Granddad's Garage

My granddad spent forty years as a mechanic, and his garage is a museum of his life: walls covered in license plates, a calendar from 1983 he never took down, a radio permanently tuned to an oldies station, and coffee cans full of every bolt and screw ever made.

Every summer, I visit, and we work on something together. This year it was an old lawnmower engine. He talked me through it, his big rough hands showing me where to put the wrench, his voice patient. "Lefty loosey, righty tighty," he said, every time, as if I might forget.

We got it running on the third day. He pulled the cord and it roared to life, and he did a little victory dance in his coveralls.

He's eighty-six now. I've decided I'm going to keep his garage the same when I have my own. License plates. Coffee cans. Oldies station. Maybe the calendar.