Uncle O'Dell Poem by William B. Watterson

A gnarled, leathery hand
tousles salt-and-pepper hair,
then scrapes a three-day stubble.
Uncle O'dell wipes
his other dusty hand
across worn, faded overalls
and kneels over a two-by-four,
cradling it lovingly
as a mother caresses a child.
Hands, twisted and knotted,
gingerly guide a circular saw
as skillfully as
a surgeon aims a scalpel,
hands strong enough to pound
a thousand nails a day,
yet agile enough
to balance a Prince Albert tin
while packing a pipe
as quickly as
you can blink an eye.

Five houses to build by fall,
so many GI's home from the war.

An unfiltered Chesterfield grows
from cracked, sun-parched lips
and quivers precariously
as rasping, raucous coughs
rip from wrenching lungs.
The spasm passes,
and laying the saw aside,
O'dell breaks for lunch:
potted meat, soda crackers,
Moon Pie, and R.C.Cola,
savored in the cooling shade
of a pink-blossomed mimosa tree,
bordering the construction site,
ubiquitously dropping its sticky pods.

It is 1947.
His star ascending,
he has no knowledge
of whatever gods or fates
inevitably direct a man toward 1964
and a grinding, head-on rendezvous
with destiny
along a lonely stretch
of Highway 74
in the dark.