When I was young in Papa’s shed,
the smell of sawdust engrossed my nostrils
and the slight stench of burnt wood
mingled with the sweet smell of old leather.

When I was young in Papa’s shed,
our lunch sandwiches always tasted like sawdust,
and the only cure was Nana’s Bits-of-Brittle cookies.

When I was young in Papa’s shed,
The prickly feel of coarse-cut wood
Felt just as beautiful as soft sanded finished pieces.

When I was young in Papa’s shed,
I yearned to use the metallic power tools
That were cool to the touch.

When I was young in Papa’s shed,
I was always welcomed by the sound of Papa’s radio. But,
the whining of the table saw and the grinding of the sander,
collaborated to form music sweeter than the radio itself.