Ressurection in Rogers Store
These things are all in a museum now:
Tools, so simple no one uses them.
Home smoked hams.
A still, the one your grandfather used during prohibition.
History on a small scale,
personal and true in a way books never mention,
each piece crusted with age and stories
one or two restored,
the rest bearing their age proudly
for any who care to look.
The odd thing is, you think,
how many of these things you still use,
hand me downs from a grandfather long departed,
yet somehow still alive
each time I swing his hammer
or drill slowly with the hand drill
with its faded red paint.
When my body dies, take my tools and artifacts
and use them.
Do not leave me on walls for strangers to see.
Put my remains to work,
to create beautiful things
and feel my power in your hands,
About this poem
This week while down in Virginia visiting family, my son and I visited Roger’s Store Museum, a small museum in Carsley, Virginia. The store lies on the corner across from what was my grandfather’s farm, and my father spearheaded the creation of the museum many years ago. Inside are some things he gave to the museum, and a thing or two I gave them as well.
In his last years, my father took to giving me one of my grandfather’s tools each Christmas. I still have all of them.
From those two things, this poem.