by Tyler Sjostrom
For a certain type of person, the interior of their home is like a showroom for their lives — a curated selection of throw pillows, family photos, and word art that says, “This is how we like to think of ourselves.” I’d suggest most of us are this way, perhaps without the word art.
But if the house is the showroom, the garage is the archive. It’s the detritus of a family’s distinct eras, represented by physical callbacks you can hold in your hand, accumulating in layers. Part unspecified utility space, part oversized junk drawer. Sometimes you can even put a car in there.
Stepping inside, I see the cobwebbed remnants of hobbies I pursued passionately for less than an hour, hiding behind the plastic tchotchkes that overtook everything when my sons started gobbling up real estate. And these disparate items tell a story, told in two parts so far.
The first act begins when my wife and I purchased the home after getting married in 2016. Our house was (and is) small, with limited room for stretching our legs or, more importantly, entertaining our dirtbag friends. Fortunately, we had the garage: covered with TVs and neon bar signs on all sides, it acted as an exposed-beam sanctuary for countless Packer games and all-hours gatherings of all persuasions. These were special years, if not always productive.
That era eventually gave way to the one we’re nearing the end of now. As our boys grew, we entertained less frequently, playdates notwithstanding. We laid down carpet so the kids could crawl. The same rafters that once vibrated with the cheers of a Jordy Nelson touchdown now held Fisher-Price swings, and the dark corners where we once hunted for lost beer-pong balls now gathered the fine, multicolored dust of pulverized sidewalk chalk. These were special years as well, and as different as could be from the previous ones.
In the background, a dramatic B-plot was unfolding. The decadence of the “party-hut” years caught up with me at the dawn of the Fisher-Price years, and the garage sometimes acted as a different setting entirely. It was where I hid. It was where I tried to disguise the fact that I was struggling. Later, after I got myself together (4.5 years this month), I’d go there at night with my guitar to write songs about all these strands — the honeymoon years, the parent-in-training years, and the messy education in between. The garage contains multitudes.
We’re entering a new era now. The plastic toys have been replaced by bikes and baseball bats. We keep a table up year-round exclusively for puzzles and Lego sets. We still host friends for the Packers, so the previous eras are still present in the new one.
All the ebbs and flows of a family, housed in one unassuming parking structure. These next six or so months are the best of the year with the door up, and there will be many new chapters to pile atop the old ones. Because while the showroom is nice, the garage is where the real signs of life accumulate.
Sometimes you can even put a car in there.
This article was originally published in the April 2026 issue of Appleton Monthly Magazine.
