We bought a rundown, old house with a broken down garage out back, the frame canting to the left, endangering the neighbor’s fence. Barn-like doors rotting, windows cracked. Inside mouse droppings, cobwebs, and black stains shaped like continents.
“Tear it down,” advised my father. “An eye sore,” said my neighbor. “Can’t be fixed,” the contractor told me.
In October, on a Saturday, a cold breeze shivering the brown grass out back, I studied the garage from my bedroom window. Character and a firm resolve, and good form. Aged, bent, and forgotten, but not ready yet for the grave.
The next day, I rolled up my sleeves. I bought wood and a manual, borrowed power tools. Days turn into weeks. Flurries and sleet, freezing temperatures. Rime coating the brown grass. Ice inside an old metal bucket.
In the spring, a purple crocus poking out of the mud, out back. My new garage glimmers, Freshly painted, yellow with bright white edges. Straight lines, new doors, and Panes. My neighbor’s fence finally gets to breath a sigh of relief.