Monday, September 15, 2008


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.

Written by our son Mark, age 24, 1983


Blogger Syd said...

It sounds like my office--a mess but I know where all the important papers are in each pile. The workshop is a bit neater.

11:43 AM  
Blogger Anvilcloud said...

What a nice warm treasure to have in your archives.

3:15 PM  
Blogger RoyalTLady said...

EXACTLY Ginnie...

Just like you know exactly where you put your would reach out for it with even your eyes closed...

Of course he knew by hard where his tools are...its his routine and his life...

Such a sweet momento

7:05 PM  
Blogger Chancy said...

Thanks for sharing this with us Ginnie.

Great memento to hang on to.

9:00 PM  

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