I liked lurking in my Dad’s garden shed. There would be his old desk and chair, rusty tools in varying states of disrepair, spare metal, bits and pieces covered with varied layers of dust. I scavenged for stuff in the decaying cupboard drawers I could barely open. Inside were old wooden carpenter’s tools, most of which were from my Dad’s apprenticeship days. They puzzled me. They were history. Another age. Long time ago. I knew that. Be respectful. Don’t touch. But I did touch. Many of their uses were unknown to me. I could smell their old age.
I stepped over rusty tent poles, bits of lattice and cardboard boxes littered with rat droppings. I came to Dad’s beloved cobweb-infested golf bag which housed his bamboo clubs, antique vintage – rare these days. “They hit as crisply today as they did back then. Good clubs these,” he told me.
I just walked around, curious about what I might find. I don’t know why I sought refuge in the garden shed, his museum of labor. I was young, I suppose.
You know what, I also do this in the garage, where all my Pops’ stuff are kept.
He is a professor teaching auto-mechanic and industrial technology students. Hence, I would normally see not just spare parts of engines and repair tools but also highlighters, extra sheets of blank papers, and old used folders. (You know how professors or teachers love to stack up on old but useful stuff.).
Now, being the thrifty student that I am, I will get them inside the house, show my “finds” to Papa, and declare to the entire home that they are mine already.
Guess what, there wasn’t a single time that Pops refused. Hahahaha!
I think it’s such a personal venture which anyone outside of the inner sanctum of family perhaps can’t truly digest, but we try. Thank you so much for sharing. It’s a lovely post.
There is comfort in these memories. 🙂
The simple things