On Labor Day

[Bob Smalser]

From retired shipwright Dave Fleming:

"Twas only a kit of carpenter's tools
We were chancing off that night.

The man who owned the tools was there
A carpenter whose hair was white.
To draw the stubs until the winning share
Would place the tools within another's care.

Aye! Only a kit of tools you say
Objects of metal hard and bright.
No! We chanced off something else that day
Something that didn't seem just right.

All the labor of yesteryear.
Homes that they built for those in the past
Of service come to an end at last.
Leaving his heart, his head, his hand

In a chest of tools, this white-haired man.
To end his days in a home for them
Whose years of service were at an end.
The sad look on that aged face

As each number shortened the space.
Of time when he must bid farewell for good
To old friends of his, of metal and wood.
He had used them for years, they were always there.

Twas awfully sad, the whole affair.
Like playing pitch with an old man's soul.
Pushing him on to the final goal.

Into the sidelines and out of the race
While a younger man takes up his place.

The tools of his trade, the hammer and saw
It struck me with wonder and something of awe.
As we laughingly shout and loudly cry
To see who the winning share did buy.

How stupid of us, we were such fools
To think we were chancing off
Only CARPENTER'S TOOLS"

- Julius Frerich

 

[Evergreen]

Bob

That's a great poem. I can certainly relate to its theme.

My grandad was a joiner for over 50 years and although he passed on some tools to me in the later years of his retirement, there were a few that he kept as treasured possessions until the very end of his life.

I always like to find the name of a previous craftsman on any old tools that I buy or am given. I think it creates a link to the past and an additional sense of responsibility to look after the tool and use it well.

Thanks for posting.

Regards.

 

[Bob Smalser]

The poem is British and the picture is Pete Taran's, probably from an old trade publication. Not only does it illustrate perfect mechanics, the age and dress of the carpenter are notable.

Before Social Security in at the end of The Great Depression here and in Britain the yard or union often helped auction or raffle your tools off so you'd have some money to retire on when you got too old to work at your trade. That, your savings, your children and perhaps an easier job of night watchman, flagger, or shingle-making job were all there was. Most men worked at what they were capable of doing physically until the day they died.

My grandfather was born in 1880 and to supplement the income from his farm, he was an excavation contractor. He used his plow horses and a hand-guided scoop bucket to dig basements the hard way, then collected and laid the dry stone foundation walls. Brutal work, even after he acquired a tractor. When he got too old and broken for that, he took jobs laying bricks using younger helpers for the grunt work. One of my earliest memories as a toddler was "helping" Granddad build a brick fireplace in the early 1950's. Even though Social Security paid full benefits to farmers who never contributed to it, he worked almost daily at manual labor until shortly before he died in 1956. Just like his father did before him in the era this poem speaks to.

 

[Smudger]

Thanks for that, Bob. I often think about what my old tools have done in the past, and the lives of the men who owned them.