Grad party season has come and gone. I love grad party season. No better way to catch up with 300 people you’ve been trying to have coffee with for a year. Some were elaborate affairs with food trucks and event centers and multiple photo collages. Some had guest books and commemorative frames to sign and school color-themed balloon arches. Others were in homes or in driveways with tents and homemade treats and clever designated spots to take pictures with the graduate. And a couple of them were in garages. Garage grad parties are primarily a midwestern phenomenon the internet tells me. I saw a post about it this summer, and comments from people who lived elsewhere couldn’t believe we Minnesotans hosted parties in garages. We do.
One of my dear friends hosted her daughter’s grad party in the garage, and guests spilled out into the driveway and yard and deck, but the garage was the primary venue. While selecting a brownie, an acquaintance said to me, “My garage certainly doesn’t look like this.” To which I replied, “My house doesn’t look like this.” My friend has an impeccable eye for design and has transformed her garage into a swoon-worthy living space. This garage has painted cinder block and a comfortable couch and mood lighting and faux sheep shearlings thrown over leather butterfly chairs. This garage has a darling vintage refrigerator and a table for games or grabbing a bite to eat and a large TV. I would live in this garage.
Because…
Our garage looks like a sporting goods store. No. I take that back. Our garage looks like a sporting goods museum. Not a beautiful, opulent museum where they could charge for admission. Our garage is like a museum time forgot in a one-horse town filled with vintage farm equipment. It’s a visual history of all the things we tried and loved or tried and abandoned. Our family of five just couldn’t pick a lane when it came to recreation. Everyone enjoys different things, and we’ve left no stone unturned. We have one runner. One hockey player. One dancer. Three fishermen. Two yogis. One skier. Two who golf. One snowboarder. One lacrosse player. All of us play badminton. Three who played soccer but no longer. And we have had all the things required for all the interests. Nets. Life jackets. Swim goggles. Beach toys. We have bats and balls and sticks and yard games and pool noodles and glow in the dark this and that. And at one point, we had so many cleats for various sports you’d think we were housing a complete team.
We can’t have a party in our garage because nobody wants to have appetizers sitting near the gas cans or the weed whipper. And I have to remind myself, I wanted this. Dreamt of it actually. When we moved to this house we had enough things to fill two little shelves. Nothing else. We had an old Quik container filled with stray nails and screws. We still have it. We had WD-40 and ant killer. We had two bikes. We had two small cars with ample room between. We didn’t even need to “look for something in the garage” because everything we owned was readily visible.
But I yearned to have this family one day and fill this garage with the things families have. Large cars. Ceramic pots for the garden. Sporting goods. Marked bins filled with things in off-season storage. Stuff. And my dream came true. Titans of industry start businesses in their garages while we just grew our busyness.
Slowly but surely, the garage detritus does lessen. The ski boots are outgrown. We are officially giving up on tennis. I pawned off 50 pieces of sidewalk chalk to the darling neighbor kids. It’s a relief to clear things out, but it also feels odd. A new phase. We aren’t done with all of it quite yet… We’ve just graduated. To the next chapter. Perhaps we should host our very own garage party to celebrate.
Jen Fortner is a freelance writer who enjoys asking friends and strangers far too many questions. She spends her spare time sitting in inclement weather watching youth sports, traveling, cooking, and searching for the very best baked goods. She lives in the Southwest Metro with her husband, three children and the most spoiled dog.