My workshop.

At a backyard bbq recently a man was peeking through the window of my garage and asked me “What’s going on in there?” When I told him that it was my workshop he replied “Really?” Me “Yes.” Him “All of it?” Me “Yes.” Him “Huh.” Me- an eye roll and a sigh. It’s 2023 for Pete’s sake. If I am honest, though, sometimes even I can’t believe it.

For as long as I can remember I have loved to create. It was usually with cardboard, tape, and a staple gun or maybe twigs, moss, and rocks, sometimes fabric, paints, and thread. As a creator I was always fascinated by my dad’s workbench. The nails and screws and nuts and bolts all tangled together in old baby-food jars. Hacksaws and measuring tapes and hammers that were too heavy for my scrawny arms. I would stand on an old metal toolbox and run my fingers over the treasure trove of possibilities that littered my dad’s always-disheveled workbench.

I wish I could go back to that little garage on Cavour Street and tell that skinny girl, the one standing on the toolbox to see better, gazing at all those fantastic possibilities with a mixture of envy and awe, that someday she will have a workshop of her very own. She will know how to use all of those things and more, be strong enough to swing that heavy hammer, be brave enough to tame the power tools that terrify her and be creative enough to use them all to add beauty to the world. I can only imagine her small face, smeared with dust and dirt from playing hard and framed by a ragged mess of uncombed blonde hair, slowly lighting up with delight and wonder at the very thought of it. And she, with her young heart not yet tamed by the world around her, would absolutely believe it. I know she would.