The Schneider Bucket

You remember the Schneider Can . . .

. . . of course you do.

And, of course, the Carlyn Can . . .

. . . why wouldn't you?

You'd think a modest family of two would be content with two cans of screws and nails and doo-dads and weirdly shaped, mysterious, odd, metal bits.

But you would be wrong.

The other day I cleaned out Bill Senior's workbench, and, well, let's just say it did not look quite like another beloved Dad's workshop:

Joe's Shop 
"It smelled of Dad, the essence of sawdust and repair."

No, Bill Senior's workbench had one big bottom shelf full of nails and screws and bits and weird pieces, but instead of obsessively lovingly labeled, everything was still its original packaging. Like, original paper bags. From 45 years ago.

But, oh the treasures!

A 23 Gotham, um, crayon . . . 

A skein of wire . . . 

An, um, well, who knows, really?

I just started ripping all the old packaging open, and throwing everything into a new, bigger bucket . . . .

. . . I think you know where this is headed.

I could not help pulling out the cool stuff, and arranging it on the back deck, completely absorbed in my own private geekdom.

I mean, the bolts were cool -- bolts are always cool . . .

. . . but then I started finding the completely indescribable, undefinable, wacky stuff.

There was tons of it . . .

. . . and it kept growing and growing.

*With*, I'll have you know, productive and tangible results.

Because yes, unto us . . .

 . . . The Schneider Bucket is born.