We have a big old pine tree in our front yard (spruce? conifer? what should I call it, proper?) that's grown over the driveway a bit much. It bent our antenna all to hell a couple of years ago, and annoys people when they come to visit. It annoyed my sister so much that she finally decided to trim it yesterday. But she forgot to bring a saw, so demanded I fetch her one. The serrated kitchen knife I brought out first wasn't cutting it (bwah ha ha! Punny!), and the only full-sized saw I own belonged to our great-grandfather, Christ Dyrendahl. My father owned it, and told me when I was nine years old that, as his oldest child, I would inherit it when he died. So I did. Plus, Jess probably didn't want it anyway. She's not very sentimental, usually, that sister of mine. Which is fine, because I'm sentimental enough for the two of us.
Here is her handy-sister hand on the worn handle of a saw our great-grandfather used. (Those are his initials, see...) The wood is worn smooth where his hand held it, and the crisp edges of the wood are soft from his sweat and the heat of the work. The blade is still sharp enough to cut through thick pine branches. Together, we made quick work of it, and aside from letting me take these pictures, I don't know that she thought much about being the fourth generation in our family to use this gorgeous saw. As she worked, though, I saw our father and great grandfather cutting their own tree branches from their own trees. And it made me glad.