If I had a hammer

We spent the past weekend in northern Indiana at a family reunion. Yes, it's insane to try to do a three-day vacation the week after you move. (Especially if you're trying to fix all your food in a hotel room housing six people.) But we had a great time, nonetheless. We went biking and boating. D1 wowed everyone with her knowledge of colors. D2 played in the dirt.

On the last evening, everyone was gathered around playing games and such. One of DOB's second cousins had brought a large array of scrapbooking materials to show another relative how to make a miniature scrapbook out of paper lunch bags. Scrapbooking isn't really my thing, but DOB and brothers were not yet up to speed on playing Dutch Blitz, so I thought I'd try it out for a little while until they had practiced some more.

After I selected the bags and folded them in half per Cousin's instructions, she set her cutting mat on the floor and gave me an awl-like tool and a small hammer, to punch holes along the edge.

"Now, you have to put some oomph into it," she said.

It's been a while since I built a tree fort, but swinging a hammer is something one never forgets. If oomph was needed, oomph I could supply. I took the awl in hand and swung five or six times.

When I started to take the awl up, it seemed a bit stuck.

"Oh, sometimes it sticks in the mat," Cousin said.

I pulled harder. It came free, leaving a neat circular hole not just through the booklet, but all the way through the cutting mat. I decided not to investigate to see if I had cracked the brick floor.

Fortunately she was good-humored about the destruction of her cutting mat, but she was more careful in her instructions thereafter, and I tapped the remaining holes more gently.

Perhaps I should take up carpentry instead. Or maybe roofing.