Workshop

It said workshop. When I turned on my blue tooth. It’s been on all this time waiting for someone to connect and be in the workshop and listen.

I didn’t even know he had this. I just knew music came from somewhere. Even as an adult my dads music just kind of came from him. Not anything else. Just from somewhere and everywhere.

This might be the closest I’ve felt to him since he died. It is also the farthest away I’ve felt from him. Because he isn’t in here. It’s the saddest I’ve been since he died. Like I can’t move sad. Everything else is standing and sitting still. No power saws moving anymore. No more violins clamped down. No more opening and closing toolboxes. So I should just sit still too. Just sit and collect dust. Sit and connect with my dad and disconnect from the world. From the chaos around me. The chaos that seems to always be around me.

My dad collects, collected, the weirdest things. Metal tool boxes. Clamps. Sandpaper. Violins broken waiting for new bodies. He seemed to like cans of stain. Wood. Lots of chunks of wood every where. Old cabinets thrown out by others to be turned into a place to store stains and clamps and sandpaper’s. Some still lay waiting to be hung and filled.

I’ve never really looked in his workshop. Just been in it. It was a place he was to be found. I would scoop piles of sawdust into tiny mountains. Stack boards for him. Pull nails from boards hé found in others workshops. Workmen trade wood things. While music blared in the background from somewhere.

It’s the smell of it that gets me. It’s a strange mix of what can be best described as his purpose of life.

I never want to dust it or move anything. At least never for now. His hand print is still on the tool box. Maybe I can make a mold? Like you do with dogs and cats? No it’s too late. Also that would be creepy to have the mold of my dads hand. I can just remember them. Fixing things. Walking me across the street once. Wiping a tear once. Starting a mower once for me. Bringing me the tools to change a tire then watch while I change the tire. Showing me how to hold my hands on the piano. Showing me how to play. To set up a tent. To tie down a boat on the car. To paddle. How to hold the paddle. How to cut the boards. How to saw. How to drive. Well, how to try and drive. The list is too long. The memories too long. They are there though. Not stuck in frozen memory land I was once stuck with in.

Now I’m stuck in the garage connected to my dad through his workshop. Stuck back in time. To the smell of sawdust. The sound of the metal toolbox opening and closing. The sounds of the saws. The sounds of the music coming from the everywhere he was.

I love hearing my music though his place. It is strange. It’s just coming from somewhere and everywhere. He always had the best systems to play music. I just knew he did. The way it sounds. Like it’s off the walls and moves you. You can feel it not just hear it.

I came to make a garden. To grow through this all. I have tomatoes I’ve been wanting to grow so I can tell people how they grow. A new pepper we bought to sell. New yellow squash and a new variety of watermelon. This is going to be a trial garden. Not a victory garden or a grief garden. Maybe it’s all of them. Maybe it’s just a garden.

It’s ready. I have tilled it 3 times and weeded and tucked the chicken wire back up. Then stepped away and accidentally connected to the workshop. Now I’m stuck in the workshop. Staring at wood dust and clamps. Accidentally connected to my dad. Accidentally disconnected from the garden. But so connected it demanded I connect. It popped up. It said connect to workshop. I clicked it and connected. So for a little while I could disconnect from so much more.