My Father’s Tools
All manner and size of pliers
and clamps and screwdrivers,
some of it recent vintage, some of it
handed down from his own father:
tape measures, T-squares, plastic protractors,
stair gauges, feeler gauges fanned out
like a smudged pewter peacock tail,
each metal feather infinitesimally thinner
than the next;
a dozen hammers
sporting a dozen different heads,
different claws, each tweaked
for its own special function,
its unique and preordained purpose.
Every genus of hook and hinge,
of hasp and bracket, I sort
into taxonomic piles,
working down through even
the most obscure descendant subspecies.
As I sift through the drawers
and boxes and workbenches and trunks
he left behind for us to empty of their banal
and mysterious contents,
my dead father reminds me:
there is no such thing as a saw—
only hacksaw or band saw or jigsaw or circular saw
and decades of sawdust shorn
from the miniature hulls of ships
onto the cement floor;
no such thing as nail or screw, but
a complex family tree of flooring nail
versus common nail versus masonry nail—
rituals of selection and specialization—
or, as he said, “the right tool for the right job,”
or, as he said, “measure twice, cut once.”
There is no such thing as sky
through the window above this work table—
there is heartscream blue,
there is neapolitan sunset ripping
a molten seam across the hemisphere
while I am elbow deep
in my father’s workshop
sorting tools I don’t yet know the names of,
but with a patience for learning the names of things
I inherited from him, its own kind of tool—
but—no such thing as inheritance—
call it winch for the mind,
call it miter-table of naming.
My fingertips are blackened
by hours of handling all this treasured evidence,
piece by piece, even the ultimately
unidentifiable creatures still blazing
like totems in my dirty palms—
and there is no such thing as love—
only sawdust and scrap wood
only hacksaw and heartscream
only roofing nails and setscrews,
only gauges for measuring, by touch,
the slenderest gaps.
***
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Photo by brandi/Flickr
I teared up remembering those jig saws, circular saws and band saws that my Dad used as he taught my two older brothers to make all sorts of wonderful figures, boxes, toys and even a doll house. I can smell the rich sawdust that swirled around that block of wood, safely held by a heavy metal vice.
Happy Father’s Day to all those fathers out there. My Dad was a major influence on my future success.
Thanks so much for taking a moment to respond here — I’m grateful my poem pulled such fond memories for you.
What an amazing story. I really enjoyed it. I didn’t even notice you weren’t a bloke until I had read the entire story. You obviously loved your dad. As a craftsman, father, son, grandson. I understand what you have expressed, the association , love, memories , or perhaps I believe the spirit that is passed on into hand tools that a person has used and cared for. Only a person such as yourself would understand this. You obviously spent time alongside watching your Father.
Hi Chris — Thanks for your enthusiastic response! I agree with you that there is a kind of spirit in those passed-down hand tools, and I’m happy my poem spoke to you.
Wonderful and meaningful poem!
This took me back to my grandfather’s tools. Lovely poem!
Thanks, Michael! I’m glad the poem transported you.
This is a lovely poem. My dad would have subscribed to this naming philosophy but it makes me sad that he never had a proper tool shed. (House too small, no yard, etc.)
Thanks, Julia, for taking the time to post this feedback. I’m so grateful the poem spoke to you!
so wonderful – thank you.