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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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