If the kitchen is the heart of the home the garage is its soul. It’s Dad’s Office, his inner sanctum of retreat. Feng Shui be damned; it was a cacophony of the eyes in the form of clutter. A mirage of paint cans, boxes, tools, sports equipment, and scraps of building materials. A workbench piled high with things to fix, projects to finish, and cans of nuts, bolts, washers, nails, and tools needing a place. There were frequent new editions to the mix with a treasure my father managed to find. There was a magical clarity that seemed to descend like a spell, to get that science project finished in the late night before it was due by morning, or to find the right tool or part to help a neighbor in need. The Washer and Dryer were there and kept the extra refrigerator company, cold beer tucked behind the extra leftovers, it was also his own speakeasy. A place where we could discuss things and Dad would share his sage wisdom about his experiences and how to approach a situation and matters to consider. He would also share his life experiences and memories of years long ago.
When Mom and Dad moved away from the home we grew up in, decades of stuff and countless mementos and memories had to be gone through. Projects unfinished, intentions and dreams unfulfilled. Camping equipment in need of adventure, the mountain climbing equipment ready for a quest, but the physical body can’t embark on, replaced by reading about historic mountaineers. “When I get around to it” projects, like a desire to build a cedar canoe for each of his children. Woodworking tools awaiting the time of leisure that never came. delayed by others pressing needs placed ahead of his own.
Dad’s hands have been laid down. He would have been 92 today. I look at my own garage and it’s soulless. No son or daughter of my own to share wisdom with, science projects to complete, or camping adventures to undertake. It mirrors an empty place in my soul never to be filled. I occasionally get pleasure of amazing my wife with a repair or task I complete around the house, no doubt from a lesson or observation from Dad. My workbench is piled with tools, the garage is filled with stuff, memories, projects, and intentions of dreams and projects for the future. There are the boxes filled with the stuff of memories. In a sense, like father like son.