I spent countless happy hours playing in the Aladdin’s Cave that was Dad’s Garage. The raw brick walls were lined with an incredible array of shelves and drawers, all meticulously labelled, to store ‘blokey stuff.’ He loved woodwork, and built a huge bench with every conceivable tool and gadget. My brother and I were compelled to put our fingers into the vise to test our pain threshold. Even more intriguing were Dad‘s rifles, on a not-so-high shelf next to the bench. He did a better job of hiding his “Man” magazines though. Almost.
The Garage was home to Dad’s succession of cars, his favourite being a Karmann Ghia. One day, when I was four, I decided to hop in and ‘drive’ it. I tried to force the column shift into second gear, but since I had no idea about using the clutch, the stick snapped. It took a good wad of glue, a roll of masking tape, and a smack on my bum to brace the stick until it could be repaired.
But it wasn’t just the familiar hulk of a vehicle I missed in the Garage when Dad left us. Lots of interesting stuff went with him. Tools disappeared from the shadow board, save the odd wrench and spanner. Left behind were old jam jars full of screws, nuts, bolts and washers, which I enjoyed sorting. I used colored chalks to draw the outline of where his car had been.
In the gloom of the Garage, without a car or a Dad – just me putting my bike away each day – rats and mice began throwing parties in the dark corners and the cellar. The magic was abating.
To this day, I miss the smell of sawdust. On the rare occasion I visit a hardware store, I’m irresistibly drawn to the fresh timber area, where I take in lungfuls of sawdust (hopefully just the scent). For years after Dad left, I’d sweep and sweep the shed with a stiff broom, whipping up a musty cloud in which I savoured the very last remnants of his woodwork.
