The American garage may be a dubious national trademark, a temple to a pagan god, creating a sea of sameness along the streetscapes of suburbia. But here’s betting most of us have our earliest memories located somewhere in its space. Somehow that makes it sacred.
See what I mean and ask yourself: Do I remember hanging out here with Dad, tinkering at his workbench, or helping Mom with the laundry when washer-dryer sets stood in the garage instead of in their very own room? What family reunion suppers or “dinner theaters” on card tables were held here? Who raised puppies here? When did I hide here from an angry sibling or put together a school project here or teach someone younger how to ride a trike within this hallowed space?
someday when you’re old and feeble and can’t remember what you had for breakfast that morning, you’ll still remember finding kittens when you were only six, born behind boxes in the garage. Such garage stories are rich and ready on the mind.
Of course, such stories may actually be tales of terror, abuse, and bewilderment. These are no less sacred. The important thing, for good or ill, is that a garage tale is marked by discovery or fear and pain or both.
Because most of us get around in cars, the garage marks the territory of our experience. Even when marred by dark memories, we acknowledge that a garage can be holy ground. For better or worse, filled with a brand-new car, a family standby, a beater, a grease monkey’s dream, or no vehicle at all, garages will remain an epicenter in our lives.