The Garage
When I was 19. Dad built a garage. We had an attached garage under the house, but this one was detached. it was “the shop”.
We built it large, and it had room for a lot of crap. It had a lathe and a mill, a woodstove, a couple stalls that could hold BIG cars. We could park a limo there.
There were chairs. Old recliners, mostly. Stuffing coming out of them. It was the only place on the property where you could read and smoke and drink and play with the dog- and of course fart and cuss and scratch in improper places- while welding, turning, wrenching. it was like TH White’s “Combination room”. The smell of woodsmoke and pipe tobacco probably permeates it still.
I hope to live long enough to recreate this. I hope I can get my “combination room” back. A man’s retreat, with a man’s toys inside.
Ya think that could fit in 8×10 under a 6-7′ roof?
M
I want one of these rooms so bad, I can taste it.
I think, that in the mean time, you are driving your “room” around and calling it the Exploder.8×10 sounds great, Mark, when you have nothing. Can YOU get it installed before winter hits?
swmbo
Og-
Stop by & read my post about “Garagineer”-
I’m betting you IS one…
Tnx.
Every once in a while I remember my paternal grandfather’s shop.
He was a more-than-competent amateur cabinetmaker. Think about the skill set it takes to reasonably claim that title.
He haunted auctions. Every Saturday, he was out at a different one. Think about the tools a dedicated tool-o-phile can collect in a lifetime.
He offered in his own taciturn way to teach me some of it, but I was too stupid to understand, let alone take him up on it. My loss.
One of his prize works was a tea-cart. Turned all the spindles. Made the wheels. Fitted and joined the whole thing. Hand-stained and rubbed the oil finish. Sucker glowed in the right light.
Just his turning gouges alone…
::SMACK!::: Sorry. Drifted off for a second there.
M
I have been very fortunate to have been involved with more than one of these sort of shops:
My own, years ago. Can’t tell you how many tractors and other machines were overhauled, painted, etc., let alone the amount of beer that was drunk.
“Caz’s”, a fella who had a tiny gunsmith shop in his basement. There were at least a half-dozen guys there nearly every Friday night; I heard at his funeral that he had been hosting such doin’s since he was 18. He died at about 70 Y.O., and I still miss him
“Sam’s”, where we have moved from Caz’s. We do less gunsmith work and more bullshitting, but it’s the same group and still fun.
Dad’s dad had a tool shed a ways from the house. I remember times we were visiting when the weather turned bad, I’d go out there and sit on a tool reading his old Saga and True and Sports Afield magazines. Still remember the way it smelled.
‘Stool’, not tool, dammit.