On the far wall along the total length of the workshop universe is the divine workbench itself. It is the mighty holder of all that there is. Only the bravest of people dare run their hand across its fanciful but invisible top. It is no longer flat although it is not round; it exists without shape. It bears witness to countless oil-spills, tool-cleaning chemicals, gasoline, diesel, spit, blood, dirt, grease, beer, melted rubber, metal, iron, cloth and other unmentionables; emanating from it is a smell unknown to mankind. From the bowels of its load the smell entices and edifies, it sickens and cleanses the body; it is both a religious experience and a nightmarish vision from the asshole of hell itself; Medusa with the voice of the Sirens; Satan with the voice of angels. It is a small mountain range of blackened history where tools die and are reborn in a cyclical act of evolution by the natural selection of the creator himself. Its herculean strength is the only thing that be accounted for its still standing under the weight of so much for so long. It is made of wood but from some magical forest of strength endowed trees.
”I built it new, when I turned the place into my workshop.” Says the creator. He continues with a gleam in his eye as he tells me about the table drill in the middle of the bench. ”I bought that drill with a case of beer and then helped drink the beer…” The drill is a single piece anchored in place upon the bench by magical forces or sheer stubbornness, bounding out of the wilderness of sprawling parts, tools, pieces with its pulleys and belts opened for air. A chunk of blackened Swiss cheese like wood ornaments its drill plank. Everything hangs in anticipation of joining the cohorts of junk that lies on the imaginary floor. Gravity never gives up; everything eventually falls. The corners of the bench are long since rounded by use and the shelves seem to float above the bench itself, covered in grease and stacked, rounded with no-named pieces and parts. Above the middle of the workbench is a small window, most of the panes miraculously intact although light is frightened away from the prospect of shining though the smutty glass into the black hole of the workshop. It runs, screaming insanely, while all that is rests peacefully.
From the bowels of this place have come amazing feats of mechanical mystery. It is well known that from the chaotic chords of the blackened workbench are home to the answers to inexplicable and innumerous breakdowns, cracks in well-worn machinery, broken parts and a multitude of other problems that the farmer-creator faces. Inventions are not an unknown oddity to such a place as this. ”We bought the Buch 302 (A tractor) in about 1960 and right after I finished building the bench, I needed a backloader for the Buch, so I built one. It had a hydraulic lift and everything. That was the first project that I had after building the bench.” Nothing is off-limits and everything can be fixed if not permanently then at least temporarily; temporary being the permanent state of the workshop universe. Wheel-alignment, parts replacement, parts made, reparation of tools, invention of tools.