…

Best of thoughts,
H. C. MaFe

-- Mad F, the fanatical rhykenologist and vintage architect. Democraticwoodworking.