The old garage was the one place we were not allowed to
play. It was dark and dusty and it
smelled of damp wood, oil and rust. Mom
said it was dangerous because of all the tools, junk, and rusty nails. The lure
of the forbidden and mystery of the unknown were counteracted, at least for me,
by the spiders and the wasps. We had to
go in to get our bikes and fishing poles but we made sure they were near the
door so we could just grab them. The two small dust coated windows didn’t let
much light in even on a sunny day. There
was one naked light bulb in the center that barely illuminated the floor
beneath it, and that seemed to make the corners even darker.
When Daddy was fixing the lawn mower or building something
out there we were told not to bother him. His territory, it was a much grittier
version of today’s man cave. We were surprised one day when Mom told us all to
go out to the garage and help our father.
I am not sure, but I think we had been complaining about not having anything
to do, so as parents of bored kids will do, they found something to occupy us.
Daddy managed makeshift seats for us all, near his work bench, and spilled two
grease soaked cardboard boxes full of nuts and bolts on top of it. It was our job to sort them by size and type
into little glass baby food jars that he had been saving in another grease
soaked cardboard box.
It certainly wasn’t what we had in mind for an activity, but
we knew better than to add another complaint to the day’s list. We were dirty
and tired by the time we finished, but satisfied to see all of the little jars
neatly lining the shelves above the workbench, sorted and ready to use. What makes a lasting memory? Stepping into the unknown and working
together toward a common goal. Hmm, and
I thought they were just trying to keep us busy.
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