The Lure of the Garage

 

Chapter Two - There's No Place Like Home.

   Home was Minnesota, the land of ice and snow.  Or, as the state tourism board optimistically put it, the place "where many are called, but few are frozen.”  And though it was only early November when Max arrived, the snow had already begun to pile up.

   Max had not been home in six years, not since he returned for his father's funeral.  At that sad time, he took a night flight in from Wyoming; his boots still caked with dirt.  The funeral had been uncomfortable for him, not only because he knew he would miss his father and had felt the loss go straight to his heart, but because everyone - before, during, and after - had looked at him with eyes full of expectation.  That's how he saw it.  The only son, the (now) head of the family, the next inventor.  Even his mother seemed to look at him in a new way.  It was as if not only his father had died, but also a part of himself.

   This had confused Max.  He was having enough trouble accepting the fact that his father was dead, without having to assume a new kind of identity that he hadn't prepared himself for.  He had always felt himself capable of understanding only one thing at a time, and in the proper order, even though this was totally untrue.  It was one of the reasons he was in Wyoming.

   After all the talking was through and everyone had left, his mother had said quietly, "Your father was a good man and had a big heart.  He was always proud of you and loved you and he hoped that you, too, would become an inventor."

   Max nodded and sighed and began to look toward the door.

   "There's always a place for you here.  The garage has everything you need." 

   She hesitated. 

   "I'd even make bread pudding for you, from time to time."

   Max smiled, but said nothing.  He looked at his mother with love, both for her and her bread pudding.

   His mother looked away for a moment and, then, straightened up. 

   "Well, you're a big boy now and you'll know what it is you need to do.  The door is always open." 

   She reached into her pocket and removed an envelope.  She touched his arm gently as she handed it to him. 

   "Your father left this letter for you.  See you at dinner."

   He went to his room and removed the single sheet of paper from the plain envelope which bore his name, written in his father's round hand.  Max thought of the cryptic postcards his father used to send him, all written in that crude  handwriting and containing some obscure message.  It had never been - "Having a wonderful time.  Wish you were here."  It had been more likely –

Or –

 

   But now his father was gone.  Max took a deep breath.

  The letter read:

                                                                                 Late Monday night

         My Dear Max,

         I am expecting many more fruitful years, but I am thinking of this now and      

so, while the iron is hot... 

        I have had my time and, except for getting involved with the Navy, I think I have been able to use it well.  You are my only son and, though a father likes to wish what he thinks best on the one he cares most about, a wise father knows that his son has a mind of his own.  A life of his own.

        A wise father would say, "If wrestling muddy animals in Wyoming is what makes you happy, then I am glad for you.  Go wrestle them to the best of your ability."

        Unwisely, I say to you that I have observed a gift in you for invention and that for you to do anything else would be an entire waste of your time and talents.  Your grandfather would be amazed at your potential and would immediately claim responsibility.  I, too, am amazed, but am not so presumptuous.

        When you read this I will be dead, but my love will be with you always.  The garage is now yours to do with as you think best.  Do what you want, but a life in which one creates for the benefit of others is not a bad one.  Do not destroy any of my papers.  You may someday find them useful.  Take care of your mother and stay away from sweets.

                                                               Your loving father,

                                         

                                                                            

   Max was moved by his father's words.  The house was quiet and, as he sat there, he seemed to be able to feel his father's spirit hovering in the hallway outside his door.  He felt, also, the somewhat heavier spirit of his grandfather making his way downstairs for dinner.  These feelings disturbed him and, absently, he searched in his pocket for a mint.

   At dinner, he made no mention of the letter.  He could tell that his mother was trying her best not to, but all the same, was giving him that look of expectation he dreaded.  As he pushed his beets around on the plate, he told her of his decision to return to Wyoming.  She had smiled thinly and nodded, and then rose to get the dessert from the oven.  He knew what that dessert was, but still he didn't, he couldn't, change his mind.

   That was six years ago and during those six years he had written faithfully and in detail to his mother.  He had tried hard to forget his father's words.  He had eaten a lot of sweets and many things had happened.  He had often thought, with a hint of regret, despite the weather, that his life in Minnesota was firmly in the past.  But now, he realized that something very much like destiny was following him and he changed his mind.  Returning home would either put the demons of invention to rest or encourage them in a way he didn't really want to contemplate.  He was on his way home.  He didn't know what to expect, but at least he knew how to get there.