On Friday, my wife and I closed on our first house. It’s a nice place in a great neighborhood here in Memphis. We’re super pumped, and a little scared.[1. I suspect most first-time homebuyers are.]
As most people do who buy 56-year-old houses, we set to work immediately on our new property. One of the biggest tasks on our list is to re-build a shed in our backyard that is currently in pretty bad shape. We hadn’t spent a lot of time in the shed before closing due to the large amounts of stuff in it.
Oh, and the moldy smell in the air.
Friday afternoon, I set out to help clean out the shed with some construction guys.[2. You know, “real” men.] We quickly discovered what all that stuff actually was — the makings of an upholstery shop.
The musty room was full of all sorts of equipment. Dozens of rolls of fabric were lined up, side-by-side, sitting on the joists overhead. There were boxes full of yarn and threads of different kinds in nearly-collapsing stacks. Zippers, buttons and velcro were all organized by size. Loads of patterns and books were stacked on a large work station, hand built out of plywood and two-by-fours. The building has loads of power outlets, and its own compressed air delivery system, consisting of pipes overhead.
I don’t know the man’s name who worked in this workshop. I know he had a record player, and several Bible study books on a shelf nailed to the wall. I know he put care in to his work, based on the notebook full of photos, littered with notes and hand-written feedback.
The calendar on the wall hadn’t been turned since October 1985.
Sadly, years of neglect have taken their toll on the building, and just about all of this stuff had to be tossed. Years of someone’s life, someone’s work all gone. The physical things are in a pile in my driveway, but the memories and stories are gone in a far more permanent way.
It makes me wonder how my work — mostly stored as ones and zeros on hard drives — will ever last until I’m gone, let alone after I’m gone.
It’s all sobering as hell.