A Man's Shed is his Castle

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A man and his sheds...

My Dad's greatest passion

was his garden

All of the accoutrements

necessary to maintain his gardens

on his 'eighth acre pavlova paradise'

were contained in his sheds

He began with one

which grew to two

and eventually the garage 

became another

and then the spare room 

his final sanctum

 

his first shed

bore the name of his birth town
in the South Island of New Zealand

I asked my Mum last week

why the secateurs were hanging on the wall 

outside the shed
in the weather...

They became lost one day in the garden

and were unearthed years later

so were hung as a reminder 

of his negligence

the new seedling tomatoes

raised in his miniature glasshouse

were tenderly watered

with the old teapot

come with me now
let's unlock his first shed

and see the accumulation
of nearly 60 years
of hard work
and industry

the precious tools
so meticulously hung

like the instruments
of a surgeon

the more valuable tools
initialled with JN
His given name was Geoffrey
but he went by
the Scottish name of Jock

the seed box
I loved to explore as a child
but only under supervision
as the shed and its contents
were sacrosanct

now rusted tobacco tins containing
packets of miniature seed

and this appears to be a plan
of the rows of veges
he plans to plant come spring

old plastic salt shakers
were fashioned
to dispense the fine seeds

lawns were mowed by hand
trowels stored on the shelf above

a hand made binder twine dispenser

and another for finer string

the worker's boots
now sit idle

paint brushes cleaned
and reused many times over

In shed #2 everything has a place

there is innovative storage

 well maintained tools

hang in their mini shrouds

I can see his large hands

gripping the clipper handles

to trim the privet hedges

little bows of string

hang from nails

the dusty

but working wireless

sits in a corner

the black cat

from my Grandfather's garden,

that frightened

not a single bird

from the strawberry patch,

hangs from the rafters

the garage

has a below the ground pit

where I learned to pass the tools

for an oil and grease -

there being no boys in my family

and above, the rings 

from which my father hung and spun

and twirled
dazzling us
with his gymnastic ability

over here the hook

from which his punch ball spun

and sang a rhythmic boom ba ba

boom ba ba

binder twine 

and New Zealand

go hand in hand

stacks of mats

tarps

covers

and jumper leads

my Dad's sheds

are painted with the stories

of his activities

and his loves

stories of a whole life time...

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