Grandpa's Shed

It was just an old cinder block building. The remnants of a chicken coop. The milky white walls on the outside had been painted a hundred times over the decades. The inside was dark and oily. The concrete floor was permanently stained from years of working on mowers and tillers.
During the holidays, the men gathered in the shed. It would smell of cherry pipe tobacco, and locust logs that burned in the wood stove. They sat on crates and barrels and talked of the old days. The younger boys darted in and out and gathered information to tell our mothers who were scurrying in the kitchen.

The workbench was filled with a variety of tools. There were old soup cans brimming with nuts and bolts and nails. There was always an endless supply. The men drank their beer and tinkered with mower blades and grinders. They cracked hickory nuts and walnuts that Grandpa had collected in the fall. On the walls hung hoes, pitchforks, shovels, and axes. Their wooden handles were worn down from generations of callused hands that worked the fields. On another wall were squirrel tails, fox tails, and rabbit skins. The older skins had less hair from the mice nibbling on them.

Buddy, Grandpa's dog, snuggled next to the stove and only stirred when the occasional beer can was thrown into the garbage barrel. There was only one sixty watt bulb that dangled from the ceiling. The men liked it dark. The only two windows had feed sacks for curtains. The door was periodically opened to let some of the cigarette, cigar, and pipe smoke escape. Uncle Bill's bellowing laugh was heard across the whole farm. It assured everyone that a good time was being had by all.

Now some years have slipped away. Most of the men have either died from cancer, heart disease, diabetes, or, have been divorced and have lost touch. I drove by the old farm and asked the new owners if I could walk around. They recognized my last name and said to help myself, and asked if I wouldn't mind feeding the chickens as I went through.

All of the out buildings were still painted white, the old shed included. It was boarded up for some reason. After throwing a couple of handfuls of chicken feed to the dirty white poultry, I pried the shed door open. To my amazement, it still looked the same. Most of the tools were gone, but the skeletal remains of the squirrel and fox tails still clung to rusty nails. The oily workbench was still standing. The pot belly stove was staring at me from its corner home. I sat on the last of the tomato crates, and listened for the echoes of long ago laughter. I could almost smell the tobacco and stale beer.

Something was under my foot. Among the sawdust and old hickory nut shells was a small, olive drab, plastic soldier. I reached down and picked it up. Oh the hours I spent playing war with my army men, hiding them in all my secret spots in that wonderful shed. I got up and placed the veteran soldier on the window sill. Now he could stand guard instead of being buried in the debris. There in the corner of the sill was one of Grandpa's old tobacco pipes. What a piece of history for me. I smelled it and it had a faint aroma of cherries. I shoved the pipe in my pocket, then took one last look around the room.

Uncle Bill's laugh, Uncle Tom's red hair and soggy cigars, Uncle Francis' confident sales pitches, Dad's quiet smile, and Grandpa's content look, I will never forget those guys and I will never forget that old shed.

As I walked back to my car, the farmer drove up on his old Ford tractor. He studied my sentimental face and asked if I found what I was looking for. I paused and said, "Yes, I did...but I left it there where it belongs." He gave me a wrinkled wink and said to come back anytime. Then he drove on down the lane. I waved in appreciation, but never did return.