EDC 101 result hand tools

A 20-Inch Adjustable Wrench That Earned a Permanent Spot in My Work Bag

A 20 inch adjustable wrench is not something you carry so much as something you end up carrying.

It started a couple weeks earlier after a loose fitting under the sink at work. Maintenance was backed up, water was doing that slow, patient drip that makes you feel like you should do something about it even if it’s not your job. Somebody had a small wrench but it kept slipping. I went out to the car, dug around in the trunk, and brought the big one in. It worked the way big tools tend to work, without fuss, like the problem had been waiting for something that size.

After that, I didn’t put it back right away. It went into the bag because I had it in my hand and there was space at the time. That’s usually how these things happen. Not a decision, just a pause that turns into a habit.

For the first few days, I was aware of it constantly. The bag pulled differently on my shoulder. When I set it down, there was a heavier corner that made it tip if I wasn’t careful. Sitting at my desk, I’d nudge it with my foot and feel that dense, reassuring weight that didn’t really belong in an office.

Then I stopped noticing it, which is when it really became part of the carry.

It never once came out for anything urgent. No dramatic saves, no moments where I felt especially prepared. But there were small things. A loose bolt on a cart in the storage room. A stubborn nut on a chair someone was about to give up on. Each time, I didn’t have to go looking or ask around. I just unzipped that side pocket and there it was, slightly overkill, but immediately effective.

Still, it’s hard to justify in the quiet moments. Sitting in traffic, reaching into the bag for a pen or charger, my hand bumps into cold steel that has no reason to be there. It takes up the space where softer, more cooperative things would sit. It makes the bag feel less like something you carry and more like something you manage.

There were a few mornings I left it behind on purpose. Took it out, set it by the door, told myself I didn’t need it for a normal day. The bag felt better right away. Lighter, more balanced, easier to swing onto the passenger seat. I liked that version of it.

But sometime around mid-afternoon, I’d think about it. Not because I needed it, but because I knew exactly where it would have been if I did. There’s a specific absence that only shows up once you’ve gotten used to an object being available without thinking.

So it went back in, not with any ceremony. Just picked it up on the way out one morning and slid it into the same pocket, handle first so it sits flatter against the side.

It’s not a daily-use item. It might go a week without seeing daylight. But it changes how I move through small problems. I don’t look for alternatives as quickly. I don’t ignore things that feel fixable. That’s a subtle shift, and I’m not sure it’s entirely rational given the size and weight of the thing.

Sometimes I wonder if it will eventually migrate out again, the way other things have. End up back in the trunk, or under a sink at home, replaced by something smaller and easier to justify. That’s usually how this goes. Items drift in and out depending on how often they get noticed versus how often they get used.

For now, it’s still in that side pocket, making the bag just a little heavier than it needs to be, and a little more capable than it probably has to be. I don’t think about it much until I feel that weight shift when I pick the bag up. Then I remember it’s there, and for a second, that feels like enough of a reason.

Living With American Tomahawks: When a Handy Tool Becomes a Habit

Most mornings it doesn’t even cross my mind. Wallet, keys, phone, small light if I think I’ll be out late, maybe a folding knife if I’m headed to the garage after work. The tomahawk isn’t part of that rhythm. It never really has been. It drifts in and out, depending on what I was doing the day before, or what I told myself I might get to later.

The first time I started carrying it regularly was during a stretch of weekends where I kept finding small things to do outside. Not projects, just those loose ends that show up when you look a little closer. A stubborn root near the mailbox. A piece of wood that needed trimming to fit in the bin. Stakes that needed tapping in. It handled those in a way that felt direct. No setup, no plugging anything in, no swapping bits. Just pick it up, do the thing, put it back down.

That ease has a way of lingering. After a while I stopped putting it back where it belonged. It would end up by the door, then in the truck, then occasionally tucked into a bag. Once or twice I slid it into a back pocket just to carry it out to the yard and forgot it was there until I sat down somewhere that wasn’t expecting it.

It’s not a comfortable carry in any traditional sense. You feel it every time you move. It changes how you sit, how you lean, even how you get in and out of the car. There’s a moment where you start adjusting your movements around it without thinking. That’s usually the point where I stop carrying it, because anything that asks that much attention starts to feel like it’s running the day instead of fitting into it.

But then there are those small, specific moments where it earns its place again. Breaking down a box that’s been sitting too long because it’s awkwardly shaped. Knocking apart something that was nailed together just well enough to be annoying. Clearing a branch that’s half hanging into the driveway after a storm. None of those require it, strictly speaking. There are other tools, more appropriate ones even. But the tomahawk is right there when I happen to have it, and that counts for more than it probably should.

What’s interesting is how quickly it stops feeling strange once it’s around for a few days. Your hand starts to recognize the weight without looking. You get a sense for where it sits in whatever bag or corner you’ve left it in. It becomes part of that quiet inventory you carry in your head, the one that tells you what you can handle without going back inside or digging through a drawer.

Then just as quickly, it drops out. A couple of busier days, more time at a desk, less time noticing the yard or the garage. It stays on a shelf or in the truck bed, and the absence doesn’t register until you run into something that would have been easier with it. Even then, it’s not enough to go get it. You just work around it and move on.

I’ve never really decided that it belongs in my everyday carry. It’s too much object for that, too dependent on the kind of day you’re having. But it also doesn’t stay in the category of tools that live in one place and only come out for planned tasks. It floats somewhere in between, showing up when the day leans a certain direction.

Every now and then I’ll pick it up on my way out without thinking too hard about why, feel the weight of it for a second, and either commit or set it back down. Both choices make sense in the moment. That’s usually how it goes with the things that stick around. Not because they’re essential, but because they keep finding small ways to be just useful enough to come along again.