Man Caves and Envious Lounges

 Have I told you, dear reader, about my new mancave? I have always had a man cave in some form or another.  I wouldn’t be a true, red-blooded Aussie if I didn’t. Well, maybe I would, but still. I recently ebayed a green leather lounge to go in it. I think that is the final addition to a fully functioning man cave.  The introduction of a sheet wall heightened its appeal, initially for saw dust blocking, but its powers of keeping kids on their best behaviour is what has truly shone through.

The evolution of my mancaves starts a long time ago; the first one that I was truly happy with was in our flat in Camp Hill about eight years ago. It was a post second world war wood duplex that, like most of Queensland, has had a lower floor put in even though the roof of that (which is the floor of the house) is only about 6 foot 2, and given that I am six foot five, presented a problem that required me saying a nasty word every so often.  It also required me to use a noun, an acronym, as though it were a verb. Nevertheless, I remember on many occasions writing, studying or marking in a wonderful old chair and feeling the morning intensity peacefully soothe its way into my soul. But this was packed up and garaged saled off in various moves and then a wish to get rid of everything and travel around the countryside.

So the latest incarnation of my mancave all started with an old garden table that I turned in to a saw bench by nailing a couple of old bits of wood as guiderails. It was initially only a temporary measure, to cut up wood for a number of frames for my fantastically talented wife. However my mothers in law were so offended by its very nature that I decided I had to keep it. I recently bought a Triton saw bench, but will have to hide that if they ever visit our house again, which is unlikely (I will have to tell you that story some day, but not today as it is quite a depressing story and I’m in too good of a mood).

I have such fond memories of my father’s garage/workshop area, but it was never a place of gathering or relaxation, just of building stuff. Or poking stuff. I have memories of talking to him as he was happily planning something out. But there was nowhere to really just sit; to just be. This is the difference between a normal wussey garage and a mancave: the ability to sit somewhere very comfortable and contemplate, or maybe only contemplate contemplating. Also for my kids to sit on and converse while fixing something, or for my wife to sit on and converse while I’m fixing something and for one other reason, but ‘shhhh’ we’re not talking about that here, and besides, in hindsight there may well have been a little too much over-sharing about that lately. http://www.smh.com.au/lifestyle/life/blogs/citykat/take-it-from-a-36yo-married-father-of-four-with-a-great-sex-life-monogamy-is-underrated-20120719-22bp8.html

So as I contemplate my new green couch, it occurred to me that I have come a long way in terms of carpentry, metal work and fixing type skills. I was never overly looked on as the shop A and Shop B type in school.

When I was growing up, I was lucky enough to have both grandfathers in my life, teaching me this that and whatever. One was a retired agricultural scientist and the other a retired engineer/mechanic. They were both so clever with their hands and minds that they could pretty much fix anything, even a rainy day. One grandfather used to have a few old mowers and small engines or the like that he would make me pull apart and put back together. At first he helped and instructed, then as I got older he would have it disassembled before I arrived and I would have to put it back together. As i grew older still he would throw in parts that didn’t belong to the item and/or take some simple parts away that I would have to make. Just simple things like carburettor cables, gates or switches. This was nothing much to people of his day though. His brother was always referred to as the ‘plastic bottom boy’ for fixing a transfer case on a Toyota using moulded plastic and a few other things.

But in school, I was one of the smart ones. We weren’t welcome in Shop A or B. We were seen as smart, but useless. We weren’t from cattle farms or wheat farms, so apparently had no knowledge of anything real.
The problem that confronts me today is that, while this isn’t true, I was never much fond of metal work until very recently. But this wasn’t about ability. My Shop B teacher used to scoff at me and my attempts to follow instruction. He was one of those ‘measure something three times, cut once’. Which really means ‘measure something four times, change your mind, realise that there is a better way to do things, get a cup of coffee, make a smart arse comment about something, measure the new line three times and then still fuck it up’ types. I have much more of a ‘work out what you really can’t mess up, and the rest - just kinda go with what you think works at the time’ philosophy.

But I digress, I couldn’t follow instruction. Not because I didn’t have the skill, just not the patience, so I was always off breaking stuff and getting into mischief rather than doing what I was supposed to. Which is why my wrought iron and tin-plate book end is beautiful. It is absolutely perfect and puts a smile on my face every time I see it at my mother’s house.

You see dear reader; my Shop B teacher had this theory that he could sort out the men from the boys by using a permanent marker to identify whose work was whose. No one could ever breach this fortress of discipline and truth. Pity he didn’t know the fact that white board markers make permanent markers not so permanent. So wherever the dodgy job I did on my bookend is nowadays, I really don’t care. The one I claimed as mine is perfect. But doesn’t this mean that that weird ugly Shop B teacher was in a way right: I just don’t have the faculty for Shop B? I don’t think so, but can’t really prove that. At least I have a groovy green leather lounge in my man cave to ponder this thought. Maybe I’ll need a fridge down here soon too.