The Builder

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There was a hardware store near our home that my father visited each Saturday with an almost religious fervor. It was a sacred place in which I ultimately felt the full extent of my father’s happiness. Happily he regularly took me on his weekly excursions and I always felt special as we wandered together through the aisles of tools and gadgets and fasteners while my dad explained the purposes of the different items. He was in his element inside that store and his face willingly gave away the happiness that being there provided him. Whenever I think of him I recall the bins of nails of every size and remember his lessons on why there were so many different kinds. I can still see him carefully weighing the proper variety for his latest project on the metal scales that hung from chains connected to the ceiling. I can smell the aromas of oil, wood, and metal that permiatted the concrete floors and the wooden studs of the walls. This was a cathedral dedicated to the carpenters, plumbers and electricians of this world. In Daddy’s case it was a shrine for all who love to build the edifices and implements that we use to bring us comfort.

My father never treated me as though I was too young to understand what he was doing. It didn’t seem to occur to him that as a girl I might not have been interested in the things that he so loved. He spoke to me about his passion for construction and explained the hows and whys of his work. Thus it was that he allowed me to sit at his side as he created a miniature replica of our first home. He carefully drafted a blueprint and showed me how to shrink the proportions of the rooms into a drawing that fit on a single sheet of paper. I could not have been more than four years old when he demonstrated the techniques of scale to me, for I had not yet started school when he first told me of his idea. Somehow Daddy assumed that I possessed enough intellect to understand his calculations in spite of my youthfulness, and he was so right. I was mesmerized by the process and willing to sit quietly on a stool while he demonstrated his skill at his drafting table.

The next phase of his work was to build a tiny house that would resemble our home in every imaginable detail. I was fascinated as he measured and cut pieces of balsa wood to create a frame for the structure. Even before he had inserted the walls and other features I was able to see the rooms unfolding just as I knew them to be. It took many weeks and many visits to the hardware store to finish the lovely reproduction. Sometimes weeks would pass before he had time to return to the task of making the tiny house that almost appeared to be the work of fairies rather than a man. I was astounded when it was finally complete because the details were so exact. He had somehow managed to create an illusion of cedar shakes and bricks and shingles that was a perfect copy of the house where we lived. He had designed the roof so that it could be lifted to reveal the interior rooms with their gleaming wooden floors and brightly painted walls. It was a masterpiece in my eyes and I felt a quiet joy in having observed the entire process. Sadly I have no idea what eventually happened to that wonderful creation. I would give anything just to see it once again and to explain to my children and grandchildren how wonderful it was to have been a witness to my father’s painstaking work.

My daddy was just as likely to educate me regarding other things that he built as well. When I was about seven we had moved to a new home and he was annoyed that we had to walk on the grass to get to the front door from the driveway. He muttered that the builder should have thought to create a sidewalk leading to the entrance. Before long he had decided to rectify the omission himself and once again he used the project as an opportunity to teach me about the proper methods for installing a concrete pathway.

He began by carefully digging out the grass in a pattern that resembled the desired design of what would be the final product. After seeming to take forever to level the ground and straighten the lines he next built a form with wood and and string, taking care to survey his measurements accurately. He allowed the structure to cure for a time to be certain that the ground was not going to shift. He also watched the drainage pattern and made adjustments to insure that there were not low points that would hold water. Then he began filling the bottom of the wooden platform with metal rebar and even bits of nails and other metal shavings left from other things that he had built. He told me that the metal was the secret ingredient for insuring that the sidewalk would last for years without cracks or erosion. Finally came the day when he mixed and poured the concrete spreading it until it was smooth and as perfect as he insisted that it should be.

Nobody was allowed to walk on his creation for days until he was certain that it was set exactly as he had hoped. He was quite proud of the outcome and so was I. Our neighbors commented on how nice it was and joked that they were going to hire him to build one for their houses as well. Daddy boasted that it was a fine structure that would last for a very long time. In fact it has endured even longer than he did. I recently drove past our old home and saw that the sidewalk was as strong as ever. It was not leaning nor did it have any cracks. It had withstood decades of use, sixty two years to be exact. As I saw how well it had performed I swelled with pride in knowing that my father had built it with his ingenuity and engineering skills. More importantly he had believed enough in me to share his knowledge with me, something that made me feel capable and appreciated.

To this very day I find great pleasure in sauntering through hardware stores. I especially enjoy the ones that are more in line with those of old. I prefer the bins of nails and bolts over the plastic packages that are the modern day norm. I consider an outing to Harbor Freight or Ace Hardware with my husband to be a delightful activity. Repairing things or building something is as much fun for me as taking a vacation trip.

I suppose that a psychologist would attribute my love of constructing to the tragic loss of my father when I was only eight years old. My childhood memories of him revolve around books and building and Texas A&M University football. I only truly know him through the brief amount of time that we shared, and yet it was so revealing of who he was that recalling the feelings that I felt provides me with comfort. He demonstrated his love for me by teaching me about the things that mattered so much to him. He was a great father if only for a very short time. 

While I will never truly understand some of the mysteries surrounding Daddy’s death nor the void that he left when he was gone, I treasure the recollections that he left me. The emotions that I associate with the simple act of wandering through a hardware store are visceral and as real as if he were standing next to me with his boyish grin of anticipation about the next thing that he was going to build. When I remember I am filled with pleasure and a sense of security because I know for certain how much he loved me, and for that I will always be grateful. He was a builder not just of things, but of beautiful relationships and dreams. 

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