A letter of undying love to Garages

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

Sawdust. Metal shavings. Spider webs in the corners. The hum of chest freezers. Bike tires. Shelving of paint cans, all open, all covered in drips. A can of WD-40 missing the lid and straw.

This is my love language to you.

We’ve spent so many years together, me sweeping your smooth concrete floors, that I feel like I know every crack in them, that I could trace them in the dark with my calloused fingertips. And when my children squeal at how cold they feel in bare feet in the summer, I revel in your cool touch. You know just what I need.

I’ve known you as a two-car version with one big door. Sometimes you have two doors, even three. My shoulders don’t mind the effort to lift them manually; it’s a rite of passage. You were once a single-car, one door carriage house, detached from the first house I owned, and your rough exposed lumber snagged more than a few of my shirts in your messy efforts to bond with me. The fact that you were hiding a Federal Pacific electrical panel didn’t scare me away from the commitment. You let me perform heart surgery on you to replace it, and that’s a special level of trust.

You’re not all the same. I know this. I mean no disrespect. But all garages are connected, all of the same spirit tied together somehow, ethereally. Like a macrocosm of fungi or that massive quaking aspen grove in Utah that’s all the same tree underground. I know this because you all shiver in exactly the same way when we first meet, when you recognize me.

Your older selves are full of mysteries, of tools, of projects my grandfather started and never finished. You whisper things to me of my own history, of the histories of those who came before me. I know they loved you like I do. They shared secrets with you, too.

I’ve built so much while you watched. You laugh when I drop the wrench… again. Sometimes you play hide-and-seek with the nuts or screws I’ve counted perfectly. And when I taught my kids how to build a bicycle from scratch, you were with us, part of that memory as it was assembled: frame, wheels, handlebar, headset, pedals, crank, bottom bracket, drivetrain, kickstand. You didn’t mind the drips of Tri-flow or the smell of grease.

My wife knows if she wants the baby powder¹, the hairspray², or the fingernail polish³ to come ask you for them. We’ve had plenty of jokes about that over the years. You’re a lot like me; you don’t let pride get in the way of a job well done.

And it’s so relaxing to know that you won’t hold a grudge for me rolling in the lawn mower and leaving a trail of dried grass all over your floor. It’ll always get cleaned up. Eventually.

When your walls display pegboards full of tools, organized by size and type, reliably categorized, neat and tidy, my heart sings. I found a nice place for that decommissioned DeWalt drill of my grandfather’s on your walls. It might make a nice marker for my ashes someday when I’m gone. Think about that, and let my wife and kids know.

You see us all come and go; wet dogs in the winter in need of a toweling off; loads of groceries from Costco; bike trips with books to leave and find from the nearest little free library. And you demand so little. New fluorescent lightbulbs every so often. Maybe an upgrade to LEDs in some places. You let me routinely tear off bits of your walls to route new wiring for outside sockets. Never a fuss about any of it.

Sometimes at night I dream of you, of your cool floors and open space to create, to fix, to build. You’ve held more projects than I can remember after all these years, and there will undoubtedly be more. More tile, more cement board, more mortar, more lumber, another greenhouse, more pipe, more boxes and boxes and boxes. You are full of yeses. You never say no to me.

You have been the one place in my life where I could always be myself.

My love for you is unexpectedly deep and profound, and you’ll laugh, I’m sure, to hear me say it. But you’re a literal safe space. You’ve sheltered and protected me, you’ve held onto my secrets, and your door is always open when I try it.

Okay, except for that one time the kids broke the lock to your door, and I had to cut it open with a Sawzall and replace the whole thing, but that was a once-off. I hope.

Thank you. For being there all the time. For loving me back in your cold, quiet way. For being my space.

Your trans friend,

Robin

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1. A light dusting of baby powder helps innertubes not stick to the insides of tires when inflated, preventing pinch flats.

2. Hairspray, preferably Aqua Net, lets handlebar grips slip on and then stick in place once it dries.

3. Fingernail polish in basic colors can seal a chipped paint job on a bicycle frame.