The Mechanic's

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Poem Commentary

written about my family trade.

The Mechanic's

 

My first memory of my father was the smell of Go Jo hand cleaner.

My Grandfather was a small engine repair mechanic. My Father is

a mechanic. I am a mechanic. My oldest son is now studying our trade.

Is it any wonder that we do what we do? I think not. Fate? Maybe so.

 

He arises every morning early. Coffee, bacon, toast and eggs.

Pulling on his blue jeans one leg at a time. No Super man here.

Blue collar all the way. His scarred knuckles pull his steel toed

boots on just as scarred up as his hands. He might buy a new

pair once each year. Money is hard to come by and the children

want to attend the county fair. He stays broke, always bills to pay.

The shop he works in feels just like home. Seems he is there

every single day. To call in sick means he won't eat and family

will suffer too. His customers begin to drop in.

 

This man who works from dawn to dark and always smells of

grease. His elbows haven't ever been completely cleaned.

But that is the life. His tools welcome him like an old friend each

day. Looking forward to opening his old beat up red tool chest.

For he bought a home with them and they are priceless.

Each one brings a memory and he knows where he got each one.

If you are foolish indeed, ask to borrow one. He will tell you no!

With a gleam in his eye. These tools like a lover he knows too well.

 

The bright chrome of the sockets, The air tools that provide the

power. The dark black, deep well, impact sockets that break

loose the most rusted bolts. That Broken 3/8's ratchet he keeps

intending to exchange. Seems he cannot part with that one.

Man memories are strange. He rebuilt his sons engine with that

one. So many things that it helped him do. To part with it seems to

him a betrayal and that he can't excuse.

 

He is a hard man. Callouses line his palm. But he is fair in his dealings.

Ask anyone. The day goes by. Lunch may be some pretzels or Taco

Bell. It varies every day. When the children need more than he has.

He hungers for a day. Life's just that way. In a million other trades.

One million other people live, different skills but basic needs the same.

We all need happiness. The satisfaction of the job well done.

A bit of cash in the bank , that don't hurt anyone.

 

As he closes the hood on his latest task. And turns the ignition key.

The engine roars to life.......And my son grins at me.

So much damn pride. To pass on a legacy. I am honored and proud

to be his dad. Even when we argue. When it seems I may punch his eye.

I will be proud of my son and all my children till the day I die.

What more could I ask? I am the mechanic.

 

Phil G. Inman Sr.

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carynontherhine commented on The Mechanic's

10-12-2010

I seriously love this write P, especially because my father was of this trade. I can so relate. No, we did not have a lot of money but he was a hardworking good man. No one did follow daddy's footsteps, his brother maybe, but no one down from them. His brothers son became a forest ranger, my son a nurse. Nope, does not look like any more will follow him, but there was some satisfaction he received when the engine was fixed and all were happy. Very real this one is to me and definitely in my fav's! Great, great and great! This is my poem of the month for me. No one can understand unless they are a mechanic and even though I am a mechanic's daughter, I can still relate as I would beg to watch him as a little girl. Wonderful way to begin my day with this write so I thank you for this fond memory. Ten plus from me! Hugz

philjonesin

10/12/2010

Thank you so much, this poem was so personal for me. I truly enjoyed writing it and it was effortless to pen. Honestly my first memory of my stepfather was the smell of his hand cleaner. Every night he smelled of it when he held me. I live this poem everyday.

nonners commented on The Mechanic's

10-10-2010

wow I feel like i know your dad. and i can see him so vividly,i love the imagery. bravo!!!!!!!!!!!!

philjonesin

10/10/2010

Funny thing about this poem, it was written with my father in mind but is also autobiographical. Is that a real word? Lol , thanks for commenting.

Poetry is what is lost in translation.

Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

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The Mechanic's 2
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