“Free” and “Made in U.S.A.” were the buzz words.
NORTH CAROLINA HAS ALWAYS been one of my favorite vacation destinations, particularly the Great Smoky Mountains. I love the states’ abundance of flowering trees, especially fruit trees, like peach, pear, apple, & cherry. The Garden of Eden, indeed, along with its rich history of furniture manufacturers and knitting mills.
But sadly, much of the knitting has been outsourced overseas. In the early 1980s, Jim Throneburg set out to change that, and invented the Thorlos brand, vowing Thorlos will always be made in Statesville, North Carolina.
I hadn’t remembered hearing the name Thorlos, but when an acquaintance posted Free socks offer* on a sportsmen’s chat forum, I tuned in PDQ. A little research revealed Thorlos makes purpose-designed socks for outdoors people, tradesmen, medical conditions [diabetes], and leisure. Their core is developing relationships with people who want/need “engineered padded socks” which reduce blisters, pain, pressures, and moisture. Their mission is to be the very best padded sock manufacturing company in America.
The DeFeet Aireator® blog posting remains one of the most popular on AmericanToolbox. DeFeets, however, are different from Thorlos. DeFeets started out making a light, breathable sock, and Thorlos makes a heavily padded sock. Both great American companies, but with different focus.
My free pair came today. I chose the hiking, crew length. My feet will be loving these socks, from an easy start through springtime meadows to the hottest August hill-climb. And the bonus, I’ll be absolutely stylin’ on the trails in these sage-colored socks, with my Danner Boots. Turns out, I do have Thorlos experience, as the knitting is recognizable. I inherited several pairs of Thorlos when my brother passed, but never knew the brand. His collection is pushing 15- to 20- years old, and still serviceable.
GOOD THINGS COME in small packages. A motto I’ve often reminded coworkers who remark upon my diminutive stature. So when I spied a small flat leather case on the top rack behind the hardware checkout counter, my interest was piqued.
At this time in my life, my efficiency as a tradesman depended upon compartmentalization. A box for this, a pouch for that. Having the right copper fitting or wall anchor, perhaps a handful of cement or two wire nuts, determined if the job would be completed in one trip. Small, efficient, purpose-build cases were the rage. And that flat leather, snap-closed case looked interesting.
Clyde glanced over, spied the case after a bit, and said he wasn’t sure what it was. A step stool aided retrieval, and a moment later, I was holding a case of thick leather, well-stitched & riveted, with the heavily embossed words, SCHRADE TOOL. Childhood presents had impressed upon me the value of small heavy items, and the case’s heft intimated something good was within!
“How much?” Clyde shrugged, said “Twenty bucks”. I responded with a skeptical frown, but peeled a twenty from my pocket, dropped it on the counter, and let him figure out how to handle a sale with no SKU or stock number. Got the case in my pocket before he could change his mind!
Stamped SHRADE U.S.A., this multi-tool is perfect for an outdoorsman, tradesman, hobbyist, and anyone who likes to be prepared. I’ve actually acquired another; one for the truck and one for the desk drawer. While I’ve yet to use the saw or metal file, the multi-tool has more than once completed its task, saving me a trip to a more complete toolbox.
Many of the Schrade multi-tools are now imported. Their lifetime warranty is nice, but I still prefer the domestic tools when you can find them. USA production Schrade multi-tool, about $1 to $20 at a garage sale near you.
THE ROLLICKING ’20s were a grand time in Philadelphia. Luxury “flats” stretched entire blocks. Inside these aristocratic apartments, room after room unfolded in a maze. As an apprentice plumber, a kid in a man’s body, I once found myself on the 8th floor above 15th and Spruce, snapping a piece of 6″ cast iron pipe. We were replacing part of a cracked stack in just such a grande dame near the Academy of Music.
Snap! Crack! Ouch! . . . wait, what happened? The pipe jumped forward a funny way, and smacked my ankle. The boss, grinning through his cigarette smoke, christened me Hoppy, chuckling at the swelling. A few minutes later, he promised we’d visit Vern at the boot store. My health benefits were about to kick in.
Vern ran the local Red Wing Boot Store. For ten bucks, Vern handed me a used but serviceable pair of boots in my size from out back. I was now officially a plumber, with the boots to match. 8″ of leather protected my ankles. Sturdy soles protected my arches in the trenches, where I practiced the Art of Digging. I’ve been buying Red Wing exclusively ever since.
There is a city called Red Wing, in Minnesota. The heart of a country engrossed with mining, logging and farming needed the Right Boots. In 1905, local shoe merchant Charles Beckman, along with 14 investors, opened a shoe company to develop work boots to fill industry needs. A new standard for excellence was born!
My current pair was bought as closeouts a decade ago, and finally put into service a few years back. After the heels became mushy, I belatedly discovered these boots were not recraftable. New boots looked to be in order. However, a shoe genius located, at all places, the corner of 15th and Spruce, cut off the heels and glued on new ones for $40, saving me a thick stack of crisp Yankee dollars.
Red Wing is a city in Goodhue County, Minnesota, United States, on the Mississippi River. The population was 16,459 at the 2010 census. It is the county seat of Goodhue County.
LET THE TRUTH be told. I didn’t read the book. But I was deeply entertained with the fine narration by Richard Ferrone. Richie’s voice came through my truck speakers, via a library loan of the book on MP3. I highly recommend an audio book over news stations and most music.
Face it, you don’t need to hear the news. You don’t want to hear the news. It is so often mindless content, inflicted by media conglomerates in greedy desire to suffer upon you countless product advertisements for which you have no interest.
The story (yes, we are now back to literary discussions) is a neat tale of a loafer computer dude working at a bank, who discovers a narco criminale’s bank account. Humm. Easy pickings! Back door, multiple wire transfers, buy lots of gold. Scram! Easy! Done! Not!
Then comes the DEA, the Mexican Federales, the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Investigation, 22 million in gold, the narcos, and of course, Lucas Davenport. John Sandford writes an exceptionally successful and hugely popular series (judging by the number of his books at the library!) featuring Lucas Davenport, an agent for the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Investigation. Lucas has BUCK$, wears Italian loafers, and drives a Porsche. Clearly, your typical law enforcement officer.
What I liked about the story was that it was simple enough to be believable, but had enough twists to keep me guessing. The story line was never lost or disjointed, which is great when listening a few minutes at a time. The bad guys got their just deserts (some of them) and the deserving got theirs. Most importantly, the humor is supreme. So are both storytellers.
The great hand-cream discussion, continued . . .
IN THE COURSE of human events, the typical male receives several containers of hand cream EVERY YEAR from those who know better. So it sits. And sits. And sits. The Burt’s pictured above, I received . . . ten years ago? Maybe longer? The Badger Balm is a year old, and I just opened it. The fancy stuff, the Boticario, was a holiday gift which I do not use. But here are the basics of hand cream for males:
Burt’s – Waxy but effective. Great for landscapers.
Badger – Fantastic in a medicated manner. Perfect for the semi-retired plumber.
Boticario – A bit more water-based, so it seems to moisturize and protect less. The most perfumed. Excellent choice for the stockbroker who commutes by train, walking to the station in all seasons.
In truth, smaller is better. Burt’s sells a little green tin of goo I put on my cuticles just before they begin cracking, and that’s enough. Res-Q Ointment.
THE KNIFE IS the most important tool ever invented. Five of the 20 most important tools are derived from the knife (the chisel, the lathe, the saw, the scythe and the sword, in case you are testing your game show skills). Is it any wonder so many men choose to carry a pocket knife everywhere they go? How handy it is for cutting, prying, poking, and slicing.
An American knife maker came to my attention through his perfectly proportioned work; graceful blade, substantial handle, artistic mating of wood to metal. Although not a hunter, I could not resist doubling my collection of fine cutlery with the addition of this knife.
Why own a knife like this? If you ever go camping (not INSIDE the Franklin Institute with the Boy Scout Troop, mind you), a knife is the #1 tool you’d want to improve your site. This beauty from Sandown Forge features CM154 stainless steel heat treated to a Rockwell C hardness of 59. Bad a§§ hard! Go ahead and hack down the surrounding forest! You won’t hurt the knife. A hunter in the family, you say? This is the perfect belt accessory for wild pigs through bison. Gotta process the harvest for transport.
And for the gentleman philosopher, tilted back in his office chair after another nail-biting day on Wall Street? It’s a really well crafted knife, screaming QUALITY. Great for making your buddies jealous. A gentle reminder that it’s just a few steps from the trenches, knife in hand, fighting for your life.
TRIANGULAR properties left over after subdivision may be a burdensome possession to the developer. Fortunately, there exist the intrepid builder and amateur architect willing to take lemons and create meringue pie. Passing such a property regularly as I walk to the Post Office, one comes to appreciate, six decades ago, a young man’s vision to mate a six-sided home into a three-sided corner property.
In the mid-1950s, a young cabinetmaker, just married, built this house on newly subdivided farmland a ten minute walk from City Hall. His practice thrived. He lived there the remainder of his life. A decade after his
death, his house was being cleared out for the next occupant. Walking by, I struck up a conversation with the laborers, and was offered a glimpse into the basement workshop. All the tools had been passed to a younger generation. There remained, however, this nice box made by the cabinetmaker early in his career. Rather than allow the locking aluminum-clad craftsman’s toolbox a one-way trip to the rubbish hauler, I brought it home. At present, the box stands on it’s end by the corner of my living room, a pedestal to a flower-pot under a window.