It has long been one of my favorite rooms, full of mysterious and powerful things. Things that I was never allowed to touch as a little girl. And My father used these things with much craft and skill, Fixing, building, sanding, hammering, making, so many things. The room was my fathers workshop. And at any given time he could be found working on his latest project, the smell of sawdust thick in the air and all over the floor.
Some of my best memories are of working with my father in that workshops, watching his hands shape the wood, or work on metal, fascinated at his skill and precision. He has a very methodical nature, it goes with is engineering profession. Every single measure exactly exact., every piece expertly crafted and fit together, sanded to the finest point.
My father taught both my sister and I how to do basic maintenance on our cars – how to change a flat tire, how to rotate the tires, change the oil, brake pads, calipers, spark plugs (when cars actually had spark plugs), and such. One particularly fond memory I have is working on changing my break pads when we discovered one of the calipers was stuck. It started to rain. And there my father and I were, in the rain, drenched, working on this caliper so my car would be safe to drive.
And through the years, through all the cars that we have worked on together, through all the projects and things around the house to be fixed, he has always had the tools needed, stored his workshop. And even now I love to go in and just gaze at all the tools. And I smile, as I do love that place so very much.