Cleaning Out His Workshop: Reflections on My Home's Previous Owners

Last weekend, I cleaned out my shed. It was the last part of the house that didn't feel like mine. It was still "his," or "theirs." As in, "Do you have a longer phillips head?" "No, but let me go check the shed to see if he did in his shed." 

But my gardening tools began to pile up on the porch, and they needed a place. It was time to make the shed -- really a workshop --mine too. I had tried to start this project before. Each time, it felt like I was disturbing someone's private work space, the layers of dust and rust like a hermetic seal warning me not to touch. So I decided to photograph the process. These are just phone photos, but they'll preserve the moment that was left hanging in the shed.

I bought the house from Ms. Evelyn Hutcherson. She signed the deed after I did and from what my neighbors have told me, she had been alone for a while. I'm not sure if she was a widow or divorcee, but it seems that there was definitely a Mr. Hutcherson at some point. Not that I don't believe that Evelyn could not have been a handy do-it-yourself sort of lady. In fact, my neighbor told me that Evelyn was in her mid-90s and still working three days a week when she decided to sell the house because she couldn't keep up with the yardwork. "She's a spunky lady," my neighbor told me. "You've got good juju in that house." (That moment, by the way, was a huge turning point in relaxing into my neighborhood. I mean, what an awesomely positive person puts it that way? Clearly I had cool neighbors in addition to good juju.) 

No, I believe there was a mister, because these are not Evelyn's initials. 

There was something beautiful about the workshop, and the process of going through it. I began to make some assumptions about the type of man Mr. Hutcherson was, imagining him laboring over the workbench. I was transported to a time when being the man of the house meant being the handy man too. When you didn't call plumber over the smallest leaks and you couldn't Youtube how to install a new light fixture.

The house had only been unoccupied for about six months when I moved in, but it seems that the shed had not been touched for several decades. I imagine L.C. was very suddenly rendered unable to work in his shop. Shavings lay on the floor and shelves. And beneath six layers of dust, a layer of sawdust covers scraps from his last project. His work shoes sit by the door waiting to be filled one more time.

I found a folder of road maps and imagined the couple's trips to South Carolina and Ohio in their Chrysler (for which I found a spare part still in its box). I can't wait to break out my modge podge and give these babies a new life. 

I pulled out a stool to brush off the top shelf and realize that L.C. was probably not much taller than me. And instead of picking up a stool from the local hardware store, he pieced one together with whatever he had around. 

I put a few things in a box to take inside. Because a paint tray is a paint tray and will work just as well today as it did decades ago when L.C. used it. Some things make the box because they're flat out cool and I want to frame or repurpose them. Like the perpetual calendar that has expired, yet still works. I counted up and determined that 2015 would be a EAADFBDGCEAC year, like 1998. I spun the inner circle to C for September and the days of the week still lined up. In 2025, I will turn 34 on a Tuesday, which I learn, was also the day of the week on which I was born. I guess L.C. didn't have Siri to ask.

I left some things alone and just organized for now. Power tools that might still have some umph find a cleaned off shelf and the pair of metal trays and their rusty tools go on the one below. Maybe my dad will want to take his picks and maybe I can get the rust off of a few of the wrenches. I stack cans of paint and stain to go through and dispose of safely later. I doubt any of the contents are still good.

As I tidy, I realized I've seen L.C.'s work in my house. A block of wood supporting the curtain rods in the second bedroom, a plumbing fix under the sink, the extra shelves he must have built in each closet. I began to wonder if he worked with his hands for a living, or if this workshop was purely a hobby. Either way, his work seemed motivated by more than necessity. He must have regularly perused the stack of tool catalogs I found, dreaming about the newest in '80s power tools. Even though he left the shop a mess, it doesn't seem like he meant to. He took care to organize the shed. Long pieces of molding are stacked in the rafters, scraps go in the corner. Mismatched handmade shelves fit between the studs above the workbench for pens, pencils and every kind of wood filler and glue.  L.C. wasn't the type of person to throw anything away. He hung scraps of wire on nails bent into hooks, saved a matchbook with one remaining light and kept half a box of pipe cleaners on the shelf.

There are still a few mysteries. Like this wooden sliding panel, possibly used in place of a window before the storm windows were put in? Then there's the project that seems to be his last, because it's unfinished. A few wooden pieces cut to match paper templates. One piece reads "3 pieces for 3 plates" and then "make slot for plate" in what must be L.C.'s handwriting. The curves look oddly familiar; like I know the finished product but can't rearrange the puzzle pieces in my brain to place it. The style matches the curve of the wooden balance over my sink. Was he making a plate rack to match?

I wondered what his full name was and laughed, because I doubt he was on Facebook. I couldn't stalk him like I usually would. A part of me hoped he's a member of the mysterious generation whose name doesn't come up on Google. But later, while writing this post, I can't help myself. And I find him. His name is LC in the public records, so maybe that was his given name. He was born in January in 1917. The exact name is either unknown, or unpublic. His marital status was listed as married and he would be 97 today, leaving me to the conclusion that he passed away while still married to Evelyn, presumably still living in the house. They had two children. I wonder if Evelyn ever went back in the workshop after his death and think of movies where lost loved one's rooms are left untouched. This was L.C.'s room; the place that represented his hard work and resourcefulness and all of the things he did to make this house a home for his wife ... things that I'm still benefiting from as the new owner. Thanks L.C. 

I filled two large black bags with trash: dried out wood putty, wrappers, bug repellant tin spray cans and lots of sawdust. Lots and lots of sawdust. I kept all of the materials. Chunks of metal, scraps of wood and coffee cans full of nails that I might use some day. L.C. would approve. 

As I cleaned off the tabletop, I thought of the unfinished stained glass project in my dining room and imagined finishing it by the light of the shed's three windows. I began to see that the shed's future may hold more purpose than storing a lawn mower. Who knows what projects our future holds. A couple hours after I began to document and sort, I swept again and looked around. The shed felt pretty spacious. I rolled my lawn mower in and was surprised to see how much room there still was. I placed my tool bag on the shelf with some extra potting soil, empty pots and tulip bulbs I need to plant soon.  The black nylon tool bag looked a little too shiny and new for the shed, but I'm sure it will soon see plenty of work and begin to resemble its worn surroundings.