The poem Hardware is perfect to describe in large part my dad. He would have been 100 years old in February, but at 88 slipped away in a restful somber never knowing what I did with the collection of tools and shop stuff that he collected for over a lifetime. As I packed boxes and sorted tools and things that looked similar I wished I had paid more attention when I was in the shop with him.

He has been gone 13 years and I have my own shop now with my own stuff (which I know the names of) and his stuff (some of which is still a mystery). I wonder what my kids will do my treasure. I am sure they will look at some items and say. "what hell is this for? or why did dad keep this?".

Some items of dad's I kept just because they were his. It did not matter if I did not know what they were for, or if they were in a state of disrepair or broken. I can look at them and see his tracks; well worn smooth wood handles or grips worn down by use. It makes me feel every so close to him and it causes my to miss him more.

Hardware
by Ronald Wallace

My father always knew the secret
name of everything—
stove bolt and wing nut,
set screw and rasp, ratchet
wrench, band saw, and ball—
peen hammer. He was my
tour guide and translator
through that foreign country
with its short-tempered natives
in their crewcuts and tattoos,
who suffered my incompetence
with gruffness and disgust.
Pay attention, he would say,
and you'll learn a thing or two.
Now it's forty years later,
and I'm packing up his tools
(If you know the proper
names of things you're never
at a loss) tongue-tied, incompetent,
my hands and heart full
of doohickeys and widgets,
whatchamacallits, thingamabobs.