Coffee Cans Poem by Bill Galvin

The big cans that held ground coffee…
Bloop, bloop… hear the water bubble up into the glass top,
And soak back down into the tin strainer of coffee grounds,
In the percolator, over the flame of a white-enameled gas stove.
Such was summer cottage living for the inveterate coffee lover.
Gramps went thru coffee almost like he went thru cigarettes;
But, it wasn't the coffee that laid him down at 60… anyway…
Two cups early, with a hearty breakfast Nana made him;
Then she'd sit down with one, or turn it into iced coffee,
If it was a hot day, after she did a little morning housework.
He'd head to a job on the house, or in the yard, or at the bench,
On his days off… till dinner… unless she made him a sandwich,
Called him to lunch a few times, then say,
'Take this to your grandfather, he's ignoring me.'
Of course, he was a manual-labor workaholic…
Like an artist, anyone creative… once on a roll, can't stop.
A machinist at Watertown Arsenal during and after WWII,
He built the whole house himself on weekends… cleared the land,
Built the foundation forms, carpentry start to finish,
Plumbing, electrical, even a lightning rod on the chimney.
The fireplace, big, made from rounded beach stones,
That I helped him gather into his trailer a few times.
If it was raining, he'd be downstairs with an unfiltered Camel
In the corner of his mouth, leaning over his work, soft-whistling,
Eyes a-squinting from the smoke drifting up into them.
'Ned', she'd say, 'Come up here and eat something.'
She nagged, but, there was love in the nagging.
He ignored her, but, he loved her deeply. Kids can tell that.
He repurposed those empty cans at his basement work bench;
Maxwell House mostly, or Folger's, or Hills Bros.
He'd have colorful rows of them on a wooden shelf,
Or on a basement window sill, each with something different;
4-penny nails in one,6-penny in another, chuck keys,
Assorted latches and clasps, hardware one-of-a-kinds,
Wood screws, cotter pins, roofing nails, box nails, finish nails,
And, of course, one was an ash and butt container.
A big vise sat on the corner of his heavy-duty home-built bench.
Most of the hand tools had wooden handles; few plastic ones;
And his favorites were the old, hand-me-down, wooden ones.
There was always one can, in it a couple of inches of kerosene,
That was kept handy throughout the summer for the dog ticks…
Twice a week he and the dog would sit together, outside,
On the concrete patio he poured, on the Adirondack chairs he made;
And he'd pick off the ticks with calloused bare hands… if stubborn,
Using a hot matchhead; and he'd plop them into the can…
A repugnant tick mortuary, half-filled by summer's end.
When done, the dog would wag its tail happily, thankfully… grin…
And run off to the woods seeking more ticks for Gramps.

5-21-2016