Dad’s Passing... And Patching Together a Life of Love

A month after my dad's passing, a wood shop 8,000 miles away transports me back to sawdust-covered memories, and what it means to build a life.

The two of us fly fishing the Klamath River, circa 1994

Yesterday, I made a trip to the Mens Shed here in Tasmania. I needed to rehome some wood slats (we’re preparing for an upcoming move), and this YMCA-style woodworking space said they’d give them a new life.

My interaction with the 70-something-year-old gentleman who greeted me was brief. Too brief, in fact. After passing off the wood and taking a quick inventory of the space, I immediately wanted to stay.

“Are you a Lion’s Club member?” I asked the man. He looked a bit confused. “I saw the sticker on the door, Proudly supported by the Australian Lion’s Club. My dad was a Lion’s Club member in California.” I smiled.

“Oh. You just missed our club member. He’s left for the day.” I looked around again.

Another man of a similar age was on the chop saw across the large shop. He went about his work, making cuts. Our short-lived conversation seemed to have run its course, so I thanked the man in front of me and exited into the sun, out the big roll-up door.

Once back in the car, I checked the date on my phone. It was exactly a month to the day of my dad’s passing. I stared at the date on my phone for a few long seconds. Was it significant, or me searching for significance in a scenario where each moment, past and present, is hyper-analyzed for meaning?

It was hard to leave the parking lot. I wanted to sit in their shed; to take up space in an environment that felt familiar, even 8,000 miles away from where my dad puttered around his own shop.

Would they understand if I asked to stay for a while? If I told them this place reminded me of music coming out of sawdust-covered speakers – Werewolves of London, Fields of Gold, The Beatles, Loggins & Messina. It reminded me of empty cashew canisters (and, more recently, chocolate macadamia nut clusters) that served as loosely organized tubs for screws, nails, and other pieces not ready to part with. A feeling I now know well.

I wondered if they’d look at me with confusion; what a curious request. Or, would they give me a knowing nod and pull up a dusty chair in the corner. Surely they know what it’s like to be left with pieces, and have the urge to put them together into something recognizable and familiar.

I called my mom on the way home.

I said maybe if dad had a place like that – a shared shed with a bunch of geezers looking to while away the time with saws and shared company – just maybe he wouldn’t have taken apart so many of their _____ (insert: cars, appliances, and other things YouTube doesn’t actually certify you to fix).

She laughed recalling all the loose parts. Some she had to help put back together, and others that were never quite restored to working order.

My phone cut out when I turned off the highway.

I wasn’t sure of the exact route home, but felt content winding through hills just like the ones I grew up in. Where my dad and mom built the house they’d live in for thirty plus years. (They’d eventually downsize, after the four of us kids moved out. However, they’d acquire a shop big enough for dad’s endless tinkering.)

With the windows down, I hummed Fields of Gold all the way home – thinking about sawdust in the light, grease-covered hands, turning old things into new, pieces of moments and moments of disassembled pieces… and patching together a beautiful life of love.