There’s a reason they call it “Jerry-rigged”
And not “Michael-rigged”
Or “Paul-rigged”
At least that’s what my uncle said to me
A year or two after his father died
“Put that on Grandpa’s headstone”
I thought
Though he wasn’t the kind of man
We’d leave
In a casket
Jerry had a million and two
uses for baling twine
buckets
of spare bits of metal
nuts and bolts
The fabled family hoarding gene
Ran strong
That’s for sure
I saw it in action when we visited
A brother
Great uncle
Newspapers towered above my head
Cans from the Cold War
No use in an Ellensburg suburb but
Indispensable as a handyman
Most of my early memories come
From the back of a four-wheeler
Through pear orchards strumming
With ripe irrigation water
Milk crate strapped to the front
Always overflowing with purple PVC cement
I’m sure I used to think
A skilled enough fixer
Could fix any problem in the world
With the contents of his shop
Every rusty bit of wire was repurposed
Every broken sprinkler head saved
You never know when
A what-the-hell-is-that
Might come in handy
But Grandpa hoarded love the most
(Among other things)
In the door of his cluttered purple pick-up
Signed at least five years ago
Singing only when the whims of the battery permitted
A Valentine’s Day card from
Joyce to Jerry
(This was the type of silly thing Grandma was often scolded for buying)
“To remind me,”
He said one summer drive,
“That I am always loved”
It wasn’t until he lay dying,
I noticed for the first time that
My mother inherited his hands
And I did not
Rough, strong,
She uses them for punching holes in leather
For mending muscles
Pruning willow trees
And when the time comes to throw out
My yellow baby blanket,
Tucked away and dusty,
Abandoned,
(it’s been 8 years after all)
She stops me,
Says,
Though she’s hardly touched the sewing machine,
Tucked away,
Abandoned,
In her own closet:
“Keep it,
We’ll make a quilt.”