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By John McCumber
Security Technology & Design

This particular day was even sadder than the funeral. My sister had passed away from lung cancer at age 51. In addition to her cigarette addiction, she had always been a vivacious rabble-rouser, and certainly one to flaunt tradition. The funeral service looked like something out of Woodstock – except the air smelled more like Ben Gay than big bong. After her ashes were scattered into the San Francisco Bay , I spent a couple days with my brother-in-law remembering the good times. As I was getting ready to leave, he offered me an opportunity to look through a cardboard box of family items my sister had left in the garage.

As I pawed through the quirky items she had collected from our childhood home in the Midwest after my mother died, I came across a 1920's-era woodworking level encased in beautiful, polished wood. This tool was obviously a classic as nearly all modern levels have the bubble tubes encased in cold, aluminum frames. I tried to imagine why she had chosen that item from my father's collection of old craftsman tools. My father had been a woodworking hobbyist who had the abilities to shame a master cabinetmaker.

As I turned the relic over in my hands, I knew instinctively why my father preferred this old-world implement to the modern versions. It had a brass bezel to hold in the glass vial containing the dyed liquid. The polished wood appeared to be ebony, and was worn smooth from decades of careful alignment by a workman's hands. It was as much a work of art as the many tables, lamps and chairs built by my father.

The artifact also caused me to carefully consider what legacy we leave behind after our funeral is over and life resumes for those we loved. I remember how my father lovingly cared for his woodworking tools, and found it a bit ironic to locate one in the bottom of a battered cardboard box in my sister's garage. Obviously, she had similar memories from her childhood, and wanted a special memento of our father as a keepsake. My father would have continued to use this old tool, and would have never considered hiding it away.

What we both obviously recall is seeing him focused intently on a furniture repair for a neighbor on his capacious work bench, or hunched over the lathe in the garage with wood chips littering the cement floor. He was a patient and hardworking man who never had much in the way of financial rewards. Dad would have understood the level as a memory and maybe even as his legacy.

Once our children began to leave home, my wife and I had a similar concern. We wanted to ensure we left a sound legacy for our children. While discussing an upcoming Christmas season, my wife asked our children what gifts they were wishing for. As the floodgates of expectation opened, my wife then held up her hand and asked a follow-on question. “What did your parents get you for Christmas last year?” They both stood there looking surprised, and you could see them thinking feverishly to try to recall last year's bounty. They were stumped. It was that eye-opening discussion that led my wife and me to spend several days contemplating more appropriate ways to celebrate the holiday while helping build the one key legacy we leave behind for our children – their memories.

As Christmas approached the next year, we explained that we would have the family gift exchange quite early. We set up the tree six weeks before Christmas, and invited the girls for the big event. The girls looked around at the tree and were visibly disappointed to see no gaudily-wrapped presents. We sat there a few moments allowing them to take in the abject absence of the normal avalanche of ribbons, packages, boxes and bags. Then we pointed toward two envelopes on the tree – one labeled for each. They smiled, and then eagerly tore them open.

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