NOT LOST ... just hidden
This was my husband’s workshop and I have just recently repainted it and tried to spark it up a bit. The original structure burned to the ground in 1985 and this is the replacement.
While working on the building I remembered that Dick, my husband, had a concrete pad poured and while it was still wet he had scribbled the title of a poem ("Know Your Mess") that our oldest son had composed for him in 1983 … and the date of the pouring. I was sure of this but for the life of me I couldn’t find it on the pad.
Dick died in 1990 and the barn and the concrete have taken a lot of wear and tear since then. I was very disappointed but figured that his writing had worn away as well. Then I remembered the old technique of dry-brushing over the concrete to see if it would show up … AND IT DID
I can’t tell you how much this means to me. Here’s the poem:
“Know Your Mess”
“My father’s workshop…a busy space,
But so many tools out of place.
Tools smeared by oil, others by grease,
Some should be labeled ‘rest in peace’.
Hammers hang longing to drive the spikes.
He leaves us room for broken bikes.
Slew of tiny screws, stack of wood,
Things he might use, things he never would.
My mother, his love, can’t understand
All of these things without a plan.
She brings ‘it’ up and he says “yes”,
But never has time to plan the mess.
He asks for a wrench, I hear of cost,
He always knows when they are lost.
Then he asks me for the pliers,
I think I saw them by the tires.
But he knows just where they are,
He had to look some, none too far.
It takes a man years to know his mess,
Where all his tools lie, more or less.
My father’s work shop, lots of space,
And every tool, he knows it’s place.”