I loved this hoe. Loved it. It companioned me through many long, hot summer gardens. Through early spring and late autumn gardens as well–a go-to companion. Together we could dig-chop-weed-hill-cut anything. And Sunday it broke. I heard the first tell-tale creak of wood giving way and tried to ignore it. But with the next chop into the bed I was breaking up, the neck broke. And I was stunned. Too stunned to continue working. And so I reflected.
This was my mother’s hoe. She treasured it beyond the beyond. But somehow it ended up with me after an afternoon of working in her hosta bed. This happens. Unintentionally. I seem to have the uncanny knack of walking off with things. Lighters when I smoked. Pens. Pencils. Scissors. People who know me know it’s simply a thing I do without malice, forethought or intent. I’d like to say she gave it to me with her blessing. Asked me to “go forth” and do good work. But that’s not the case. Simply put, I don’t know HOW it came to be with me.
But I acknowledged my mother every time I used it Must have said a hundred times to numerous different people, “This was my mother’s hoe.” And I don’t remember anyone seeming the least bit curious about that. About why I would mention the hoe’s origin. And truthfully, I don’t know either. Except it seemed important. Seemed to honor both–the tool and the person.
I know how to fix this hoe. How to burn out the old broken neck part. Or drill it out. But I don’t think I’ll do that. Played with the idea of burying it, but don’t think I’ll do that either. So for now it’s resting–a long needed rest I’d say–and I’m telling again the origin of this tool. This was my mother’s hoe.
following thread 
Repurpose, Patricia, a work of art, an ode to two lives well lived and joined by this piece.
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thank you Carol. it makes me happy to have someone read this who knew mom.
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the importance of the object comes through…
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yes–and some things just can’t be expressed in words–
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Festoon it with some of your beautiful dyed cloth and plant it in the garden.
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“fes toon”–what a wonderful word. sounds exactly like its meaning–and i take your suggestion to heart–we’ll see.
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I love this post. She was a wonderful gardener and grandma. RIP.
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oh Kara! i love that the mother i wrote about here was also your grandma. she smiles.
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A beauteous mm hoe indeed. I have my father’s pond net, given to me last year whilst he was still at home.
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these tools hold so much–memories and moments shared
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the photograph is ….what. the photograph is well….the photograph IS.
i can’t find a word. maybe there is something then in just sitting with this broken necked
mother hoe and waiting a while. What is the story? There is a story. a Teaching
story. but then….burn it out and Repair, Mend. Go back to work, both you and
the mother hoe.
i love this, and who you are
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i can’t find a word either. the absolute brokenness of it. and the story? well it could be as obvious as one shouldn’t leave wooden handled tools in the rain. but even if it’s that it, there’s still “something” behind that. i know not to leave tools out. i know this. and yet many summers this is simply where the hoe lived. outside. ready when i was. i’m scouting out wood–limbs, branches, etc–for a big fire–a big bonfire and when i build the fire, i’ll lay the hoe’s head, broken neck and all, in the flames. it is my element–fire–and so we will see what’s next
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how it is absolute brokenness, but not at all “over”. Very Very much
like the burning in the bonfire
Sagittarians do this.
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I hope you fix it Patricia & if you ever visit please don’t take my best scissors!
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ha! if i’m ever so lucky to land on your Sydney doorstep, you can be sure i’ll be extra mindful of scissors and everything else.
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i have my father’s hoe. it is also in 2 pieces
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2 pieces. i’ll look at it this way. 2 pieces rather than broken
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Oh the Hoe story really pulls at my heart strings—would love to have had my Mother’s hoe. 🙂
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our mother’s tools–i’m amazed at how they help me understand her better!
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