It
was a place of eternal fascination for me as a child.
My
grandmother in Shreveport had a small house with a detached one-car garage. The
garage was where she parked her 1940 Ford, which was 20 years old by the time she
and I would go the grocery store or the bank, and the car inevitably breaking
down. The garage had no door.
But
the parking area was only half of the structure. The other half, probably a
good 15- by-30-foot space, was kept locked and untouched, until I would come
for a visit. At some point in the visit, my grandmother would invariably say, “You
know where the key is.” And I did – it hung on a string on the wall of the
garage.
I’d
unlocked the door (the lock was a padlock type), swing it open, and spend a few
minutes simply staring.
It
was my grandfather’s workshop.
I
never knew either of my grandfathers. My mother’s father died of a ruptured
appendix when my mother was 12; all I knew of him was a few stories and a very
few old, fragile photographs. My father’s father died when I was nine months
old, and I was part of his deathbed scene – until my parents could travel in
from out of town, the only thing he said that anyone could understand was “I
want to see the baby.” We arrived, they put me on the bed with him, he touched
me, and then a few hours later he died.
There
were more stories about him than my maternal grandfather, but he had also lived
longer. And one physical expression of who he was – his workshop.
My
grandmother would not clean it out. She left it exactly as it was the day he
died. I remember the smell – wood and motor oil. And dust everywhere. The two
small windows had become dirty enough that only a little light filtered in. It
was definitely a gloomy place, but it was also a magic place for me.
I
imagined him sawing wood – the saw, rusting, was still there, and numerous
pieces of old wood. His toolbox was right where he left it, and it contained
several hammers, a file, screwdrivers and the usual assortment of tools. These
were the tools he used to build the house for my grandmother and himself.
I
could see him hit his finger with a hammer, and unsuccessfully trying to stifle
a swear word or two.
I
can recall a box of old bottles, too, with the necks of several liquor bottles
sticking out. A couple of old calendars hung on the walls. Boxes were
haphazardly stacked in a few places, as if he just hadn’t had the time to sort
it all out yet. And the peg on the wall where he hung his broad-brimmed hat.
This
was the place he came to think, to be by himself for a time, and to worry. This
is where he’d debate and argue with himself, and where he’d work out problems
by working with wood.
I
never moved anything, but I think I probably touched everything in the place. That
dusty workshop was the closest thing I had to a grandfather, and sometimes, if
I listened intently enough, I could hear him speak.
The
key hangs on a string on a nail
on
the wall, waiting until the boy
returns
for the mystery. The lock
springs,
the door creaks open,
the
dark interior, a masculine womb,
beckons
as always. Smells of wood
and
oil and dust mingle with remnants
of
cigarette smoke and a small pipe
or
two. The tools carefully rust
in
their box, tools worn and old but
still
tools, still useful. It is here
the
boy imagines the man; here
the
man imagines the boy.
Over
at Tweetspeak Poetry today, we’re
continuing our discussion of poemcrazy:
Freeing Your Life with Words by Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge. There were
numerous assignments we could choose, and I selected the one that said to “think
of a place that has the mystery or beauty of a poem to you.”
The
workshop had both mystery and beauty, and it was the poem of part of my grandfather’s
life. When my grandmother died, someone – aunts, cousins – had to clean out the
workshop before the house could be sold. I hope someone kept at least some of
the tools, but it doesn’t ultimately matter, not really. What I have instead is
the poem of the grandfather I never met, but whom I think I knew.
