In the basement
In the green house
There were all kinds of tools.
My father collected them.
He taught Industrial Arts to teenagers,
And he loved to build things,
And fix things,
And take things apart,
With his own hands.
Sometimes,
We would go down to the basement to visit our father
On the steep staircase,
Stairs that always creaked.
It seemed like the stairs were warning of something.
The smell in the basement was, in large part, sawdust.
There was sawdust in every corner, and in the air.
The table saw was in the middle of the room,
And the jigsaw,
And all of the handsaws in a line hanging from the ceiling.
The floor of the basement was made of concrete
And the walls were painted grey
And it all looked like a bomb shelter.
There were metal exit doors parallel to the floor
At the end of a set of additional steps
And I always thought that these doors were there to let us out
After the dust settled, after the end of the world.
There was a darkroom in the basement, to develop photos,
In black and white and color.
I didn’t like the red light in the darkroom,
Even more so the darkness itself.
And there was a corner of the basement for making bullets
With gun powder and casings.
My father had more than one gun.
Everywhere, my father had Philips head screwdrivers and
Flat head screwdrivers and wrenches and drills in every size.
He had a wood lathe and a metal lathe
And hammers and nails and an anvil screwed to the floor.
There was also a ceramics kiln and a jewelry kiln.
There were clay molds
And a printing press that had to be used carefully,
One letter at a time.
There were all kinds of things in my father’s basement,
Loud noises
And smells that burned the inside of my nose,
Smells like turpentine and sawdust and metal,
And maybe blood, or maybe that was just in my imagination.
בָּמָרתֵף
בָּבַּיִת הָיָרוֹק
הָיוּ כֹּל מִינֵי כְּלֵי עָבוֹדָה.
אָבָּא שֶׁלִי אָסָף אוֹתָם.
הוּא לִימֵד אָמַנוּיוֹת תָעָשִׂייתִיוֹת לְבּנֵי נוֹעָר,
וְהוּא אָהָב לִבנוֹת דְבָרִים,
וְלְתָקֵן דְבָרִים,
וְלְפָרֵק דְבָרִים,
עִם הָיָדַיִים שֶׁלוֹ.
לִפְעָמִים
יָרָדנוּ לָמָרתֵף לְבָקֵר אֶת אָבָּא
בְּמָדרֵגוֹת הָתלוּלוֹת,
מָדרֵגוֹת שְׁכֹּל פָּעַם חָרקוּ.
נִרְאָה שְׁהָמָדרֵגוֹת הִזהִירוּ מִמָשְׁהוּ.
הָרֵיחַ בָּמָרתֵף הָיָה, בְּגָדוֹל, נָסוֹרֶת.
הָייתָה נְסוֹרֶת בְּכֹּל פִּינָה, וְבָּאָוִויר.
הָמָסוֹר שׁוּלחָן הָיָה בְּאֶמצַע הָחֶדֶר,
וְהָמָסוֹר פָּאזֶל,
וְכֹּל מסוֹרֵי הָיָדנַיִים בְּשׁוּרָה וְתָלוּי מְהָתִקרָה.
הָרִצפָּה שֶׁל הָמָרתֵף הָייתָה עָשׂוּיָה מִמֶלֶט
וְהָקִירוֹת נִצבְּעוּ בְּאָפוֹר,
וְהָכֹּל נִראָה כּמוֹ מִקלָט.
הָיוּ דלָתוֹת יְצִיאָה מִמָתֶכֶת מָקבִילִם לָרִצפָּה
בְּסוֹף סֶט מָדרֵגוֹת נוֹסָף
וְכֹּל הָזמָן חָשָׁבתִי שְׁהָדלָתוֹת הָאֵלֶה הָיוּ שָׁם לְשָׁחרֵר אוֹתָנוּ
אַחָרֵי שְׁהָאַבָק שָׁקָע, אָחַרֵי סוֹף הָעוֹלָם.
הָיָה חֶדֶר חוֹשֶׁך בָּמָרתֵף, לִפִיתוֹחַ תְמוּנוֹת,
בְּשָׁחוֹר לָבָן וְגָם בְּצֶבָע.
לֹא אָהָבתִי אֶת הָאוֹר הָאָדוֹם בָּחָדָר הָחוֹשֶׁך,
עוֹד לֹא אֶת הָחוֹשֶׁך עָצמוֹ.
וְהָייתָה פִּינָה בָּמָרתֵף לְהָכָנָת כָדוּרִים
עִם אָבָקָת רוֹבָה וְתָרמִילִים.
הָיוּ לְאָבָּא יוֹתֵר מְאֶקדַח אֶחָד.
בּכֹל מָקוֹם, הָיוּ לְאָבָּא מִבגָרִים בְּרֹאשׁ פִילִפּס וְבְּרֹאשׁ שָׁטוּחַ
וְמִפתַחֵי בָּרגִים וְמָקדָחִים בְּכֹּל מִידָה.
הָיָה לוֹ מְחַרטֵת עֵץ וְמְחַרטֵת מַתֶכֶת,
וְפְּטִישִׁים וְמָסמָרִים וְסָדָן מוּברָג לָרִצפָּה.
גָם הָיָה כָּבשָׁן קָרָמִיקָה וְכָּבשָׁן תָכשִׁיטִים.
הָיוּ לוֹ תָבנִיוֹת חִמֵר
וְבֵית דְפוּס שְׁצרִיכִים לְהִשׁתָמֵשׁ בָּה בְּזְהִירוּת,
אוֹת אַחַת בְּכֹּל פָּעָם.
הָיוּ כֹּל מִינֵי דבָרִים בָּמָרתֵף שֶׁל אָבָּא,
רָעָשִׁים חָזָקִים
וְרֵיחוֹת שְׁצָרבּוּ אֶת הָחֵלֶק הָפְּנִימִי שֶׁל הָאָף שֶׁלִי,
רֵיחוֹת כְּמוֹ טֶרפַּנטִין וְנְסוֹרֶת וְמָתֶכֶת,
וְאוּלַי דָם, אוֹ אוּלַי זֶה הָיָה רַק בָּדִמיוֹן שֶׁלִי.
If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my novel, Yeshiva Girl, on Amazon. And if you feel called to write a review of the book, on Amazon, or anywhere else, I’d be honored.
Yeshiva Girl is about a Jewish teenager on Long Island, named Isabel, though her father calls her Jezebel. Her father has been accused of inappropriate sexual behavior with one of his students, which he denies, but Izzy implicitly believes it’s true. As a result of his problems, her father sends her to a co-ed Orthodox yeshiva for tenth grade, out of the blue, and Izzy and her mother can’t figure out how to prevent it. At Yeshiva, though, Izzy finds that religious people are much more complicated than she had expected. Some, like her father, may use religion as a place to hide, but others search for and find comfort, and community, and even enlightenment. The question is, what will Izzy find?
rachelmankowitz 
needfully expressed! hebrew is perfect for cleansing🙏🏼👍🏼👌🏼
Thank you!
It’s curious how olfactory memory is so strong for these sorts of recollections.
I think smell is even more powerful than music in taking me back to a specific place and time.
I know in some dreams I can smell things. For example when I dream of my grandparents’ place where I lived in the 1960s I can smell flour from all the food they cooked for their restaurant.
It’s really powerful!
Our fathers kept similar environments except mine did not have a darkroom. The odors and aromas were probably similar, too.
I can’t even imagine the value of all the stuff he collected. We were in and out of the hardware store my whole childhood.
We must have had somewhat parallel childhoods.
my first attempt of a comment didn’t show so this is either a second attempt or the actual first
Rachel , your descriptions were so vivid. I could see, smell and perhaps was a bit fearful of your dad’s basement.
Fabulous poetry.
Thank you so much!
Liking that your poem has a Halloween horror movie-like suspense and mood, something like descending into and/or closer to hell. Feels like it could also be an intro to something more. Eerily effective writing.
Thank you so much!
Did he have one of of these ❓ 🐱
I can’t see the picture, but he had almost everything.
Rachel, that’s a classic you’ve written. I see a sense of mystery, fear and strong sensory expression there. I love the way you leave the reader to wonder about things.
Even though you’re not Steven King, it’s also true that Steven King isn’t you.
I feel that you’ve put a great deal of yourself in what you wrote
Claude Leboeuf
Thank you!
Bonsoir. Très belle histoire.Merci pour le partage.
Merci beaucoup!
In a large part, you described my dad’s basement and garage. After my father died, I took on the task of cleaning, sorting, organizing the thousands of items left.
There were a few surprises …. a couple of what appeared to be homemade B&W “porn” movies from probably the 40’s, with unknown people (THANKFULLY). A secret that will stay between him and myself. The cases of empty vodka bottles, stashed here and there. A few military surprises in terms of WWII “stuff”.
Most importantly though, there were tons of good memories in those boxes, drawers and shelves. I was so thankful to be able to do that!
❤️
That’s wonderful!
Nice memories, Rachel
Thank you!
Wow. I love this! We had a dark room in our basement plus a machine to pack shells for my dad’s shotguns.
Eek! The smell of the darkroom will stay with me forever.
I liked it! I took photo journalism in college and brought the bug into my parents home. I was thrilled they put in a dark room.
Another dimension to your father I had never read before. Well done!
Thank you!
What an extraordinary collection in a single basement. The visions, memories and smells must be overwhelming sometimes.
Very.
To Bitey Dog:
I love your Pumpkin Patch Your scare owl is a nice touch!
Claude Leboeuf
Very powerful imagery from such seemingly straightforward words and phrases. You have real talent, Rachel.
Thank you so much!
Your prose is so expressive, regarding memories. Well written, and excellent word visuals!
Thank you!
Thank you
Very nice
Thank you!
This makes me think of the song “What’s he building in there” by Tom Waits 😁
The smell of blood? A secret killer perhaps? Did they ever find any body parts in the garden? 🤣
It always seemed possible, but no word from the police. Yet.
🤣
Very expressive
Thank you!
Love the form and shape. While reading I kept thinking this is in a form like Hebrew, at least when I have attempted to copy Hebrew text it came out like this shape and form. Then I got to the bottom of the English text. What a lovely surprise 👏
Thank you so much!
So creatively expressed. The picture you painted gave me chills. Great, great writing.
Thank you so much!
one of the creepiest things I have read in a long time. Of course I am aware of your history but I think even someone who didn’t know would be affected. Excellent writing. Bringing the visceral to light.
Thank you so much!
powerful
Thank you!
Thank you for sharing. I feel like I know you better through your poetry.
Thank you!!!
A poem filled w/ tangible foreboding.
Thank you!
Your father was very creative. It is a lovely poem that brings much imagery and fond memories to my mind.
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Thank you!
That’s good creativity
A man’s den is a great reflection of his personality. Even though his creative pursuits were foreign to me I understood him to be ever moving, sourcing satisfying intentions, and ordered.
Sadly…blood, too. Yours. What a haunted place even with all the tools. God bless and heal you.
Thank you!
Your poem has a very ominous tone. Very appropriate for Halloween.
Thank you!
A very evocative piece. I love the smell of sawdust, my father was always making things.
Thank you!