Life is so hard right now that it was difficult not to focus on the state of the world as I began to write. I tried to brainstorm some ideas and asked myself, "What is classic?" I immediately thought of the classic cars my father loved and repaired, the "classics" an English major reads, the classics major, and the way my son says "classic" when he listens to his friends talk about their escapades. That short list set me on a familiar path. You see, I've written a lot of poems about my dad since his death, now almost 11 years ago. I'm not sure why, but my heart and poems often seem to find their way to him. Here's what I came up with.
My Father's Hobby
Worn out shells of classic cars
rusty and forlorn
peaking out from weeds and grass
"Parts cars"
my father called them
culled them for the Fiat
he was rebuilding in the garage
"Junk!"
my mother called them
On Sunday drives we traveled
with the classifieds
stopping to check out
cars for sale
sometimes adding another to the
growing collection of clunkers
each sacrificing a bit of its guts
a carburetor here, a steering wheel there
a stick shift, a parking brake
I often sat quietly on a stool
watching him work
in rain, in cold
hour after hour
his labor of love
in pieces more than whole
Poem ©Tricia Stohr-Hunt, 2020. All rights reserved.
You can read the poems written by my poetry sisters at the links below.
Tanita Davis
Rebecca Holmes
Sara Lewis Holmes
Kelly Ramsdell
Laura Purdie Salas
Liz Garton Scanlon
Andi Sibley
I do hope you'll take some time to check out all the wonderful poetic things being shared and collected today by Tabatha Yeatts at The Opposite of Indifference. Happy poetry Friday friends!
Tricia, those last two lines kind of shattered me. As did the image of you sitting there, watching him, for all those hours. It gives me mixed emotions--I feel a bit puzzled. Why? But that's probably because I don't like watching other people do things. I want to do them. Sadness. Because my own dad forced his hobbies on his daughters "for your own good," and there was never an opportunity to become fascinated by something in a slow osmosis kind of way. Contentment. That you have so many wonderful, vivid memories like this to look back on. Amusement. At the differing views of your mom and your dad. This is just a lovely, evocative poem. And hugs to you on all you're going through right now.
ReplyDeleteI really enjoyed reading this. I was pulled right in. I enjoyed the different points of view--his, yours, your mother's. And there are so many great lines--cars for sale, sacrificing a bit of its guts, in pieces more than whole. Lovely.
ReplyDeleteI love that your dad continues to pull your heart and poetry strings! I might need to write a poem about my dad and our 1960 Ford Falcon...
ReplyDeleteOh. My heart!
ReplyDeleteI love this so much, as I, too, have sat many a time watching those labors of love go on. Sometimes love leaves us with more pieces than not, but true hearts go on. ❤️
Those final lines..."his labor of love
ReplyDeletein pieces more than whole"
Your beautiful poem is suffused with memory and love.
What a lovely memory of and tribute to your faather.
ReplyDeleteWonderful poem, Tricia. The last stanza expresses so much longing to be the child watching Dad work once again.
ReplyDeleteSeems like his labor of love resulted in a lot of quality time together. Even if the cars didn't get finished, you built something else. Thanks for sharing these memories with us ❤️
ReplyDeleteYou and Tanita with the cars!! And oh my goodness, that ending. I wasn't expecting it. It slayed me.... thank you...
ReplyDelete