Papa was a carpenter, a cabinetmaker. One of the garages in back is still filled with his power tools: drill press, lathe, table saw, band saw, jigsaw, router, joiner, all made by Rockwell. He lost a finger on one of the saws, made the dining room table at my parents' house with those tools, made a lot of the furniture in my house. The dresser in my room, the dining room table and chairs, and the mightiest speaker cabinet you can imagine. He's in all of that wood, but he only speaks to me in the garage.
I call it my shop. My bike tools live there: chain whip, chain tool, truing stand, housing cutters, spoke wrench, allen wrenches, headset wrench, the Big Ass Crescent wRench (or BACR, as my friends call it), Pedro's ATB lube, Tri-Flow cannisters, repair stand, and bike stickers all over the place. The garage is a two door; one half is my shop, the other Papa's. The tools all seem to get along; I just hope I don't see all my tools picking on Papa's for being too old. Those Rockwell beasts would stomp all over my Parks without even breaking a sweat.
I tune up my bike late at night, when I'm home from work, and Papa is with me in the garage. It's cold, and I'm covered with oil and mung and cursing at my brakes for not aligning properly, and Papa is watching what I do. Just like Grandma, he's not too sure why I'm fussing so much over a bike, but he can see I'm using my hands and making them callused and being a prideful bastard and not taking my bike to a shop. I'm doing this myself, because there is no excuse for not taking care of yourself. Papa's ghost visits both of our shops, and he doesn't mind, since I'm his grandson.
The ghosts only seem to come out at those times, but I make sure to visit them often. The house is mine now, my home to make memories in, but I'd damn well better remember the ones that lived there before.
Who haunts you?