Scarlet Stone

In my wanderings here and there over the course of my life, there are certain buildings and places that become more embedded in my memory, not by anything visual but by the smells that linger there. One such place is my old wood garage on the Soudan hillside that has been on the property far longer than me, having been built in the 1920s or 30s. It’s a typical old mining house single-stall garage with darkened horizontal board sides, an attic, and a gently-cracked foundation.
The very thing I noticed when I entered it for the first time was that it had the exact seasoned smell that was in my grandpa Victor Johnson’s garage in Chisholm. I was a small child and remember tagging along behind his tall slim frame as he walked to his garage, his escape from grandma’s domain of coffee, cardamom biscuit, and boiled rutabaga. It was a short walk out the back door of the kitchen, down the narrow sidewalk that passed the small vegetable garden on the right, with its tall stems of dill weed that grandma used for canning pickles. On the far end of the garden near the narrow door into the garage were her bountiful raspberry bushes. Grampa and I would stop and pick a handful of tasty berries to pop into our mouths before ducking into the garage out of sight.
The familiar smell was always there...along with his old blue Chevy that only he knew how to drive as grandma preferred being the passenger and did not have her license. He would drive the car down the narrow alley where the rock walls and vines along each side held back the horseradish, rhubarb, and rose hips in neighbor’s yards as he drove the car around front to pick up my grandma. The garage aroma, no doubt, was a concoction of aging wood resins, old rubber, gasoline, paint thinners, and lubricants that had seeped into the porous wood and unsealed concrete floor where they lingered for all of time. I am surprised there is not a men’s cologne called the Old Garage, because men would enjoy a splash here and there...especially if they wanted to spend time apart from their women folk.
I now understand the big pull of legions of men heading out to the garage...making pilgrimages throughout the days of every season and for any reason. The hallowed walls of a man’s garage are temples of peace and acceptance where a shrill word cannot nip their heels as they pull the door closed finding freedom from wives, rebellious teenagers, work bosses, and the daily grind.
My garage has those same long-reaching capabilities of pulling me back in time with that familiar aroma that I like very much. I can also find peace there. Some women would say, “It stinks in here, tear it down and put up a metal one with sheetrock and bright lights,” but that’s not the way I am. Garages are museums really, and I actually prefer mine to be cluttered and down-and-dirty. As I look around, there are randomly placed shelves displaying old glass jars and vintage tin cans of nails and miscellaneous tidbits that are still in there from 40 years ago...because they might have been needed. Mom’s old silver boombox sits on the cluttered workbench and is always tuned to Country music. There’s a small stack of asbestos house siding on one shelf, and next to it squats an old oily motor of some sort from someone’s project that never got finished. Let’s not forget the old peach crate, mysterious skeleton key on the windowsill, and rusty license plate swinging from a nail. Things are just there and I have had no reason to evict them because they are part of a colorful, relaxing backdrop that I grow to appreciate more and more.
Lately, I have been spending more time in my garage with my good friend, the Horse Whisperer, or H.W. for short....(the nickname I gave him because of his calm way with the horses he once kept). I watch him tinker on my household projects with utter fascination at his abilities to fix things, so there is no need to go out and buy new. I do lend a hand if needed, or else I sit in my whimsical smiley-face camp chair and gaze around at the garage occupants and remember the paths that led them there. Maybe it was an exciting find at a garage sale, a gifted croquet set that has become the center of hysterical family competitions out on my big lawn, or the used riding mower that H.W. brought to me so I could more easily mow my large yard. With the mower comes the annual refresher course where he reviews the gears and settings with me and stands and observes me cutting grass only to tell me I am going too fast and that it will cut better if I slow down. I reply... “You go fast,” and he says... “well, for me it’s different.”
One of several garage projects this week was the restoration of the antique, corroded faucet from my basement laundry tub. The knobs barely turned but H.W. managed to locate two old faucets out in his shed for parts and brought them to my garage. He pried, twisted, and worked at loosening the pieces to try to rebuild a working unit that would match the diameter of my old basement pipes. Several hours passed, including a couple trips to town of course, with the first trip being me going to both Tower hardware stores to match pipes, fittings, or whatever.... then getting frustrated after being out of my element and driving back home to fetch him, proclaiming it had been a wild goose chase, and he should have come with me in the first place. I hate being sent to a hardware store with little understanding of plumbing and how things fit together and.... it never ends well. I rattled on about it for a bit, he chuckled and got in the car without ever adding any fuel to the small fire I was stoking...and back to the hardware store we went.  Success soon followed with me handling vice grips and him hammering to fashion a working faucet. Of course, we take leisurely breaks while tinkering, with him sitting in the wide-armed old wicker chair wearing his signature blue and white striped railroad cap that I got for him on Amazon because you can’t easily find them in stores any longer. He usually wears the dirty one that has grease spots on it for general wear and a clean one if he’s going to town. We enjoy simple garage talk about projects, events, politics, the weather, people getting into trouble, family, and always aches and pains!
I came close to losing my friend in early May when a phone call from H.W. woke me at 3 a.m. He was nearly out of breath and asked me if I would drive out to his place. I quickly dressed and nervously drove the 12 miles. I knew he had compromised breathing issues already and he decided we better go to the hospital but he could not even walk to my car so I called 911. The first responders got there before the ambulance and gave him an assessment and some oxygen but he was in so much pain and I felt useless. Once the ambulance arrived, we headed to the Virginia Hospital emergency room and I helped him wait out some very scary hours as we learned he had a partially collapsed lung and had been dealing with a serious RSV infection that he was not aware of. He ended up spending four days in the ICU, then recovering at home for a couple of weeks. I was so grateful things did not go rapidly downhill and now appreciate the days and times we spend together even more.
Projects will most likely be on hold over the July Fourth holiday. I’m going to be in Tower with a lady friend for the parade, then escape the heat and crowds and head home afterwards on my electric bike. H.W. likes to visit his comrades at the bar during this chapter of his life. He says he never got to go to Fourth of July parades and celebrations while growing up, because his dad made hhim and his brothers work in the hayfield. The only time they could go was if it was a rainy day, and that would surely have dampened the holiday fun.
I think about the things in life that are most important.... like a very good friend and living a calmly paced life. Taking time to appreciate relaxing conversation surrounded by a few favored possessions in a well-seasoned old garage is a fine way to idle my own motor during these summer days.