13 | Fixing
A poem about my old man and my oldest son.
The joke around the farm is that my dad fixes all the broken things and I write poems about them. It’s not as bad as all that. After almost nine years of homesteading, you learn pretty quickly that there’s always something to fix, so the sooner you get better at it, the better.
In fact, RULE #2 on the farm is: “You’ll always have to fix something before you can fix something.” Need to jack the trailer? Gotta fix the jack. Going to muck the stalls? The barn door needs an adjustment. Putting the chickens out to pasture? Better mend that hole in the electric netting, first.
(In case you were wondering, RULE #1 is: Don’t move something twice if you don’t have to.)
Here’s my attempt to capture the gift that both my father and my eldest son possess, but I do not.
* * *
Fixing
My old man fixes broken things in silence,
His hunched shoulders angled downward and in,
Yoked over the bench with a ponderous shrug—
Elbow propping his hand, propping his chin.
He found and fixed-up three edgers last fall,
And a push mower and a snow blower
That some guy hauled out and left in the thaw;
Plus an old Sears model ten-inch bench saw.
He’s one of these guys who can think it out
While he tries it: “Let’s see what this will do.”
And if it fails, he’ll chance a novel route
With an easy sigh, and a tweak or two.
When he’s stumped, he’ll pause and say, “I don’t know, son,”
Pull off his cheaters and wait out the muse
While he wipes his hands covered in the stuff
A few swipes with an old tee shirt’ll remove.
His sacredest gift is not losing his mind
When existence don’t work as it were designed.
Meantime: I’m an ace at thwarting the dim:
Aiming my flashlight at the brokedown thing
While he stares long at it, and I at him:
“What is it, pops? What else can I bring?”
This baffling mechanical witchcraft
Skipped me and passed on to my eldest son,
Who wakes along in his grandfather’s draft
Like an old pro with a trade school to run.
He’ll stand alongside me and look on near,
Or pour over the manual with care.
“This goes next, dad. It shows you how right here,”
Translating a picture into a repair.
He takes apart and rebuilds things in his head—
A providential gift of art and skill.
Then he’ll ask me, “What are you doing, dad?”
I don’t know, son. But I’m sure grateful you will.
* * *