My Father's Shop

This is a continuation from the blog post from years back, titled 'My Mother's Kitchen'.

Before my family moved to a new, larger home four years ago, we lived in a small semi-detached house in the north end of town. It wasn't very big, maybe 1300 square feet. 3 bedrooms, 1 bath (It was a long 17 years), a kitchen, dining room, and living room. However, our basement set us apart from our neighbors.

When we first moved in, the basement was renovated to have a laundry room, a pantry, and a full apartment. The apartment was rented out to students who attended the college/university in our town. It had a bedroom, another bathroom, a sitting area, and a very small kitchenette. When we stopped renting it out, it became a play room and a spare bedroom.

Tucked into a wall of the small hallway from the stairs to the laundry room is my dad's work shop. It was really more of a bench. It had a wide wooden counter for the vise grip, various pieces of wood and metal; a peg board with hooks for wrenches, screwdrivers, hammers and tape; and cupboards/drawers beneath the counter that held old paint cans, rags, and drill bits.

Inevitably, there was saw dust and wood scraps littered on the hallway floor. Pieces of metal pipes, nails and screws litter the top counter, along with busted doorknobs, broken necklaces, abused toys, borked appliances and malfunctioning electronics. Some objects sat there for a long time, waiting for repair pieces; other objects didn't linger there long, as they were quickly repaired by my dad.

My dad's dad was a auto-body specialist. He opened a joint business with a friend. It still runs to this day, under the efficient management of my uncles. In high school and between courses at university, my dad worked with him in the shop. Every time I'm in town, I visit the shop, see my roots and heritage.

I'm pretty sure that he picked up his tool-savvy and careful repair skills from his days in the shop with his dad. Anytime something does not work, it goes down to the workshop.

Now, however, the workshop has expanded. When we moved, dad's workshop became a whole room. The same bench traveled from one house to the other; and was it ever a job of moving that thing! There is now a counter, a few wall cupboards, a bookshelf, rolls of carpet and bags of bedding, and scrap pieces of wood. Whenever something is broken, or when we needed to make something for a school project, we inevitably troop down to the work bench for glue, wood, hammers, nails, and wire.

The workbench isn't needed for every repair. When my computer becomes finicky, when the DVD player skips, when the car needs washer fluid, it's not the workbench I visit first. It's Dad. Dad is the Fix-It-Man. Always. Even if we weren't sure the item was fixable or out of dad's knowledge (rarely possible), we'd go to him. He'd study it, ask questions about what happened, question what we'd already tried to fix it, fiddle with the various pieces or buttons, and then give the official ruling of "Yep, we can fix it" or "Sorry, sweetie, it's done".

Regardless of the answer, Dad would come with me and fix it, or he would look online at new/improved pieces. In situations of broken objects that come with broken hearts, Dad is always comfort when there is panic, reassurance where there is uncertainty, and calm peace where there is fear and doubt. Dad is the constant through broken walk-mans, busted favourite electronic games, and dying computers. He's always there, always up to the Fix-It challenge, and always supportive when things take a turn for the worst.

Thanks Dad. For being there for everything from broken toys to broken hearts. The one man I will always depend on for everything. I love you.

xo <3