On the Move, by Zane Hamm

It hangs in my bathroom. My grandma’s wrench, from her Ford A-1 Sport Coup, 1928.

It’s a bit rusty, but solid. Gleaming metal. Look closely: there is the iconic, elegant Ford in cursive writing, with a simple wire to hang it. My dad gave it to me– a living, functional piece of art.

He gets my interest in the story, and in her life. Elizabeth Deborah.

Her tools were tenacity, grit, like a bookmark in a chapter of a life well-lived.  

It could fit in your pocket. In a toolbelt. On a window ledge.

Or on the wall of any place one might call “home”.

A wrench. But, more than that. It is a connection, a reminder, of roots and segments of a woman’s life that came before me. Her path led from Russia (later borders shifted it to Ukraine) to Herbert, Saskatchewan, Canada. Mennonite, when that was dangerous to be. Small town prairie, and then teacherages, and farm life – a safer haven, but each with their own steely resolve and expectations.

The weight of this, holding it in my hand now, reminds me of my living memories of time with her: Endless garden, family farm, and wide, straw-colored fields and pussy willows, the ‘new’ car (a Dodge Dart) that came out only on Sundays, for church. Of rummaging on the family farm in old vehicles and the ‘rubbish pile’ to burn garbage on the Alkaline slough.

Like a secret glimpse of her, before me: Gritty and gutsy, selling Singer sewing machines in California. Prairie to Pacific road trip, with her sister and her mother. Zooming along – kicking up dust and possibility. Waiting until 27 to marry and teaching in one-room schools. Having a career when few women took that path– especially farm women, miles from the bright lights.

Her roles were clear, in some realm – a weekly rhythm to the days: Mennonite faith and service, cleaning on Saturdays and then the Sabbath, a day of rest on Sunday (not fun, when you want to run around!), and yet she forged a distinct path that pushed back more than a little bit on expected roles.

I remember:

Seasons and safe passage: A bridge connecting back to my own experiences on the family farm, of the Harvest Run wheat and custom combining, parts runs.

Fallow: A time to plant, then growth and harvest - and time and time for fixing. Rest and recovery.

Care: A steward of the land and garden. Every ribbon and button, bread bag, washed; saved.

A Sense of Place, Recognition, and Belonging: Silhouettes of tools in the old shop, so each would know its home. A duty and adventure– and back.

Grandma Elizabeth was hearty, hard-working, and quirky. She sewed sleeves on my shirts so I wouldn’t catch a cold or be immodest. She tied rags in my hair for cascading curls. My mom found me sitting on the steps of her farmhouse one day, waiting to be picked up.

“You looked like an orphan” she told me later. And a new nickname: “Ragamuffin”.

Grandma, like her wrench, was practical. An environmentalist before her time– we bathed in one inch of water– she used the “scrap pail” to compost. Saved Christmas oranges for July in the ‘cold cellar’. She was creative, resourceful, resilient. Her faith, culture, and artistic flair were evident in many small snippets and colored threads: Apple stickers over a picture of people smoking.

Cards and beads made with pages torn from Sears catalogues.

The soundtrack: Radio with Back to the Bible broadcast in scratchy global wafts. Hymn Sing.

She embarrassed me, as a teen, witnessing on a Greyhound bus– to teenage boys just older than me!  And yet … I was proud of her convictions. A full life. At 18– trying to be ‘all grown up’ and professional in my summer job at the local seniors’ home, I stared down the resident biddy. With a sharp reputation as the ‘bitter’ lady– “you better watch her – she was Grandpa’s old rival.

I can still hear it though, her voice, grudgingly,

“You look just like Elizabeth”.

And then. A smirk. Or was that a hint of a smile– or the invigorating energy of holding on to old spite? Either way, she then treated me, and ONLY me, with respect. Or at least, a distant nod of recognition, and no harassment.

Then, under her breath: “Never wear those awful pants. You wear dresses, like a nurse should.”

Grandma wore an apron, a kerchief, pants under dresses– stained glass print, no less.

Mortifying then– but it was a look I later adopted for myself in the 90s.

On about the wrench:

It’s a link to rural roots– deep, and real, despite– or maybe because- of our chosen urban pathway. Like chain-link, it’s connected to childhood and endless views– the “Blue Sky Farm.”

Adventures beyond small-town borders and the true daily tasks of just ‘getting on with things’.

She knew– and I am learning– that there is a time and a season for new beginnings, digging in, just working a little harder to move through the next step.

In the sheen, there is possibility– of ‘breaking the spell’ with travel and shifting the story, beyond.

Change of time, scenery, and expectations.

In the weight, there is steadiness– Fixing what needs attending. Moving forward– dusty, hot, persistence. Resilience in times of drought, doubt, praying for rain.

Mustering up support and putting things in motion.

In the rust– A dash of mystery– “I never would have guessed that bit!”– or the next chapters.

In the grip– Preservation– and bigger than that– a way of life.

I look for it, too– my place, a space between, but with a red toolbox of my own: “Zane” in Sharpie marker.

I hold her wrench now, and imagine: Rural Saskatchewan meets California and west coast.

I took that path, too. Prairie to Pacific. Then back again.

Today I write about migration, generations– Left, and Leaving.

I teach, and work with women in the trades.

Who knew, when I first dug it out, buried in my basement archives, that an old wrench nearly a 100 years later, would whisper the values I need today. But there it is. A tool. Art. Council.

Listen, it says: Travel safely, with compassion, and above all– courage in a time of change.

A shard of hope, held in your hand. Or tucked in your pocket, along for the ride.