Granddad's Shop

My grandparents had some 
rigid access restrictions.
No children in their closet.
Parlor reserved for special days.
Don't go up to uncle Mick's room.
No touching the grandfather clock.
Out back, keep out of the garden.
Okay to use the board walk to the back alley,
but keep out of the garage.

Carte blanche in the huge sandpile,
but next to that was the wizard's cave,
completely off limits,
where Granddad worked magic.

Occasional glimpses through the doorway
revealed the loom on which he made
all of our town's rag rugs -- a necessity
for every child starting kindergarten.
In that shop, he could repair anything;
sharpen any knife, chisel, axe, sickle, or scythe;
conjure whole bicycles from random parts.
We rode those bikes, for years,
to school, paper routes, and baseball.

But no child got past the ward spell
on the door, until one day when
my junior high science project
needed his help.

Was there a disorientation spell?
I couldn't say what was in
the dim interior, whether
shelves, drawers, cubbies, peg boards;
likely a hundred tools and
thousands of nails, screws, nuts, bolts,
odd hinges, hasps, turnbuckles, grommets.
Other than his loom,
the only certainties are
the hand drill and soldering iron
he used, to teach me how to
make holes in a board and
affix copper wires to
flashlight bulbs and switches
mounted in the holes.

He taught me that I can do more than read books:
I can work with my hands, make things.

How patient and gentle
the crochety old man became,
working in his shop!


 
Copyright ©2018, Paul H. Harder II
This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.