dad was here

It was chilly in the garage so I kept the doors closed and turned on the space heater.  I was looking for a distraction from the nausea I felt in the morning.  There had been a drawer that I had pulled from dad's old workshop bench that kept getting stuck, so I thought I'd sand and dry soap it.  After fixing the drawer, I replaced the tools that had been kept in it, then automatically started cleaning and organizing the rest of the drawers.  My nausea dissipated somewhere along the way.

This is a great old workbench.  I acquired it after we moved into my present home twenty-one years ago, having room to pull it out of Mr. Roy Rakestraw's storage.  Roy had it disassembled and stacked in a shed for six years after mother sold the house on Henrietta.  I was glad to have a big enough garage to put it in.

I had to heighten the bench about eight inches, because Dad had it built to accommodate working from his wheelchair.  One of his favorite pass times was woodwork.  He did everything he could to get one of his children to be a helper on Saturdays.  I spent a great deal of time out in the shop begrudgingly at his side.  Like most kids, I wanted to be elsewhere playing.  Dad wanted to do as much as he could for himself, so a helper would usually just be his other hand, hold the other end steady while he did the rest.

Dad would often pay me to clean and organize the workshop, which was no small task.  He was a pack-rat when it came to saving various bits of hardware and wood pieces.  It would often take me the better part of a non-stop weekend to get it all done.  It was always a frustration that he would then turn around and clutter things up again right after all that meticulous hard work.

Mom spent a good bit of time with Dad in the garage.  Each of their children have a piece or two that they built.  I have a secretary desk in my house that they built. They gave it to me when I first left the house years ago. I also have a book stand that my dad used to keep his commentaries by his bedside. It is by my bedside now.

So as I organized the drawers, I traveled back three decades.  Many of Dad's tools are now my tools, tools he made better use of than I have.  Even though I have most of my faculties, he seemed to have made better use of the fewer he had than I have with mine. Like my dad, I find a pleasant distraction piddling in the garage.  I always find a quiet connection with my father at that old workbench. My Uncle Pat once told me that their Papa would often be found piddling at his workbench in his spare time as well.  I guess my dad found a little of his dad working in the shop too.

Yes, if I could truly go back, I'd be a better, more willing helper. 

I still miss you Dad.