The old garage

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She had let herself go, and it wouldn’t be a stretch to say that she was shabby. Having passed her 10th decade, her best years were certainly behind her.

She had become a decrepit derelict; you could see her ribs through her tattered outer garments. She was sagging and bulging and had taken to wearing a slimy coat of moss.

Yes, the time was definitely up for our old garage.

Our old garage wouldn’t have even passed for a garage nowadays. At 10 feet by 16 feet, she was barely big enough to be called a storage shed, which was what we had used her for over several decades.

It had become clear the old garage would have to be deconstructed. But, as my wife pointed out, that couldn’t happen until all the junk it contained was removed.

Hearing your wife utter the phrase “clean out the garage” evokes a deep sense of terror in most guys’ hearts. That set of words is feared nearly as much as “We need to talk about our relationship” or “My mother will be staying with us for a month.”

One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. My problem is that I often find it difficult to differentiate between the two.

Not wanting to be accused of shirking my duties, I backed my pickup up to the old garage and faced up to a chore that loomed as large as digging the Panama Canal.

Above the door, I could barely make out the hand-painted “1918.” If that date was correct, it would mean the garage was built by my great-grandfather, Charlie Sveen. It also means the structure’s original purpose was to house a buggy.

Grandpa Nelson, who purchased this farm from his father-in-law, used to park his Ford Fairlane in the old garage. I don’t know how he managed it, but I suspect a shoehorn was involved. Nor do I know how Grandpa got out of the car once it was in the garage; crawling out through the trunk appears to have been his only exit strategy.

In any case, I simply had to save that piece of siding that bore the “1918.” Ditto for the board on the south side that bears the letters “W.N.” and “E.N.” This is no doubt some youthful graffiti from my Uncles Wilmer and Coke. They must have carved their initials into the siding prior to Eldon adopting his soda pop nickname.

Cleaning out the garage wasn’t so much a neatening-up project as an archaeological expedition. I dug down through the strata of our junk and into stuff that predated our time on this farm. Some even predated my time on this earth.

Much of the detritus brought back memories. There were the pair of tiny lawn chairs that our two boys used when they were tykes. Who can toss out anything that reminds one of that cherished era when our kids still thought their parents were cool?

An old tire from the Chevette we once owned reminded me that we used to drive what was, in essence, a motorized tin can.

An empty liquor bottle is evidence of Grandpa Nelson’s predilection for blackberry brandy. The way it was out in the garage reminds me of how he had to conceal it from Grandma’s disapproving eye. Even the best of marriages has its secrets.

I found an ancient plowshare that hadn’t seen daylight for eons. Best hang onto it in case I buy a plow that fits it.

Off in one corner, nailed to a moldering stud, was a forgotten mercury thermometer. It still had all its mercury and appeared to be fairly accurate.

Printed below the rusty temperature scale are the words “Sinai Co-op Elevator” along with “grain, coal, flour, seed, feed and salt.”

The Sinai Co-op Elevator is still in business. I should call them and place an order for three tons of coal and a dozen bags of flour. When they reply that they no longer carry those items, I could bust their chops for violating truth-in-advertising laws.

After a long afternoon of sorting and tossing and turning, I paused to massage the kinks in my back. Glancing upward, I happened to see an assortment of bridles and reins that were hanging from a rotting rafter.

Were they Grandpa’s? Or had Charlie left them there? Not that it mattered; those items were definitely keepers.

The old garage was finally cleaned out and cleared for decommissioning. Some sort of storage structure might replace it, although nothing can ever take its place.

I just hope any new structure has room for all the neat stuff I found in the old garage.

Jerry Nelson is a recovering dairy farmer from Volga, South Dakota. He and his wife, Julie, have two sons and live on the farm where Jerry’s great-grandfather homesteaded over 110 years ago. Feel free to email him at jerry.n@dairystar.com.