One
of my favorite places growing up was Grandpa’s garage. Really, the garage is more like a workshop. It is a large, single room structure that
probably has as many square feet as the house next to it does.
It
only ever houses cars if they are being worked on. And if you need your car worked on, most
things can be done in the garage, with the tools he has amassed over the years. And it’s not just cars that can benefit from
the garage. Several years ago, he found
out that someone’s washing machine had a broken whatchamacallit, and he went
out to the garage, looked through the parts and pieces he’s collected over the
years, and came back with the needed item.
No trip to the repair shop today!
Garage
activities don’t stop for the weather. In
the corner sits an old wood stove used to heat the big room during the
winter. If it gets too hot in the summer,
the big doors at the far end can be opened to allow a breeze to come through.
When
they are closed, a large, tall box filled with old, unwearable clothes stands
in front of the doors. Across the room
hang several bows, and a bundle of arrows stand underneath them. When there is no work to do in the garage,
you can find Grandpa, and usually one or two others, taking aim at that box of
clothes.
“No,
the paper circle tacked to the box is not the target. The little hole inside the circle is the target.”
The
garage has been a significant place in my life, simply because of the amount of
time spent there. I’ve watched Grandpa
stoke the fire; I’ve handed him this tool and that tool. I remember the day six or seven different men
were staring at my first car wondering what on earth they were going to do to
fix my Chrysler. These are Ford and Chevy men, thank you
very much. But they worked it out and
got me on the road again!
There
are not many specific days I can tell you about being in the garage; for the
most part, the place simply holds years’ worth of memories: days spent tinkering, fixing, and shooting. I can’t wait to go back!
