by Mikki McLeod

Created on: June 30, 2008   Last Updated: September 01, 2008

THE GARAGE

The squeak and slam of wooden screen doors alert the neighborhood that dusk is about to begin. With homework completed and about an hour left of daylight, there is just enough time to get in a bike ride around the block. As I walk out across our brick patio, under the blooming strawberry vines, I hear a friendly hello from next door. Henry has just lit his old red barbeque grill. As the flames saver each drop of lighter fluid, the heat rekindles the remains of last Sunday's supper. The smell makes my mouth water as I work up an appetite for dinner. The breeze is warm and the air is crisp; it's perfect.

I unlock the side door of our detached garage and hear the dryer come to a halt. The bouquet of laundry soap and dryer sheets tease my nose to sneeze. The garage is more like my dad's work shed than a house for a car. It's musty inside and without windows to let in the day, it's kept pretty cool. The sawdust from his latest project drapes the floor. It's filled with the familiar and pungent scents of my dad; mulch, mixed with sweat and stale cigarettes. Cold steel tools are scattered across his splintered work bench, bookend by a couple of twilight blue vinyl stools. On the weekends I'll sit in there for hours spinning on those stools, watching my dad create. A mountain carved out of Styrofoam covers a corner of this sanctuary and beneath it, the electric trains. The smell of fresh paint tells me the new village additions are too sticky to touch. Rich crimson, orange and emerald foliage suggests its miniature season has changed to fall.

Against the far wall, underneath the gamy scented fishing poles, rests my most prized possession. It's lime green and has only one embellishment that sets it apart from any "store bought" bike I've seen it's own brake pedal. My dad is a treasure hunter of sorts. He sees value among the local area discards, then collects and restores them in our garage. When he found this bike, rust had eaten through most of the paint. By my tenth birthday; it had been re-painted and adorned with multi-colored tassels on the grooved white handle bars. He had also attached to the front, a woven plastic basket with sharp pink and purple flowers. I feel just as much a "one of a kind" as my bike when I ride it around my block. My kickstand snaps into place and I start to back my bike out; when I hear him clear his throat. There he stands; cigarette in one hand and a large plastic red cup in the other. I can tell from the tangy lemon scent and the dripping condensation, its ice cold sun tea. "Dad, I'm going to take her for a spin around the block" he replies, "I'll be right here where you left me, in the garage".

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