The Smell of Sawdust and a Lost childhood.

Ever since I have been really young, my fathers workshop has been a place that I was told not to go into. I was always told that I was going to hurt myself, and that I would be in a lot of trouble if I went wandering inside of it. Much like any child, I listened... until my father left for work, or went outside to fix something. I rarely ever touched anything, but I always had a fascination with all of the tools, and the machinery, never quite understanding what it all did. 

My teenage years, I didn't take much interest in the tools or the machinery, I actually didn't take much interest in the shop at all except for a few 'Budweiser Girls' calendars that were hanging on the walls. I never took an interest in making and creating things with my hands, and it is something that I regret to this day because it never allowed me to bond with my father. I never took the steps I needed to take to learn from him and be interested in his life. 

Now that I am a bit older, I have taken council from the most important people in my life, and I have realized that I need to be more involved in my fathers life, because all of us are only here for a short period of time, and I don't want to have our last memories together being a three minute conversation at Christmas asking how his dog is. I have realized that I need to make more of an effort to be a more involved, more understanding person with everyone in my life, but mostly with my father. 

I've spent the last two weekends taking the time to spend with him and trying to be more active in his family. This weekend I decided to step back into his shop for the first time in many years, and being the shutter addict that I am, I had to take some photographs because photos tell your eyes, what I can't say with words. 

His shop can be messy, and dirty, and sometimes have cigarettes and blood on the floor, but my father has made some of the most amazing pieces of woodworking I have ever seen, and it completely blows me away how a man who I always feared and who I always saw as rough and rugged, can craft and perfect such beautiful and delicate pieces of work. I have such a grand respect for my father now, that I wish I would have had when I was younger. 

Behind the rough hands and gruff voice, there is a beautiful heart and soul, and I never realized that until I moved away and tried to find myself. 

Until next time,