Memories of My Father’s Workshop

In an earlier post, I had griped about cleaning out the machine room, contractors and handymen had destroyed it: everything was carelessly jammed onto shelves, stacked against walls, and clearly, it had not been swept in some time. Frankly, I was pretty ticked.

My father was an operating engineer who worked all over the world, and he had a workshop in the basement. I can clearly remember the glass baby food jars that were filled with nuts, washers, bolts, etc., all sorted and very neatly arranged on shelves.

My favorite uncle was a tool and die maker, he too had shop in the basement. They both set great examples of how tools should be maintained, lessons that I learned and have applied to my own workspaces.

Back to the machine room:

I have spent many hours hauling out bags of debris and sorting out tools, then finally sweeping off the shelves and workbench. Not quite done, but the workbench is looking good and I am quite proud of myself, and very grateful that the handyman didn’t offer his help or advice.

But then I found a childhood memory:

There, on the edge of the worktable was a massive vise clamp, faded red, covered in sawdust and debris.

Suddenly I was 4 or 5 years old again, and barely eye-level with this magical tool. Magical, because to a child, spinning that handle around and around, watching the handle always drop through, then flipping it another 1/2 turn, and watching it drop, again and again, was magical. And the more it spun, the wider the jaws opened, or squeezed shut: over and over and over again.

This toy was indestructible!

I am sure my dad wasn’t always happy to have a child underfoot as he was working, but this was one tool that his kids simply could not break. And so we were allowed to be underfoot, working with dad, all day, as long as we played with just that vise—and not his other tools.

Later on, I took a break outside with a tenant, a retired carpenter, and we talked about silly childhood memories of our dads’ home shops. He too remembers how magical it was to spin around and around the handle of that tool.

Both of our dads have passed on, his a few years ago, mine died when I was a child. It was grungy hard work cleaning out that room, but for reliving those long forgotten memories, worth it for a memory so priceless.