Grandpa’s Garage
By Mark Harris
From The Front Porch Magazine archives: Summer–Fall 2010, pages 13 and 51.
Some people growing up have the experience of being able to go into a basement or attic of a friend or relative. If the basement belongs to a relative, then maybe they get to go more than once, and with someone who knows about all the things stored. Then the questions asked could be, “What is this” or ‘What was this used for?” Then someone might say that things always smell musty or that everything smells old. Well, that is what happens to things in attics, basements, and old garages. In these places, many things are stored which might not be used anymore. The places become what might be called residential museums. And sometimes, we take a walk down memory lane, which could be a sentimental journey or a chance to pass down some family history to the children. That’s my intent—to pass down some history of my grandpa’s garage.
Now, it was called Grandpa’s garage, but we in no way meant to belittle Grandma. Grandma didn’t drive, so it was called Grandpa’s garage because he drove the car parked in the garage.
My purpose in this story is to tell about a little boy’s fascination with all the things in the garage. I have always been interested in antiques, and in this case, the things Grandpa and Grandma used back when. So, the garage was the perfect place to just look, and maybe carefully lift something up to get a better look and quietly put it down again. Many a time I heard my dad say, “Boy, get out of there,” or “Boy, what are you doing in there?” My reply to that always was, “Nothin, just lookin’ around.”
A guided tour of Grandpa’s garage will give you a view of all that was in there. Your impression will be different from the way I saw things, and that is alright. Three things to consider in this tour are sight, sound, and smell of things in this garage. All these had impressed or impacted me as a young boy.
The side door of the garage leads down a rough cement walk and to the front of a work bench. This walkway is reinforced with oyster shells. And a look at the work bench reveals that it held many things. As a boy, I felt, gosh, there is so much stuff on it. The top of the bench was a mixture of items. I couldn’t help noticing that there seemed to be a universal container for everything, the old coffee can. You name it, the can held it, nails, bolts, nuts, and small metal fixtures. Some cans had a layer of rust and spider webs while others were coated with oil and dust. In another part of the bench were paints Grandpa used on their house and the garage. I remember he used Sherwin-Williams paint which had linseed oil in it, and that always smelled fresh and clean to me. You can’t find that kind of paint anymore. The paint today is latex and lead free.
On the other end of the bench, resting like some majestic treasure chest is an old tackle box made of Cypress, a rot-resistant wood. Grandpa used it when he fished at San Louis Pass at the west end of Galveston Island during the 1930’s. No plastic or light weight lures filled his box. The contents were heavy lead sinkers, wire leaders, squidding, now called braided fishing line, or large hooks, and real corks. Grandpa put it aside when he started using one of Grandma’s old purses as a tackle box. He probably had the original soft tackle boxes before the sporting goods stores had them for sale. He could drop it in the bottom of the boat, and it would make very little noise.
A look under the bench reveals a large wood tool box, full of carpenter and brick layer tools. Actually, these tools had belonged to my grandma’s dad, my great grandfather. Raising the lid to see the contents took some effort. Several hammers, halfhatchets, trowels, handsaws, squares, braces, and bits filled it. The one tool that stuck out to me was a long Black Diamond jack plane. I believe the old saying “They don’t make ‘em like that anymore” comes from things like the plane.
From the side door and to the left is a little room with a raised floor. Here Grandpa kept his outboard motor, a 1959, 18 horsepower Evinrude. An assortment of rods, reels, dip nets, floundering lanterns, and gigs were there. A rather large rod and reel stood in the corner. Grandpa had made it out of hickory and put an Old Ocean Reel on it. He gave me that rod when I was twelve, and I was fortunate to catch a small redfish with it. My dad told me that he and his brother flew a big kite with it, without Grandpa’s approval. Before leaving this area, I detect the familiar odor of outboard gas and oil, which always brings back memories of fishing with my dad and my grandpa.
Just out from where the outboard sat is Grandpa’s lawnmower, a classic piece of machinery. I believe he bought it from Sears. It was a yellow reel type mower. The engine was on top and the chain turned the blades against a cutter bar and propelled the wheels all at the same time. Back then, mowers had no paper air filter; they had an oil bath filter. So, some of the oil vapor was sucked into the carburetor causing the oil and gas to burn together. All of this combined with the smell of cut St Augustine grass in the evening was perfume to a little boy who loved his grandpa.
When we lived next door to Grandpa and Grandma, and we would be eating supper, I would hear that mower and would get so excited that my dad said I would “wolf down my supper” to get outside to stand at the fence and watch Grandpa mow grass. Grandpa was a strong man. He would get that mower in a tight spot and pull back with the wheels spinning forward. By the way, to start the mower, he had to deal with a rope that was wrapped around a pulley. He’d give a hard pull and get the engine started. To stop the engine, he’d pull the strip of metal over to touch the spark plug, which brought the motor to a stop.
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Next to see is Grandma’s washing machine, a wringer type. The wringer squeezed the water out of the clothes. Then the clothes were hung on a line with straight wood pins, and care was always taken not to drop a pin in the grass to get caught in the lawnmower. All of this brings back memories of sunny mornings when she did her washing. The word laundry was never used by Grandma. She “warshed” her clothes. The soap and bleach had a clean, fresh smell on those cool spring mornings. She carried the clothes to the lines in a small galvanized tub.
Grandpa and Grandma didn’t have city water yet. They had their own well in the garage in the southeast corner. There was a motor and pump on the tank. When it came on, it had a rhythmic sound with the motor and pump together. This well had no chlorine added. The water was sweet.
Moving around to the south end of the garage takes us to where Grandpa parked his car. Two 4x4’s served as wheel bumpers, and some 1x4’s were nailed to the ends. They were used to open oysters on. Grandpa and Dad opened many bushels on them. So where did all the shells go? Remember the cement walk coming into the garage? It was made of cement mixed with some of the oyster shells. The rest were dumped on the ground between the garage and the fence because there was no room for a mower to get in.
Over on the west wall was a mixture of things. First, what always caught my attention was something that ran from one upper corner to a lower left corner. It was a long rusty pipe. I remember asking Grandma what it was, and she told me it was a pipe. Well, the only pipe I knew of was the pipe my other grandpa smoked. So, I was pretty little then to learn that there are two kinds of pipes.
At the middle of the wall, down on the floor was a square can with a brush in some dried up tar. I could only guess that Grandpa put tar on something and didn’t use it again. Hanging on a nail was an old canvas hunting coat covered in a thin layer of spider webs. I have seen old pictures with Grandpa wearing it, holding some ducks.
The last thing to see is an assortment of garden tools: shovels, rakes, hoes, and posthole diggers. The shovel reminds me of the time Grandpa was through using it, and he pulled me while I sat on it. The hoe reminds me of the picture of Grandma and me in the garden. The posthole diggers remind me of our building a cabin on Chocolate Bayou that we didn’t get to finish because a storm blew it away.
I have seen a few garages that remind me of this one. They were the same records of history and amusement. Thinking about this old garage, every now and then, I am reminded of my connection with my grandparents. There in the garage ordinary things for work and recreation were kept by simple, wonderful people. I think if everyone thinks about it, an association to sights, sounds, and smells of some things can be made, perhaps to good memories and good feelings, whether they be a garage, house, basement, or yard.
Many of the things in this garage were way older than I was. I am glad I got to use some of the things in there, or got to see them used. I would like to go by the old house and garage someday. Maybe the owners would let me see inside if I would tell them I know about the place. Then again, it might be hard to do.
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