me
His Birth was two days before the crash
when we hit bottom in ‘twenty nine.
Life demanded attention and thrift;
whetting the father’s stone for the son’s edge.
This man is my father
A hand to hold, a walk to share;
two hearts as one; brought forth many.
In such contrast there was balance.
She was home for their family.
This woman is my mother
The third of eight, birth was traumatic.
Flesh against flesh, steel against bone,
to sacrifice part for the whole,
so each might survive, his wife, his son.
This is my beginning
The little man looked up to his eyes.
His father, my father, his son
saw through those eyes an irrational world
full of befuddled, helpless people.
This is my inheritance
Fault was as common as original sin.
So driven was I, to improve his creation
I became more like my father than he.
Critique: a tradition turned occupation.
This is my burden
He dispensed knowledge of physics and man.
He placed these tools in my hands.
He fashioned images in my mind.
of a world in need of repair.
This is my task
Tools for leverage on life and nature.
Tools to fix another man’s handiwork.
To repair machines which fail judgement.
Tools with which to correct all, save us.
This is my goal
Tools mean power over reality.
Tools create where there is nothing.
Tools turn thought into substance.
Tools turn frustration into pride.
This is my dream
By his side, I labored and learned.
Seldom feeling the grip of his hand;
strong and rough, comfortable and sure.
Jewels of praise were precious but few.
This was my sustenance
With his tools I built my first car:
old boards, wheels and scraps of hardware.
Again and again it took me down that hill
with all the speed a nine year old heart could stand.
This was my confidence
With my tools, I built my second car:
hopes, dreams, labor and an old VW.
Again and again it took me away from home
with all the speed a sixteen year old heart could stand.
This was my ignorance
In this crucible, under his study
I was molded, fired and annealed.
Formed true to my lineage,
I am my father’s self-made son.
This is my truth
With the patience of an aquifer,
love seeped through these stones.
The love of my mother tempered
the wisdom so painfully learned.
This is my balance
She stocked quiet pools of patience,
love and understanding deep inside,
out of sight without my knowledge,
where I would find them when in need.
This is where I live
mgg 4/93