I had a mintie the other day and minties never fail to remind me of my Grandfather. He always gave us minties, oddfellows, ginger ale and hokey pokey ice cream; so whenever I eat these things I think of him. I wrote the following story after eating the mintie.
The smell of my Grandfather’s garage is enchanting. The aroma of wood shavings, varnish, grease and the almost tangible smell of his contented tinkering linger in the air. I tiptoe inside, almost scared that I could disturb that special atmosphere and dispel that magic. My eyes take a moment to adjust to the dark inside, I feel like I am entering a living, breathing creature and at any moment it will speak to me and tell me all its secrets. I see nails and screws of all sizes and varieties strewn across the wooden counter, saw dust and bits of discarded wood are in small piles and mounds in the corners of the room. Tools are hanging on the walls; some tools are missing from their assigned spots, leaving only outlines of their shape behind. Some of these tools are left in various places around the garage, waiting for their next assignment. Others are missing soldiers, their outlines the only reminder that they ever existed at all. I poke my finger into an embankment of sawdust piled up in one corner and create a small hallow; a story starts to form in my head of a little creature that lives in the hole I have crafted, I retreat into my private fantasy world. Such is the power of this place; its soft silentness envelops you, wraps you up and lulls you into tranquillity. I am not sure if this is the place itself or the essence of the man who crafted it, my Grandfather.