I visited home this past summer, and while our old house has changed with new occupants over the years, many things remained the same.
One being Uncle Hay’s property. It was like stepping back in time for me, and on this Father’s day, I am maudlin thinking about those old times and how close him and dad were.
Both of them spent much of their time in their respective workshops, and while dad’s is gone, visiting Uncle Hay’s, I could almost see him there, wearing his old denim coveralls, and I could imagine I was there on one of my multitude of “Run down and see if Hay has a <insert tool here>” missions.
I’ve gotten countless chisels, replaced broken drill bits, borrowed sharpening stones, and often had to make a return trip as Uncle Hay would ask me to bring down a tool of dad’s.
I can smell the old smells, and did when I visited there in September. The smell of sawdust, mixed with three in one oil, melded with the smell of rough lumber and planks, baked for years through the big multi-paned window that the sun seemed to beam through constantly.
I know I’ve been there on cloudy days, and in rain and snow, but somehow, in my memory its always sunny, motes of dust drifting in the beams, and I can’t tell you how much I miss it, and them.
Rest in peace. Greater, more loving men I have never known.
Raised in outport Newfoundland in a town of 65 people, I pursued a post secondary diploma in Information Technology right out of High School.
I’ve always been a geek at heart, but yet I love the rural life I grew up with. Fishing, hunting, camping and the great outdoors are still loves of mine, even if I don’t pursue them as often as I once did. Sports were always a big part of our lives, and I played many (badly) and loved them all.
