The Old Man's Basement

[Richter]

     The old man's basement was the kind of place I dream about.  A cement and fieldstone hideaway, dank from the wet New England earth and a century of supporting the house, it was crammed to the edge of functionality.  Parts, tools, stock, supplies, glassware and chemicals abounded.  File cabinets were crammed with careful records, slowly molding.  A makeshift dark room was left like he had just been absent for a month or two.  A home made lathe decorated one wall.  

    I never knew the old man, but I wish I had.  The place was a mess, but it was the kind of mess that made SENSE.  Everything had a place, and that place was where it was put down, or moved too.  Ergonomic entropy put lesser used implements more and more out of the way, and keeping the favorite and useful close at hand.  I could start to see how he'd function, the practicality behind the clutter.  His grandson didn't know him well, his mother (the fellow's daughter), not wishing to broach the topic.  They say he lived through the depression, and was in the habit of making everything for himself when he could, like his own toothpaste.  

    Boxes of cogs and gears, sorted by type fill the shelves under one bench.  A shelf is full of glass jars with carefully sorted fasteners.  Drill bits, sharpeners, and layout tools along the back wall.  Stock metal, plastic, and wood off to the sides or in drawers.  Laboratory glassware all clean and fit into the drawers of another desk.  

    The grandson, Kevin, is worried about how to get rid of the chemicals, and I agree with him.  Tempting to take some, but I can't be sure I'd get the stuff out safely.  The rest is worth a good sum as scrap, if not for the worth as tools.  The priority is getting it all out, Kevin says, absently sparking a lighter to "Check for the broken gas line."  I tell him I can help with some, and give the chemical cabinet a sound thump in reply.  (Did I mention the old gentle once made a bathtub full of nitro?)  Assured of each other's capacity for batshit insanity, we make arrangements for a few things.  

     Money isn't asked, but he doesn't say no when I offer him some.  I pack a bag and a box full with pounds of metal gears and stock for projects or smiths I know.  I take some old tools I know I'll use.  A large pair of metal dividers and a jar of cotter pins for my own father.  A few specialized measuring instruments, sharpening stones, and knives finish my haul.  I'd take the lot of it, but space, practicality and life get in the way of the lathe and drill press.  As we leave I point out what tools might be worth saving or selling, and give advice on how to help clean out the place during the estate sale.  Ten dollars for whatever fits in a 5 gallon bucket is way bellow the scrap steel price, but it will move a lot with free labor.        

    He was quite a fellow they tell me, textile chemist by trade.  Always interested in how things work, and happy to show you.  Need it?  Ask him, he can probably make it.  He was a tinkerer and a pack rat, but at some level it still worked.  I got out with a comparative minimum of his supplies, his implements, his shrapnel, and I'll keep myself from going back for more.  I've still got life enough to work on my own.   In sixty years, my own grandson may preside over some of it leaving my own house.    

Ed:  Everyone's an editor

[Arafelis]

Nice.  Didn't make me shit my pants, but I feel differently after reading it than I did before reading it.  Not that it matters, but, true story?

Also: Without the ability to indent, use whitespace to break up paragraphs.  It makes pieces a lot more readable.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

I like it... it's inspiring.

[Richter]

Thanks!  Also, is a true story.  Including the bit with the gas line and the chemical cabinet.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

It's awesome! Also it directly inspired me to write my one about the dumpster.

[Bebek Sincap Ratatosk]

My Elmer (HAM Radio term for Mentor) was a retired Engineer. He had worked at WABC in New York and was the on-site engineer for the Cousin Brucy show from Palisades Park. He was on the team that helped Les Paul develop multitrack on tape (as opposed to the layered record options he had been toying with). His basement was a path between stuff straight out of sci-fi. He had three semi-truck trailers on his property also full of electronics, chemicals, lab equipment, radio and television equipment etc etc

At one point me and the other kids he trained had to help him build a new garage for all the new stuff he'd just gotten.

Wayne is the obvious nerd in this picture. (Second from left). Though by the time I knew him, he was a sort of Angry Santa Claus from Hell... huge white beard, white hair, white eyebrows that he waxed for some weird reason. hehehe




Thanks for stirring memories Richter. Wayne died 12 years ago and I hadn't thought about it in awhile.

[Richter]