When I was a boy, my father, my grandpa, my uncles, and our neighbors all had workbenches, with lots and lots of tools. Most of them were in the basement, but some of them were in the garage. Ours was always down below.
I’m sure some of you have workbenches–but at one time, virtually every household with a father in it had one. My father tinkered with radios and built shelves and cabinets as needed. Uncle Ferdie invented things–had dozens of patents. Grandpa made toys for us kids. I haven’t collected evidence for it, but I think people used to be a lot handier than they are now. Heck, I used to be a lot handier than I am now.
We don’t have a workbench. Living in an apartment, where would we put it? But there was something magical, on a rainy Saturday, in watching my father shave lumber with his jack-plane, drill holes, tap nails into place, and wind up making something we could use.
Ah! You should’ve seen him and Ferdie tackle a failed TV set. But that’s another story.