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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