I liked lurking in my Dad’s garden shed. There would be his old desk and chair, rusty tools in varying states of disrepair, spare metal, bits and pieces covered with varied layers of dust. I scavenged for stuff in the decaying cupboard drawers I could barely open. Inside were old wooden carpenter’s tools, most of which were from my Dad’s apprenticeship days. They puzzled me. They were history. Another age. Long time ago. I knew that. Be respectful. Don’t touch. But I did touch. Many of their uses were unknown to me. I could smell their old age.
I stepped over rusty tent poles, bits of lattice and cardboard boxes littered with rat droppings. I came to Dad’s beloved cobweb-infested golf bag which housed his bamboo clubs, antique vintage – rare these days. “They hit as crisply today as they did back then. Good clubs these,” Dad would say, scooping one out, running his finger down the length of the shaft.
I just walked around, curious about what I might find. I don’t know why I sought refuge in the garden shed, his museum of labor. I was young, I suppose.