The garage

The garage was my father’s world.  He always had something to tinker with in there.  He was in his element when he bought old cars or motorbikes on which he would work for months.  He would dismantle them, fix anything that needed fixing and them put them all back together again.

He would tune the engines to perfection and any small rattling noises anywhere from the dashboard, seats or windows he would fix.

I was often his helper, being the oldest child and the only one interested in cars and motorbikes.  When I started driving he would call me out to go for drives so that he could sit in the passenger seat, trying to figure out where some specific, unwelcome noise was coming from.

In later years he tried to engage one of his grandsons to take my place but nor he nor any of the other grandchildren shared my interest in that activity.

My father died almost two years ago and left a garage cramped with three old Vespas that he rebuild over several years.   Although no one in the family rides them or is ever likely to do so, they won’t allow my mother to sell them.  For the grandchildren they are a symbol and a memory of their grandfather.

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