Slad’s Den
My dad (we called him "Slad") had a nice set-up in his tiny den, with a sliding door to give him
privacy. His desk was tucked in the back corner of the room, opposite a shiny black manual typewriter beneath the bookcase. The bookcase was full of memorabilia. His Ohio State ceramic mug. A hole-in-one trophy. A rack of pipes from when he used to smoke. My favorite (I have it still) was the one with the pipe bowl carved into a grinning devil head with moustache and pointy beard. A can of pens, mechanical pencils, a special marker in the color of his current car to cover any nicks.A section of the bookcase was reserved for Slad’s various harmonicas. The echo harp with its wobbly tremolo. The chromatic harp with the little lever. The various Hohner marine band models in different keys.
Slad’s two-drawer metal file cabinet contained the important family papers. You never knew quite what he would pull out of there—your social security information, birth certificate, college scholarship. And of course all the current and past paperwork from his business enterprise: the Mac-Col golf ball, an all-rubber practice golf ball he co-invented with his colleague Jay Colville, with “less bounce to the ounce.”
The upright piano took up a good third of the available space. Mom had painted it in the popular faux antiquing style of the 60s, several shades of beige. I had an Andy Williams book that Slad and I liked to pull from in our music-making sessions, as well as some Broadway scores—Camelot, West Side Story, My Fair Lady. “Summertime” from Porgy and Bess was a reliable pick. And the Beatles songbooks, with some of our favorites like “And I Love Her”, “If I Fell”, Michelle ma belle. Other times, Slad would play to whatever caught his ear on the FM radio: Billy Joel, Ann Murray, or James Taylor.Subterranean
I loved the hours I spent with my dad at his basement workbench. As always, he was a skillful and patient teacher, helping me with various projects—a clothespin doll or miniature table. When he concentrated on a particularly delicate procedure, his breathing would audibly shift into a deeper pattern.Slad kept his nails and nuts and bolts categorized in small glass jars screwed into a holder overhead. He had started with tools from his dad and Mom's dad, and added many of his own. My personal favorite was the electric sander. I got a kick out of rounding the edges of a piece of wood as the circular sandpaper whirred—instant transformation.
Slad’s workbench lives now in the basement of my own home, across from Mom’s sewing table and sewing machine. The other day as I was threading a needle, lost in concentration, I heard the rhythmic sound of deep, slow breathing. It was my own.
