About 15 years ago, I had a writing assignment. The prompt only had four words: write about a room. How could I make a room into a good story? After thinking about all the interesting rooms I have been in or would like to see, I wrote about my grandfather’s favorite storage shed in the backyard. My grandfather, William ‘Memo’ Matus, had been a father figure for me, as I lived with my grandparents growing up.
In writing about a room, I told a story about my grandfather and his character, resilience, and humor. This story made us laugh, and even tear up a bit, but most importantly, it made him proud. My grandfather passed away on February 15, 2025. He was in good health when I had read this story to him, but he told me I should read this at his funeral someday (and he reminded me to tell everyone he liked belt buckles).
Hidden behind thick privet hedges and guarded by a sturdy mulberry tree that juts from the earth like a clenched fist, the little house, with its tidy patio and mint green siding is unimposing. Facing a quaint, shady courtyard filled with daffodils, pansies, violets and petunias, one would never know that the house had once been part of company housing at the Trench Mine and had been sawed in half and brought into Patagonia on the back of a flat-bed pick-up more than 60 years ago. Now with its little additions, it fills the property and protects those within.
But behind the house, under ivy covered trees, lay the true riches: my grandfather’s storage sheds. Sheds #1 and #2, as they are called, are the originals—built of wood with sturdy doors and tin roofs. Sheds #3 and #4 are manufactured metal structures that house the more recent collections of old furniture, records and out-of-style clothing—things the children left behind when they started their own lives. Shed #5, housing the frequently used items, is the newest and most modern. It is a collection of lockers covered with a plywood overhang that protects grandfather from the elements.
The collection of #1 through #5 is strangely serene, especially for a man who cannot see and desperately strives to maintain some type of independence as he experiences the world with his other senses. Here, he does not need his sight, or a walking stick to guide him. His hands lead the way and show him his tools, projects and his memories, which are stronger than the dark and the shadows that are constantly before his eyes.
Today I have been granted access into #1 and the admission fee is a promise to not move anything. I wind my way past the revolving clothesline with its damp towels soaking up the morning sun, past the stacks of metal milk crates, the rakes and shovels leaning against #4, and the steel vice mounted on an old railroad tie.
Branches of yellow Tombstone Rose, encouraged by the breeze, reach down from the lattice above me and snag my hair and protect the entrance to my grandfather’s mecca. The narrow door of #1 stands before me with its chipped white paint. The vintage doorknob, its skeleton key long ago misplaced, is draped with strips of leather. I smile at yet another place my grandfather has found to store his treasures.
It is dark within but the shafts of sunlight from the two small, screened windows slice through the room as dust motes gently float in the dim light. The aroma of #1 is comforting, and I take a deep breath. The smell of oil-soaked wood somewhere in the room is strong, but combined with the Tombstone Rose scratching at the roof and the scent of old leather, it reminds me of my childhood.
The tack hanging on the back of the door—tangled reins, bridles and snaffle bits, recall Grandfather’s days as a cowboy when he went on round-up herding cattle and ate his meals over a glowing campfire in a star-filled range. A shelf high upon the wall is lined with empty spray paint cans, a testament to his handiness and nostalgia as he once told me those were the first cans of spray paint ever made. They are like a handyman’s trophies, reminding me that my grandfather has a gift and can make or fix anything.
The wood floor sounds hollow under my feet as I venture further. I step over wooden soda crates and spot several coffee cans filled with miscellaneous nails, screws, nuts and bolts. Grandfather’s mantra is “save everything, you never know when you might need it.” Proof of this, clearly is #1, with its piles of things he may never use, like the box filled with dozens of new left shoes purchased at the estate sale of a neighbor who was an amputee.
I remember when he purchased that box of shoes. My grandmother just sighed and shook her head. I suppose that after years of witnessing such creative purchases that’s about all you can do. Grandfather told us that, if he ever lost a leg, he’d be prepared. He was unfazed when we asked him what he would do with all those shoes if he lost his left leg, but he told us not to worry about it. I didn’t have the heart to tell him the shoes weren’t even his size.
A roll of chicken wire, this handyman’s staple, is shoved against a window, diluting the light. It’s set up like an ingenious booby-trap and is probably protecting a sacred box of original Roy Rogers western comic books. Years ago, my grandmother attempted a crackdown on grandfather’s cache and dumped boxes of comics and other items before he discovered what was going on and swiftly put an end to it. My grandmother has not returned to #1 since then. But rumor has it, some of the comics survived and are protected safely somewhere in the depths of #1. The Declaration of Independence may be ensconced in several inches of protective glass, with armed guards watching over its guests, and the most technologically advanced security system money can buy, but that is no match for grandfather’s two-by-four and chicken wire security system.
A large piece of mustard-colored foam is rolled up by the wall, a reminder of long-ago camping trips. I recall falling asleep on the mattress in a tarp-covered red wagon as I listened to Uncle Tommy play the mandolin and their friend Pancho jam on his accordion as my grandfather punctuated their songs with an occasional wolf howl or a grito. It’s like I can smell the campfire, fresh tortillas, chorizo and cowboy coffee.
He has hoarded years of items that may never be used. I glimpse an old lampshade, and furniture in the very back that I can’t reach. There are garden tools and boxes of horseshoes, pesticides and eight-track cassettes, and a car speaker attached to a thin rope.
The first time I saw Grandfather dragging that speaker across the grass I thought he’d lost his mind. But he explained that the back of the speaker had a magnet, and he was using it to pick up screws and nails he had dropped. I was amazed at such a simple display of ingenuity. I vowed to try to be more patient the next time he told me it didn’t feel like I was driving the speed limit or when I got scolded for handing him the wrong tool when he was fixing one of the cars, or that the meal I made was “just a little salty, but it’s okay.”
The barricades and detours in the room are more plentiful than a freeway improvement project and I am stuck in the middle of #1, contemplating everything he has collected. Now I know where I get it from—the urge to collect. It’s inherited. I hope the realization helps to lessen the guilt I feel for the unorganized boxes that fill my garage.
This place is where the mundane becomes artifact. This little cabinet of curiosities chronicles who my grandfather is: a pioneer, a cowboy, a miner, an inventor, a craftsman, a comic, and a father. It may not be the Louvre in Paris or the National Museum in Washington D.C., but its treasures are steeped in love and memory and are as emotionally valuable and educational as any rare sculpture or world-renowned painting.
I make my way out and close the door firmly behind me as I exit #1, kicking up dust that makes me sneeze. My grandfather, busy at #5, mumbles a quiet “Bless you mijita” and I smile again as the sounds of grandfather sorting nails in the morning reminds me I am home.
