“This is where I go when I need to slow down the pace a little.” That’s John Faucher, 37-year-old New London resident, angler, hunter, trapper, family man and East Editor of The County Post, referring to his self-designed, always morphing sanctuary of a small, attached garage.
“In fact, my whole family—my dad, grandpa, and uncles—we’re all, I guess you could say, a bunch of garage-dwellers,” Faucher added. His is a 75-some-year-old, single-car garage that actually can shelter his wife’s car now and then. But it’s also a workshop, photo gallery, tool shed, repair shop, approximately 16-by-25 foot surround-view scrapbook, hunting/fishing /gardening/ survival-gear prep workroom, reporter’s office, reception room and more. He calls it his “garottage,” a term he’s borrowed from a New London couple.
If the phrase “You gotta see it to believe it” applies to anything, this is it. Because once you enter the humble, open-beam structure, you just have to stop and gaze around at the huge photo collages set within the sections of the garage door, at all the hunting and fishing gear, the old golden trophies, and all the signs, posters, tools, fishing lures, antiques and all the other stuff—the layers of it, the mini-displays of fun and functional stuff that sing of Wolf River Country.
And then, even when you sit down and start to talk to Faucher as he pops open a beer, you can not stop your eyes from wandering and trying to focus on that next odd something that’s hanging, stapled, set on a shelf or stacked upon something.
It’s like your brain can hear him— maybe you’ll even answer and sip your beer—but your soul is trying to find its niche in there... off somewhere comfy.... trying to perch among all that stuff that looks so warmly familiar.
The Beginning of the ‘Garottage’
It may look something like a trapper’s cabin from way back, but Faucher started assembling his garottage’s decor in 2005, when he hung up some photos there from his bachelor days. Now that he’s married to Ann and has a daughter and two stepchildren, Faucher’s collection continues to expand with family photos. And more.
He also writes on the walls, on an old canvas gun case, on pictures, a bulletin board and posters. “Fish dreams live here... Enjoy it while it lasts... We’re all just passin’ through... The only winner in the end is God.”
Clearly, Faucher is comfortable here, not showing off, not bored or obsessed by it all. Just happy. He goes in there in the morning for his coffee and a smoke; takes about an hour there before dinner and after work, to decompress; then maybe a few hours after dinner, to work on projects. Weekends, he’ll be in there fixing something, or at his computer, on assignment. Or else, he’s out fishing, hunting, trapping or enjoying family time.
Chances are that the memories made out in the field will some how end up posted in that garage, bagged for others to enjoy.
Faucher spends the most time in his unique man-cave when he’s writing. That’s his job. He finds it a creative shelter for things like choosing those perfect photos from maybe a hundred that he took at a high school football game. Often in the late-night and early-morning hours, he does his research for his newspaper articles and works at his laptop there, to find the right words and check on the facts.
“It’s conducive to thinking,” he said of his cluttered workshop-office. “It helps me recharge and energize. I’ll pound out six to eight hours a day, working here— about as much time as put in at the office, but here, I can concentrate.”
He’ll meet with other community and outdoor-minded citizens in his garottage; he’ll meet with just about anyone needing help on a project; he’ll talk with his wife and children there. “I’m accessible here,” he added. “It’s a public, yet personal place.”
For the workshop angle, this garage has tools, including a massive bolt cutter, hacksaw and assorted bicycle wrenches and parts. Faucher often salvages bikes from curbside doom, fixes them up, paints with his own camouflage design and sets a wicker basket on them, just so elderly hunters can haul in their gear. “I’m all about recycling things,” he said. “I often give away things I fix up.”
That’s typical of Faucher—to take the typical and make it Wolf River Country awesome.
Also in his garottage, seemingly random stuff—an old army-green airplane model, hanging dusty; a trio of three-year-old squirrel pelts, tails ragged; a crude flat wooden paddle, maybe a century old, rescued from the Wolf River; an ultrasound picture of his daughter, Lily, in the womb; a small Easter basket with a cuddly stuffed critter waiting in it; a blueprint for his next river raft—each thing is there to carry its story, and wait as a prompt for Faucher’s narratives.
Take those “Ghillie Suit” camouflaged hunting jackets he’s made, now hanging on the walls. Depending on the season, Faucher festoons them with lengths of twine, pieces of fabric (including part of one of Ann’s delicate green scarves), spray-painted leaf designs and white patches. Each has several secret pockets. One has a winter camouflaged Santa-like hat that has a closable place to hold survival gear.
“I’m a utility man,” Faucher said, slapping his cargo pants. “A man can’t have enough pockets.”
One coat, which he made five years ago, was too small for John, but just right for Ann, then his girlfriend. It could blend in an early-season cedar swamp, but she doesn’t go hunting. While Ann had arranged and prepared for a Packer game party at the house, Faucher had spent a whole weekend with fabric, twine, needle and thread, making that Ghillie coat.
In one of its secret pockets, he had hidden a diamond ring. At halftime during that party, Faucher asked Ann to try the jacket on, and then prompted her to check the pockets as he got down on his knees to propose. It’s now known as The Wedding Coat. “I got the best wife in the world,” Faucher has written on his garage.
As Ann wrote in a 2007 Wisconsin Outdoors article, “Our garage is the epicenter of my husband’s world... During the spring, summer and early fall, it is home to ‘live tanks’ harboring various fish... the floor is graced with river water and scales.” She added, of later in the season, “I am surprised by two muskrats, a raccoon, a mink and an opossum lying quietly on the corner, waiting to be skinned...”
The coming season and its bounty always prompt Faucher and his sanctuary’s purpose. The garage’s contents are somewhat arranged by the seasons. He says he does know where everything is. From river-raft repairs and spring walleye cleaning, to seeds, potting shed and organic produce, on to spinner-bait workshop and bass rigs, hunting gear and hanging whitetails, and to ice-fishing, with tip-ups to rig... and then, there’s the Christmas-tree stand.
But most important to Faucher are the photographs. “I have all my important photos all in once place—and they’re easy for everyone to view. You can really get lost in time here. Photographs are everything. They’re the closest mankind has gotten to a time machine, and the best thing man has ever made.”
Then I had to ask, as I put down my pen and waved my arms within the four walls of stuff that still commanded my attention, “What are you going to do, John, with the next photo, the next antique river find, the next project’s stuff?”
He smiled a boyish grin, scratched his reddish beard and said, “Oh, I have plenty of room. I’d just put it over the other stuff—there’s layers and layers of it. There’s always a way.”
There is always a way, and all you need is a place where you like to be—a simple place where you can mold the space and slow down the pace.