The Smell of Sawdust
After a series of snowstorms throughout the month of April, the weather is finally spring-like in this beautiful corner of the world in which I live. Along with that warm weather often comes the energy to do yardwork, plant flowers (though it's still too early!), and do home-improvement projects. One such task I've been putting off for years is staining the deck in my backyard. The house is 14 years old, but the deck has never been stained -- I inherited it six years ago in its rustic, unfinished form.
Last weekend as I was sitting on that deck with a cup of coffee, the sun shining down on my bare and winter-crusty feet, I had the unction..."I'm going to do it. I'm going to stain my deck this week. The weather looks decently warm....I'm going to do it."
These random inspirations usually hit me like a Ferrari going 0 to 100 in 6 seconds and just minutes later, I was clearing all the furniture and planters off of the deck. That very afternoon, I scrubbed the old weathered wood with cleaner and rinsed it off. Step 1, done.
Step 2 is a little more laborious. In order to properly prep the greyed planks to be oiled, I have to sand the entire deck surface down (part of the reason I've been avoiding it!) Last night, I remembered, "I think I brought dad's belt sander back when we went to visit last April." I went into the basement and found the Rubbermaid bin full of tools from my dad's workshop, peeled off the lid, and yes, there was the vintage orange Black and Decker sander. But besides the tool discovery, what else hit me when I opened the lid, I was not prepared for.
The instant the lid was off, I was met with the smell of my dad's workshop. The mixture of sawdust, grease and probably the scent of my dad himself on his old leather toolbelt. I'm going to be vulnerable here and say that I sat there, on the cold concrete floor, holding my dad's hammer (wrapped in electrical tape since the 1980s) and sobbed.
Last year at this time, my children and I took a trip up north to my hometown to visit mom and dad. At that time, my dad was still living at home, but the effects of immobility and dementia were starting to become very noticeable and we already knew that it likely wouldn't be feasible for him to be at home for much longer. I spent that ten days at home helping my mom do spring yardwork. One of the hardest moments from that trip was when looking for a tool to help me with the work, I ventured into my dad's workshop. I unlocked the door, turned on the light and stopped in my tracks, staring at the scene in front of me. It was "frozen in time." His tools, all where he left them when working on his last project. Sawdust everywhere. I stood there and broke down with the realization that dad would never again stand at the table saw or the grinder. Never again would I hear him whistling his breathy half-whistled half-hummed random tune with an open mouth as he tinkered around, CBC radio playing in the background. Never again would I see him mowing the lawn in his rubber boots, tattered brown coveralls splattered with paint, and iconic boat hat.
Many of us are acquainted with the grief of losing someone to death. But there is a different type of grief that is ongoing, one that is complex and conflicted -- it is the grief of continually losing someone while they are still alive (known in professional circles as "anticipatory grief"). Anyone who has watched a loved one deteriorate will relate to the enormity of seeing the person they've known all their life slip away behind a cruel curtain of age-related decline. It's the "long goodbye." There are moments where you would give anything to be able to step behind that grey curtain and see and hear the person as you knew them before, in living colour.
I stood there in my dad's workshop, looking around at his "fingerprints" everywhere. The makeshift solutions he came up for everyday problems, pitzeled together with little scraps he repurposed. The writing on the walls (literally), detailing dates and times and what was happening that day, from the annual spring break up of the Peace River, to his grandchildren being born -- a living history of our family right there in carpenters pencil and permanent marker, waiting to be discovered like hidden treasure. I stood inside his world and missed him so intensely, even though he was only a few dozen feet away, napping in bed.
As I opened that plastic tub last night, the grief I felt that afternoon a year ago came flooding back. Just as I had kept that bin full of tools closed for an entire year, the grief has mostly also been kept in a box in my heart -- only sneaking out in stealth ways from time to time. But last night, I opened the lid and I let it all out. I knelt on the floor last night remembering all the times I called him as an adult, asking for advice about plumbing, or the furnace, or some other home improvement project. I thought to myself about how it is because of my dad's example that I know as much as I do as a single woman -- that I can troubleshoot a dripping toilet or a malfunctioning appliance. Dad no longer lives at home; his needs became too great. I can no longer talk to him about all of those things. But now in midlife, I can use the tools I brought home from his workshop last year to refinish my deck -- and in that way, I can honour him as the amazing father he has been to me my whole life. I will hammer the loose nails down with his vintage hammer. I will sand down the loose splinters with his sander. And as I do that, I will think about all the things he has taught me and how grateful I am to have had a dad that was so present in my life, and who is present still -- just in a new and different way.
I will forever be grateful for the smell of sawdust.
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