In The Workshop
I loved to spend time in my Dad’s workshop
in a little shack behind our house
when my bothers went to war
I got to help him
as he repaired the snowmobile
a job that he seemed to do every day
or when he made
little kitchen objects for my mother
his moose-bone-handled tools
were lined up in neat rows of hooks
over the work bench
he would say “spanner seven”
and I would get it for him
his thick fingers held even the heaviest tool
as if it were the most delicate instrument
while he twisted spark plugs
or carved small scenes of robins
into the bowls of pie plates
humming happily
as he concentrated on his work
I would creep into the shed
when he wasn’t there
to sit in the humble stillness
I would brush wood chips
into small piles with my fingers
fondle the handles of his tools
they would feel inviting in my hands
as if holding them
would allow me to do what he could do
the smell of his sweat
mixed with snowmobile oil and grease
became one of the powerful erotic
aromas of my youth
it was into this shack
I would sneak with the boys
whom I had learned to undress
when I was in there with my father
as he showed me how to clean spark plugs
I could visualize where
I had played at my first encounters
sometimes he had me sing
what we were learning in choir practice
he would put his tools down
listen with his eyes closed
his hands on his belly
his fingers moving
as they conducted me from verse to verse
when my mother would call us to eat
I was disappointed
getting more of this moment
than pie could ever give me
sandals in the snow
Workshop is one of my favourites from this series. It is totally fabricated – whereas some of the others have traces of my childhood this one has none – well nearly none – I did fool around with boys in garages but that’s another story.
the net result
The longing to be as skilled as one’s Dad is real enough. I don’t even recall if I knew any kids whose father had this sort of back shed workshop. My own Dad was skilled enough to do simple handyman stuff around the house, about as skilled as I am today, but was never a craftsman.
damned Ikea kits
I wrote this one later in the series so I had some of my ‘ritual’ elements to play with – moose bones, choir practice. Less sexually innocent but sweetly sexual at the same time. I worked to invest it with a sensory appeal: wood shavings, motor oil, the heft of tools, pie. All things that can trigger real memories.
Not a real memory but set in a reality that is memorable.
wood not moose bone
