'Even Now There are Places Where a Thought Might Grow'

We spent much of Saturday taking apart a 12-foot-by-12-foot sheet-metal shed put up by the previous owners of our house. In it we kept a wheelbarrow, some gardening tools, a rotting tarp and a stack of two-by-fours. In other words, it was virtually empty. Seven years ago, a branch from the white pine behind the garage fell during a storm and crushed a corner of the roof. We plan to plant a garden where the shed once stood.

 

We used a tool new to me – a power screwdriver. By my count the shed was held together by more than two-hundred screws. There was something exhilarating about removing them and watching parts of the walls incrementally buckle and sag until the roof was flat on the shed’s raised wooden floor. We loaded the car with the sliding door, wall panels and most of the frame, and hauled them to the municipal recycling station a couple of miles away. The sound of rattling sheet metal, of course, was used my sound-effects men on the radio and in the movies to simulate thunder. Dropping the sheets into a trash trailer – sort of a Dumpster on wheels -- was also exhilarating. We’ll take the remaining pieces of the shed to the dump today.

 

The entire experience reminded me of my childhood dream of working in demolition. Some kids dream of becoming astronauts. I wanted to raze buildings. Taking the shed apart also reminded me of “A Disused Shed in Co. Wexford,” the great poem by the Irish poet Derek Mahon, who died on Friday at age seventy-eight.