Crow Bar

Often a construction job begins as a destruction job.  Many a building sits atop the ruins of an earlier structure.   Even for a new house, trees must be cut down, ground broken open.  And smaller jobs: a new closet?  You might have to rip out a wall.  Skylight?  Cut into the roof. 

Or as that great carpenter Pablo Picasso said, “Every act of creation is first an act of destruction.”

Crow BarsIn any tool box one finds construction tools, hammers and screwdrivers and such.  And tools for destruction.  Like wrecking bars and crow bars. 

I like the destruction tools, the destruction work.

Since we built our own house and are always trying to make it better or fit our changing circumstances, it feels like a body, ever growing new bones, ever shedding old skin.  A shed we no longer need provides the wood for a new flight of stairs.  We tear down an old crumbling redwood deck, saw off the rotten ends, and rebuild it smaller and stronger.

I often volunteer for the destruction part of a job.  Partly because it requires less skill; I don’t have to worry if my cuts are clean or my nails straight – I’m ripping out, not hammering in.  But I also like these jobs because I can day dream.  Sometimes I am recalling the time years ago when I did hammer in this particular nail – not bad, pretty straight.  Did I ever dream I would now be trying to get it out? I feel all the times I walked up these steps that I am now preparing for their new life as a bench. 

And of course there is just the simple pleasure of ripping something apart; it’s primitive and sort of therapeutic.  And the satisfying sound the nail makes coming out of the old board; it’s almost atavistic; “rrrr-oonk!” it screams from its decades in the wood, all those years binding that cleat into the long stair riser.  The old bent nail is removed and the redwood board is now freed to be built into something new.

One of my favorite tools is the wrecking bar or crow bar or pry bar.  They come in various shapes and sizes, and are basically strong metal levers.  We have a bigger one and a smaller one.  Both have a flatter end for prying open or apart, and a curved end to use as a lever, as well as a hole or hook that’s good for trying to get the old nails out of the wood.  I prefer the smaller one, because it is lighter, easier to handle and less dangerous if you drop it by mistake on your foot.  But the big one works much better; it’s physics I think, I get more force and strength from its length and its power. 

The JemmyBut the big one is dangerous, and not just if dropped on your foot.  It can fly out of your hand as you exert force to pry apart.  And sometimes it’s dangerous people who use those big crow bars.  They are a favorite tool of burglars, who also call them “jemmy’s”; to jemmy something open usually implies criminal intent.  They’re good for prying open windows and doors and safes and also for whacking people over the head.  It’s an old word, an old tool.  Shakespeare has Friar Laurence ask for an “iron crow” to try to get into Juliet’s tomb.  Sherlock Holmes tells Watson to bring along a “jemmy” on one of their quasi-legal investigations.

Here’s another memory of a crow bar:

I took an anatomy class many years ago, on sabbatical from parish ministry, just wanting something completely different, but also curious about how our bodies work, perhaps some insights into incarnation, word made flesh, what is our flesh, our bones and muscles and blood and organs and nerves.  We memorized lots of names and studied complicated systems, but my favorite part was dissecting the cadaver.

One day we extracted the brain from the head of the cadaver.  Our instructor had given us a moving speech before our very first cut about how this man had given us the most precious gift he could, his own bodies for our study.  Most of the students were young men and women hoping to be physical therapists or sports medicine types.  The course was required, but not their favorite.  They were not curious theologians but reluctant memorizers.  It was tempting and easy to joke about this old body or speculate about his life.  But our teacher caringly and sternly told us about the gift and not to joke.

So we solemnly looked on as he took a saw out and cut around in a circle the top of the cranium and gently lifted it off.  There’s the brain he said, pointing at a surprisingly small and very gray blob.  Now let’s get it out.  And out of his toolbox he pulled, you guessed it, a small crow bar, just like the one I use to pull out nails and rip apart boards.  But he most gently and carefully and respectfully pried, yes pried out, it really came out pretty easily, and in one piece, the brain, the memories, the filing cabinet, the feelings, of this old guy.  Gently he took it out and handed it around, and we each held the brain in our hands.

It was a destructive act.  And a creative one.  Aided by a tool.  Done in gratitude.  To help build new careers, new faith, new understanding, new lives.  Pried open and shared.

Copyright © 2015 Deborah Streeter