Countless hours of my youth were spent between these three walls and large wooden door. From my toddler years I would sit on my father's legs while the rest of him was concealed beneath a chassis - repairing a neighbor's car or maintaining one of our own. As I grew older I graduated from an observer to a helper - fetching tools and holding worklamps. Eventually I was old enough to start turning wrenches and greasing joints under his watchful eye. But when I was finally licensed to drive and owning my own vehicle his attention turned from supervision to protection... "Put back my damn tools where you got them!"
Some will look at this and see a mess. But my eyes see volumes of history and hundreds of thousands of miles spent on the road - a great deal of evidence to his blue-collar profession that kept me fed and warm.
Until last summer I had been away from his home for several years, busy building my own life (and buying my own tools). All this time spent overseas had made pulling up into his driveway and sleeping in my childhood bedroom feel a bit foreign. But as soon as he opened the garage door, all of the emotion came flooding in... This was the space I felt the most sentiment for - because my dad's garage is a man's garage.
Chisago City, MN USA