Albert Allen Boshear: November 24, 1917 – March 1, 1977
Father: John Walton Boshear(s)
Mother: Lillie Maybelle
My Father’s Toolbox
I had to work on the car today. The battery had been giving us trouble and I wanted to remove the cables, clean the posts, fill the battery with water, charge it and then put everything back together, being sure the connections were good and tight.
Apparently I made sure the connections were good and tight when I first installed the battery because there was no way I could get one of the cables off. The nut was a strange size. A 7/16-inch wrench was too small and a ½ inch was too big. A 12mm was too big and an 11mm was too small. It was also wedged so tight against the soft metal of the cable lug that I couldn’t get a good grip on it with a Crescent wrench.
I must own at least a dozen different toolboxes. I can never find any of them when I want them but they are always in the way when I don’t. I can’t ever find the right tool either for some reason. Most likely because I never put anything away. At any rate, I know I must own a wrench that will fit that nut so after looking through all the toolboxes in the garage I walked out back to the workshop to look in the ones out there.
Sitting up on the bench right in the middle was my father’s toolbox. It was made by Kennedy and had a green crinkle finish. Stenciled on the side in big red letters it says “A. A. Boshear”. I’ve never used any of the tools out of it. I’ve gone through it and looked at them but I never wanted to use them. In my determination to get that battery cable off I looked through it again.
In one drawer I found a small Craftsman box-end wrench that was busted. It reminded me of a story my dad used to tell about his buddies in the Ford dealership he worked at in Henderson Texas. It seems one of the guys was always harpin’ about how good Snap-On tools were and giving the other guys a hard time for buying Craftsman tools from Sears. My dad used to always tell him you couldn’t beat the lifetime guarantee on Craftsman.
One day the guy was working on a car and he found an old Craftsman box-end wrench that was busted. My dad asked the guy if he could have it and the guy said “Sure it ain’t no good” and gave it to him. My dad took the busted wrench down to Sears and showed it to them. They gave him a brand new wrench, no questions asked. I thought about taking the busted wrench I found to Sears to get a new one but then I wouldn’t have it to remind me of my dad telling that story. I put it back in the drawer.
Then I found another wrench that looked like it might be the perfect size. It looked like it had once been a 7/16-inch but my dad had machined one side to make it slightly bigger. It made me wonder what he had been working on to modify it like that. I guess at some point my dad had been just as determined as me to get the job done.
I took the wrench out to the car and it was the perfect size for that nut but I still couldn’t get a good enough grip to break it free. Since I had been thinking about my dad I stopped a minute and wondered what he might do about this. I went back into the garage and just started looking around. I found a pair of pliers and a hacksaw. They weren’t my dad’s tools, just some tools I bought once. I twisted the cable off with the pliers and then cut the bolt in half with the hacksaw. It wasn’t pretty but I got the job done.
It’s too bad I wasn’t able to use the tools my father left me, but then again, I guess I did.
Thanks dad.
Love Jerry
Reminds me of a time when I was but a teenager. After Mom and the rest of y’all young ‘uns had gone to Kansas City, or somewhere, we were living in the house on 88th Place; just the two of us. I was sittin’ in my bedroom, pickin’ out a lick on the guitar over an’ over. But, just for kicks – like kids willl do – I intentionally didn’t hit the last note. After (apparently all he could stand) Dad came into the room with fire in his eyes and, in his gravelly Al Boshear voice, threatened: “Boy, if you don’t hit that last note next time, I’m gonna’ kick yer ass all over this room!!” I was a-feared for just a moment (situation normal)...then I just busted out laughing. And so did he. A (rare) good moment for both of us and a precious memory…
LoveJay
Strictly hearsay…
When I was growing up, I often heard Dad speak of his father. He told me that he was a land-owner in Northern California. Somewhere around Fresno, I think. He came to Reno to play around (he was notorious for that). During an argument in a local bar, he went outside in the back to “settle the dispute” and was beaten to death. Dad told me more than once that…“I’ll be at the prison gate when that son-of-a-bitch gets out!!” I don’t know if he ever did that. I’ll search my “memory banks” and see if I can dredge up anything else.
Jay Boshear
PS: When I was in Seattle, in 1968. I met a member of our family (I think on Dad’s side). Her name was Dovey Crawford. She told me many tales of the Boshear family, from the “olden days”. I am sure that she is dead by now, but she was kind of a genealogist, of sorts. Maybe you can locate some member(s) of her family up there…...