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Cabinet Shop Artist By Jon Garrison May 01, 2008 He did paintings on saw blades Brought 'em down to the shop We'd mumble something kind (He was sixty, by God) Mighty uncomfortable We were growed-up men It felt like sometimes We were in school again He'd hang 'em right up In the dust and the dirt On the cinder block wall Of the shop where we worked Each month a new blade He'd paint clouds behind trees Farmers and milk cows Cornfields and creeks We look at him funny Share a quick wink He was sixty years old What was he thinking But you know, looking back We became kinder men Sort of like little children When he'd bring them in He never explained it Just shared what he'd done Hung them up proudly In rows one by one About the author: I'm a clinical psychologist these days, but years ago I was a cabinet maker. This poem is about a man with whom I once worked in Nashville. Ray ran a rip saw in the cabinet shop where I worked during my younger years, and he didn't speak much during the lunch or break times. That's why it surprised us all when he started bringing in his "saw blade art". We snickered about it at first, but it was one of those rare acts of human vulnerability that can soften hardened hearts. | | | |
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