Poem: March 22. 2019

My Son, An Appreciation

When I was a kid, my dad was always
picking up odd jobs to supplement
the income he earned as an assistant
professor. It was as common to see
him in a painter's cap as it was
to find him in a tweed jacket and jeans.
He painted houses and helped build
other people's decks. He could patch
a ceiling, snake a drain, or install a fan,
which is to say he was capable, a handy man.
And one day when I was maybe 10,
he took me along to install a new washing
machine at a house in a gated community.
The job probably took half an hour,
but he left with an envelope that held
fifty bucks cash, and in the car, Dad
tapped my head with its white edge
and said, "Let that be a lesson to you.
There are people who will pay
good money to not have to learn
how to do something for themselves."
And mostly that lesson has stuck.
I mean, I've fixed a vacuum and hung
a light. I know my way around
a paint brush. With help, I've built
a bookcase or two. I've sealed leaky pipes.
So when you mentioned the other day
that you were late because you were
working on your girlfriend's car since
replacing the part would only cost
ten dollars and the job was pretty
straightforward to do once you borrow
the right tool, I had to smile and
appreciate what you've clearly become:
capable like Tom, your own handy man.