tucked away, in the basement of my childhood home, is a long, concrete-floored stretch of space—my dad’s workshop. it is filled with wood pieces and tools, paints and stains and benches and, often, while growing up, the noise of various machines, the smell of sawdust…and my father’s creative and capable mind. back far enough and around the corner are a few of my parents’ more personal things—things collected and kept… Keep Reading
