|Walking into Dad's workshop|
I haven't been in his workroom proper for many years. Because of the Parkinson's, he hasn't done any watch repair in a very long time. But I notice everything is still set up and looks like he'll be starting again any minute.
This room was magic when I was little. So many tiny drawers full off... stuff. Things. Things I don't understand and don't know what to do with. But I would come in and pry rhinestones out of discarded costume jewellery, or get some of the fine, long drill bit thingys down and use them for doll swords and things.
I spend a lot of time thinking about my mother's influence on my life, and practically none about my father's, because I know, even though I haven't thought about it in years, what the largest part of him in me is.We both putter and fix and make. We both have desks full of all sorts of oddments which to us seem normal, but when you look through them, you realize they're a compendium of fascinating bits and pieces. I didn't know that most people's Dad's didn't have a room full of the best kind of tiny things to play with. I guess my kids will be equally used to the fabric, paint, wool, bits of metal, seed beads, wire pieces everywhere. I tinker with things because of Dad.
I can probably blame and praise him for the pemmican experiments, dolls' dresses, candle-making, attempts to bake clay over a flame (it doesn't work), and all the other things that filled my childhood. And now I look back and am so, so grateful to him for a life spent full of the drive to muck about with things. And now I watch his oldest grandson focusing on Lego and gears and inventions with a ferocity and single-mindedness that matched my own, and I am glad.