Poem of the Day

Pic is of the board at Mountain Sun a month or so back. Makes me want to learn to fly an old plane.

This poem was in last week's Writer's Almanac, and I like it very much. Although it makes me very sad too. It really fits my dad, except that thankfully he is still around to talk about ratchet wrenches. And thingamabobs.

Hardware

My father always knew the secret
name of everything--
stove bolt and wing nut,
set screw and rasp, ratchet
wrench, band saw, and ball
peen hammer. He was my
tour guide and translator
through that foreign country
with its short-tempered natives
in their crew cuts and tattoos,
who suffered my incompetence
with gruffness and disgust.
Pay attention, he would say,
and you'll learn a thing or two.

Now it's forty years later,
and I'm packing up his tools
(If you know the proper
names of things you're never
at a loss) tongue-tied, incompetent,
my hands and heart full
of doohickeys and widgets,
watchamacallits, thingamabobs.
~ Ronald Wallace