The 'Shed' is filled with family history, quirks and the perfect part

<p>Inside, the world of The Shed was dark and dusty, much like the stories that hung upon its walls. Nobly housing everything from Granddaddy’s old mule harnesses and World War I Calvary saddle to rusty saws and branding irons that haven’t seen action in 40 years.</p>

<p>The Shed was and is still filled with a mix of family history and hang-ups—complete with a dogged desire never to toss what could possibly be used at a later date, regardless of how broken, and a slight nod to our alleged Irish roots (or predisposition for superstition) as evidenced by the downward facing horseshoes on the front center pole that “pour out the good luck on this place,” as Daddy would claim.</p>

<p>It might be hanging on the wall on a gnarled piece of slick wire, tucked in the back of a cobweb-covered squeaky desk drawer, in an inaccessible corner behind the half-filled hydraulic oil buckets, or worse…in the bottomless pit of the five-gallon “nut and bolt” bucket.</p>

<p>It didn’t matter to Daddy that my sister and I had to essentially empty the entire shed to produce whatever sized part was needed. He didn’t have time to waste in repairing what was broken down. Daylight wouldn’t last forever. He sent us after the holy grail of a part, and we had better find it as soon as possible.</p>

<p>“I don’t see one,” was not an excuse. He knew good and well that it existed, and probably in that five-gallon bucket. And we didn’t want to be shamed by him having to leave his awkward position beneath the broken baler and walk all the way to The Shed to prove to us that we were wrong. Oh no, we would find the correctly-sized nut or bolt or both or we would die trying.&nbsp;</p>

<p>In the life of the barnyard, there is never a higher high than the moment when you proudly yield in your hand what you believe to the perfect part. This action is usually followed by a look of disgust when your proud part does not fit—it being off by a hair and forcing it in place would only cause more equipment damage.&nbsp;</p>

<p>You can blame what you assume to be English/metric incoherence and wonder how anyone could operate with a mixed set of tools and parts. But you quickly realize you have zero time to philosophize. Back to The Shed you go.</p>

<p>After what feels like an hour of sorting and fussing, all you end up with is greasy hands and a face caked in dusty sweat. Daddy, exasperated, would eventually roll out from under his disabled unit, totally bypass your well-sorted spread of nuts and bolts, head straight for that rusty wire or that squeaky desk drawer in which he would find the exact match for what he needed. “I told you it was in The Shed,” he would say. “All you had to do was look.”</p>